I step over and press my ear to the door, listening. That’s always been the thing I have dreaded most about an imagined commitment: the sounds of a psychiatric unit. But I can’t hear anything. Either the hallway is silent or the door is too thick. And it doesn’t seem wise to open it. I can’t afford to look like I am trying to escape again.

Instead, I head to the window and push open the heavy curtains. It’s light still, the same day. Hopefully. Maybe only a couple of hours gone. Maybe. I force myself to take a breath.

Across the way is a shiny glass-and-steel building, modern and brand-new. Its polished front reflects the building we are in. Much the same: tall and polished, windowpane after windowpane. Nice, as hospitals go, which I am glad about. But also maybe a little too nice. From the window, I can see a parking lot. At the far end is an old, white stone building with a set of steps leading up to a grand but crumbling entryway, a small dome perched on top. A haunted-looking leftover from what the hospital used to be.

My chest is tightening. A legitimate panic attack coming on. Apparently an emergency where I am trapped alone in a room isn’t enough to neutralize my anxiety the way chasing after Cassie did. I try to use the deep breathing Dr. Shepard taught me, try to talk myself through. It helps a little. But not as much as it has been. And if I legitimately start panicking, it will only help prove their point. Then again, maybe I need to kick up a fuss. Demand to talk to my dad, immediately. Be the squeakiest wheel. I’m still staring out the window when the door opens behind me.

“Not a great view, but not terrible either. At least it’s not a brick wall.”

When I turn, there’s a man standing in the doorway. A little older than Alvarez, a little younger than my dad. He has kind blue eyes and sandy-colored hair, good-looking without being off-puttingly handsome. He has a folder in one hand.

“I’m Dr. Haddox,” he says, smiling as he steps forward with his free hand outstretched. Close up, I can feel that he is nervous or uncomfortable or something, but he’s trying to cover that up by acting exceptionally calm and confident. It’s not working. At least not on me.

Because I may be beginning to panic, but that is a distinct feeling—deeper in my gut and colder like before—than what I am feeling from him. His unease is of a higher frequency, hotter somehow, and coursing instead through my chest. The contrast is becoming more and more clear. This Dr. Haddox may be the one in charge, but he’s not at all sure he wants to be.