“My brother doesn’t do therapy, and it seems like he’s got his ability pretty under control,” I said, having a hard time with the basic premise of either Aaron or me sitting still in a room and telling someone our feelings for an hour.

“Maybe he found an effective way to take care of his own interior life,” Owen suggested. I tried not to scoff. “Meditation, or communities, even journaling,” he added with a small smile in my direction, “can all be ways we actively participate in our own mental health. But that doesn’t mean your brother couldn’t benefit from therapy in the future—it’s an ongoing process, not a one-and-done sort of thing.”

I just nodded at that and Owen seemed satisfied. The entire tour he talked like he was reading from a brochure but a brochure he really believed. I don’t know what I expected from an AM employee, but I’m not sure Owen Green was it.

In fact, nothing about this place is really what I expected. Other than a few typically matter-of-fact and therefore a bit cold doctors, everyone has been really nice and not scary. The whole complex is enormous and winding—a mix of old, turn-of-the-century ivy-covered stone and modern glass and steel. Like Bag End slammed into a modern art museum. So far, I think I’ve seen a tiny portion—just my room, the cafeteria, and a few labs—but just in those areas alone, I feel like I’m looking at millions of dollars’ worth of facilities. Everything is state-of-the-art. Except the food. The food could definitely use some improvement.

I don’t know how my family is paying for this. And now I’m feeling really guilty because I never even thought to ask. My family isn’t struggling, but we’re not rich. I’m not sure I really know where the AM gets its money from—the government? Its patients? Do they have an Atypical stashed away somewhere who’s spinning yarn into gold? Whatever they’re doing seems to be working—they seem to have a lot of people coming back to take advantage of the programs. My group therapy is mostly people who come in once a week. I can’t say I understand it.

“Everyone, we’ve got a new face joining us today,” the therapist, Dr. Loving, started. “This is Rose,” she continued and before I knew what I was doing, my hand had lifted in an awkward wave, made somehow infinitely more awkward by the chorus of “Hi, Rose” that came from the rest of the group. It really did feel like we were kids away from home for the first time, getting ready to dive into icebreaker exercises. Except, we weren’t all kids and, according to Dr. Loving when she greeted me, most of the folks sitting there had been in group for a little while.