“Would you like to sit?” He motioned to the chair.

“I can’t sit. I can’t stop. I need to keep moving, otherwise my thoughts might take me. They might take me away and I don’t know if I’ll come back this time. I don’t know if I can make it back down.”

He grabbed his notepad. “Can you explain what you mean a little more?”

I just screamed.

Dr. Brace picked up the phone, dialling quickly a number he had memorized. He spoke into the receiver as I disappeared. I wasn’t in the room anymore. I wasn’t anywhere.

I counted with speed and ease, muttering in a hushed tone, as if everything in the room were numbered. The chair was made of one hundred and ninety-three beige polka dots. The desk had nine drawers, eighteen knobs. My eyes traced the moulding on the ceiling over and over until I became dizzy and had to sit down.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, a police officer and social worker were standing before me. I examined the two men, deciding they were a strange combination. The officer was abnormally tall and had a baby-smooth face. He must have shaved that morning. The social worker was shorter, leaner, and had a head of thick, jet-black hair. His lips were the colour of Red Delicious apples, full and juicy. I wanted to bite them. I wanted to sink my teeth into the soft, red flesh and suck the nectar from them. I wanted him to push me to the ground and yell at me: “You’re acting crazy, snap out of it.”

Dr. Brace was peering down at me. “Grace, you’re going to go with these gentlemen to get the help you need, okay?”

I stood and held out my hands. “Okay.”

“Oh, we won’t be cuffing you. You’re not under arrest.” The officer rubbed his baby-smooth chin. “You just come with us, Grace.”

We exited the building and I climbed into the back seat of the police cruiser. The flashing lights, red and blue, were carnivalesque. They danced on the constable’s face playfully. There were no sirens, only lights. I don’t remember anything they said, but the indentations on the social worker’s face were deep with concern.

They escorted me to the entrance of the Psychiatric Assessment Unit and rang the buzzer.

A lanky security guard dressed in a blue uniform with a gold name tag arrived to retrieve me. The fluorescent lights reflected off his tag, obstructing the engraved name beneath. He held the door open for me. I was his responsibility now.

I suddenly had the urge to hug the police officer, so I turned and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you, Father,” I whispered. He remained stiff as I squeezed him, one hand on his holster.

I let go, leaving the other two men behind, and followed the guard through a series of locked entrances, his electronic pass opening each door with a loud beep.