Rose listens, her head cocked to one side. They don’t say anything more. She hears the subdued hush of the security door swooshing shut like the sound of distant surf.

Absolutely terrified that she may not even make it through the week.

Hackles, residual from time in the jungle, prickle on the back of Rose’s neck. She runs her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp to get the blood flowing. Is she paranoid? Or delusional? People with delusions can become violent if those delusions are attacked.

It occurs to Rose that normal people do the same thing. No one changes their mind. No one ever says, “Thank you for pointing out what an idiot I am, and how smart you are. From now on I’ll be a better person.” Tears start to flood Rose’s eyes. She wills them back into their ducts.

Not even make it through the week.

A threat? An old lady stops breathing in the middle of the night, or trips over the rug in the Alzheimer’s ward, breaks a hip, and dies of complications, no questions are asked. Rose’s mother died in Rose’s living room. No police came asking if anyone had put a pillow over her face. Old people die. Her mother was senile. She was old. She died.

Though the room is cool, sweat trickles between her breasts in a slow chilling crawl.

Whether she is delusional or visionary makes no difference, Rose decides.

Sobs boil up her throat. Shoving the corner of the pillow in her mouth, she stifles the noise.

Pad, pad, pad. “You okay, Ms. Dennis?”

The night nurse. That is who will come if she cries. Rose takes a deep cleansing breath and sighs it out.

Crazy or not, she will rescue herself. Working out the details of just how that will be accomplished, she falls asleep.

Rose wakes early, climbs out of bed, and puts her diaper back on. The orderly, not the one from the previous night, but the other one, brings breakfast. Scrambled eggs and sausage; Rose eats every scrap. Rest and food are making her stronger, cleverer, more human.

Shanika comes to remove the tray. “You’re looking much better today, Ms. Dennis.” Rose says nothing, and does not make eye contact, afraid she will reveal a hidden streak of sanity or, worse, give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to explain things, set the matter straight, talk through all this nonsense.

It is hard to remember that in this place, Rose is a confirmed lunatic. As recently as yesterday—she is pretty sure it was only yesterday—she ratified that diagnosis by behaving like a madwoman, drinking the orange juice, and toppling back into oblivion.

Did she need sedating to keep her from mad killing sprees? Rose doesn’t think so. This is not a hospital for the criminally insane.

While Shanika putters about, straightening the room, Rose imagines talking to her.