The walls were lined with Tyvek, the raw beams exposed.

“They doing renovations?”

“Yes,” the guard replied. “It’s been going on for a while.”

I dragged my hands along the Tyvek, which made a faint crinkle, as I headed toward the buzzing light in the distance.

The guard was used to dealing with crazies. You could always tell. He didn’t recoil when I spoke to him. He wasn’t afraid of me.

He led me to the front desk. Dr. Brace had clearly called ahead and warned them of my arrival.

“Grace?” The receptionist spoke through the rectangular slit of a plastic partition.

In the light of the waiting room, I was now able to see the guard’s tag. Burned in a bold, black font, it read, JACK.

I squinted at it, drawing my eyebrows close together. I began to shake. “Jack?”

“Yes?” He looked from his tag to me, and back again.

“Jack. It’s me, Grace,” I screamed, jabbing myself in the chest with my pointer finger. “Grace. Remember? Grace.” I kept screaming as the guard retreated through a door and disappeared down the corridor.

The receptionist hurried around her desk and restrained me as another woman appeared, injecting me in the arm with a syringe.

When I came to, I was lying in a little white room. I felt as though I was in a crib, confined by the narrow walls. Crammed next to me was the woman who had injected me, sitting in a scratched-up vinyl chair. Her hair was grey and feathery, cut in a short, boyish way. She wore blue scrubs and white, lace-less sneakers. Directly above me was a window with iron bars. It was dark outside. There were no curtains and no bedsheets. No way of escaping.

“Hello, Grace.” The woman’s tone was familiar, as if she knew me. Maybe she did. I had dealt with so many health-care professionals over the years it was hard to remember. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit better.” My voice came out weakly, strained from all the screaming.

“Can I get you anything?” She uncrossed her arms, glancing at the clipboard in her lap. “Some water, maybe?”

“I’m fine.”

Pursing her lips, the lines around her mouth deepened. She looked like a marionette. “Grace, I’m going to ask you some questions and I need you to answer as honestly as possible. Okay?”

“Sure.” I pressed my cheek into the striped pillow with no cover.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

She jotted my responses onto the page in red ink. “Are you currently taking any medication?”

“No.” I shook my head and tugged at the skin on my neck.

“Do you have any history of self-harm?”

I paused. I was wearing a hospital gown. What have I gotten myself into? Did this woman undress me? She must have already seen the marks. “Mhm.”

Through the thin walls, I heard the scuttle of a woman entering the room adjacent to mine. She was crying hysterically. “I wrapped all my pill bottles in Bubble Wrap,” the woman explained through dramatic sobs. “I don’t want to kill myself.”