Then as he made his way into the corridor, turned the corner past the dayroom and wards where he had taken Mary Jo with that woman Cora Fletcher, another thought dawned. Neither would she. The flame-haired musician had swooped into this place, igniting in him what he hadn’t even realized was still there to light. She couldn’t help but do so.

Yet neither she nor Dahlia could help the patients at Hurstwell. Not anymore.

He turned, forcing himself to walk toward the end of the corridor and the farthest solitary confinement cell. An unexplainable force had always repelled him from it, as if a ghost lingered there.

Dahlia hadn’t been well at Hurstwell—anyone could see that. Her pink flesh had grown ashy, the singsong voice tightened to desperate squeaks and pleas. “Please listen, Mitch. I’m not mad. I just need to be free of this place. Please. Don’t let me die here.”

But Thornhill had convinced him this was best. That treatment was necessary, that everyone begged to leave at one time or another, but a cure would be impossible if he gave in and removed her from Hurstwell. Thornhill had made nearly the same argument just a few days ago, when he’d made use of the isolation chambers once again. As Mitchell now stood in the narrow shaft of light before that closed door, skin clammy with sweat, anger swelled up in him. Anger at so many . . . including himself. Regret pooled in every quiet place of his soul, burning hot as lava.

He made a hard pivot and walked stiffly to the supply closet. Gathering wood and hammer, a small bucket of nails, he marched back through the corridor and slammed a board across one of the isolation ward doors. With nails clamped in his mouth, he anchored the wood in place and hammered all his anger into it.

Man had come up with many wretched ways to punish one another, and this barbaric entrapment had to be one of the worst. In the depths of pain, nothing served the sufferer less than being alone. Life had become a race, with those who were able-bodied pushing those who weren’t out of the way so they could get on with it.

He’d secured two cells, then a presence approached from behind and the hairs on his neck stood up. He froze, lowering his hammer.

“I used to be like you once.” The low voice of his superior bounced off the walls as he neared. “I thought I’d save the world and completely overthrow a broken system. Trouble is, there’s nothing to replace it with.”

“Anything is better than this.”

Dr. Thornhill came to stand before him, shadows making dark half-moons under his eyes. How aged he looked. How worn from years of asylum work. “Even small liberties in the wrong hands can actually be a severe cruelty in the end. A risk.”