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She pauses.She leans in, eyes narrowing, a slight shift in her demeanor.“You know the story of the monk who gets robbed?”

I stare at her, confused for a second.“I think I’ve heard it.Why?”

She sits up straighter, voice suddenly more serious, more deliberate, as if she’s choosing her words carefully:

“So, there was this guy, Ryokan, who was a Zen master.He lived in this little hut on the side of a mountain, right?And he didn’t have much.He didn’t need much.One day, a thief comes to his hut, but there’s nothing there to steal.Nothing at all.But Ryokan comes back, and he catches the thief.”

She leans in closer, almost whispering, like she’s telling me a secret she’s too wise to be sharing.“Ryokan looks at him and says, ‘You came all this way, and I don’t want you to leave empty-handed.So here, take my clothes.’The thief’s confused, but he takes them.And then he leaves.”

She pauses, holding my gaze for a beat too long, then continues, deadpan, without breaking the seriousness in her eyes.“Then Ryokan just sits there, all naked and calm, watching the moon.And he says, ‘Poor guy.I wish I could give him this beautiful moon.’”

My bottom lip juts out.“That’s an odd way to deal with a thief.”

She shrugs, as if that’s the most logical thing in the world.“Mom says it’s about not getting upset over things you can’t control.But I think it’s just about giving stuff away before someone takes it.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting a short laugh slip.“Guess I should’ve tried that.But I’m more of the ‘take it back’ type.”

She looks at me, still dead serious.

“Well, that’s one way to lose a fight.”

I don’t answer.She holds my gaze a beat longer, then adds, still too calm for comfort, almost absentmindedly, “You know, if you really want to get back at them, you could start with their kneecaps.Watch them crawl for a while before you finish them off.”

46

Marlowe

Iwake to hushed voices speaking down the hall.

They’ve moved me to one of the guest rooms.White walls.White furniture.Pale oak floors.A plant in the corner I’ve never seen before.Abstract art in non-threatening shapes.Diffused lighting, little chance of seeing the sun.

The robe they’ve put me in is soft.Designer-soft.Monogrammed with nothing.It fits perfectly.

My mouth tastes like syrup and cotton.

I sit up slowly.My head lags behind the rest of me.My body’s working on a delay.There’s music playing softly somewhere—string quartet.Minor key.The kind rich people play when they want to feel artistic.

The door opens.

A woman in pastels steps inside.Flat shoes.Glasses on the bridge of her nose.She smiles the way people smile when they’ve been told to smile.

“Good morning, Marlowe.”

Her voice is syrup, too.

I don’t answer.

She makes a note on the clipboard.

“Today’s a low-stimulation day.No screens.No visitors.Just light integration.”

Integration.

They say it like I’ve moved countries.

She sets a tray on the side table.A pale smoothie.A handful of almonds.Something that looks like yogurt.A single white pill in a tiny dish.

“You’ll feel better once you’re nourished,” she says, already walking out.“And your head is clear.”She gestures at the pill.“That should help.”