Underneath the hottest water I can stand, I rub the bar of soap into my scalp and under my arms and watch the dirt whirl away down the drain. There’s so much of it. I wonder if they let Mom shower. Is she in a jail cell, like with actual bars and a metal toilet? Despite the heat I start to shake. I miss her so much it hurts. I sit down and let the water run over my head while I cry… again.

I’m toweling off when a knock on the door makes me jump.

“Lou, it’s Maria. I’m leaving your clothes by the door.” I hear her on the other side. I can see the shadow of her feet. But when I don’t say anything, she eventually leaves. I wait another minute while the steam clears and then inch open the door. My sweatshirt and jeans are folded neatly on a chair. They’ve been washed, and there’s a new pair of underwear and socks still in their packages. My boots and suede jacket sit underneath.

I feel a tiny bit better once I’m dressed in my own clothes. I fold up my used towel and nightgown and lay them at the end of the bed. Mom cleaned hotel rooms for a while. Even in the truck she likes us to be tidy. Then I sit and wait. There’s a TV up in the corner, but I don’t turn it on. I need to talk to Mom. Something about this whole thing doesn’t add up. I know Mom. She’d fight tooth and nail for me. Somebody tricked her into sending me away. I know it. I pick up the white hospital phone, but after a minute of sitting and listening to the dial tone, I set it back down. I don’t even have a number to call. Mom, come get me, I think, and curl up on the bed again.

Eventually the trio comes back in—Dr. Janson, Nurse Caroline, and Maria. Everyone’s holding a pile of papers. Everyone looks fake cheery. It gives me the shivers.

“Looks like you’re all clear, Louise,” Dr. Janson says. “Here are your discharge papers. Remember, Tylenol or ibuprofen every four to six hours as long as the headaches persist. But if you’re stilling having them in a week, you need to make an appointment with a primary care physician. And you’ll need to do that in a month, regardless. Understand?”

Nurse Caroline hands me the papers. I take them. Nod. See, I am capable. Let me go home.

Maria opens her folder and hands me a ticket. I look at it for a full thirty seconds. It’s a plane ticket from Reno to… Los Angeles. Something blooms in my chest—hope.