I was NOT ENJOYING THIS CONVERSATION, so I decided to stop having it.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said.

Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sorry to pry, Rodney, but it’s my job. If we’re going to have a productive and honest family meeting, I need a sense of where everyone is at.”

I wanted to say that where I was at was in a treatment center in a plant-y office getting asked too many questions. But I didn’t.

She sighed and I felt bad for her. She was a nice lady. Excellent plants.

“Do you remember where the bathroom is?” she asked.

I nodded and went to find the bathroom. It was locked, so I kept going down a long hallway. The next one was busy too. I went down another hallway and saw a room full of kids and teenagers, sitting in chairs arranged in a circle.

One of them noticed me.

“Hey!” she said. “Get in here, you!”

I went in. Why not?

“I bet you’re looking for us.” The girl was a teenager, about my sister’s age, round and kind of cheerful. She had Lego-bright clothes and her blonde hair was curly and shiny. I liked her right away.

I didn’t say I was looking for the bathroom. I didn’t say anything.

“Gang! We got us a nontalker here. That means you sit in that part of the circle.”

I went and sat in an empty chair between a kid who was probably around seven or eight and a girl around my age. They looked at me and didn’t say anything. I appreciated that and decided I liked them too.

“Those of us who talk were just discussing how fun it is to come here every weekend to visit our people,” said the blonde girl. “We’re being extra sarcastic.”

I nodded.

“I’m Lindsay, the teen facilitator of the Rebound Group. My mother has been here”—she pretended to look at her watch—“for about two hundred years and three months.”

“I thought you said she’d been here twice before,” said the tall kid next to her. He had new Jordans and wore a bright-blue sweat suit with white stripes down the arms and legs.

“That’s right. Two stays one hundred years each. How do you think I got the title of teen facilitator? My family practically has shares in this joint.”

“You exaggerate, Linds,” said the boy in the sweat suit.

“It’s how I cope. In all seriousness, new kid, my mom has been here three times. She enjoys pills and has bipolar disorder. We all like it when she’s in here because at least she’s safe. What’s your person in for?”

“Linds,” said the sweat suit guy again. “He’s in the nontalking section. Get off his case.”

The kid next to me nodded.

“I was trying to startle him into sharing,” she said.