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"Will you call him, then? If you just call him, you'll see he doesn't want me to be here," I said.

"I'm sorry, Ruby, but he does," Doctor Cheryl said, and pulled a form out of the file. "See? Here is his signature," he said, and I looked at the line to which he pointed. Pierre Dumas was written there.

"She forged it, I'm sure," I said quickly. "She's going to tell him I ran away. Please, just call him. Will you do that?" He stood up without replying.

"You've got a little time before lunch. Get acquainted with the facilities. Try to relax. It will help us when we meet again," he said, td opened the door. The attendant was waiting. "Take her to the recreation room," Doctor Cheryl told him. The attendant nodded and looked in at me. Slowly, I rose.

"When my father finds out what she did and what you're doing, you're going to be in a lot of trouble," I threatened. He didn't reply and I had no choice but to follow the attendant back down the corridor to the recreation room.

"Hello, I'm Mrs. Whidden," a woman attendant no more than forty said, greeting me at the door. "Welcome. I'm here to help you. Is there something in particular you would like to do . handicrafts, perhaps."

"No," I said.

"Well, why don't you just go about and look over every-thing until something strikes your fancy. Then I'll help you, okay?" she said. Seeing no point to my constantly protesting, I nodded and entered the room. I walked about, gazing at the patients, some of whom gazed at me with curios

ity, some with what looked like anger, and some who didn't seem to see me. The redheaded boy who had been sitting doing nothing was still sitting that way. I noticed that his eyes followed me, however. I went to the window near him and gazed out, longing for my freedom.

"Hate being here?" I heard, and turned. It sounded like he had asked it, but he was still sitting stiffly, staring ahead.

"Did you ask me something?" I inquired. He didn't move, nor did he speak. I shrugged and looked out again, and again, I heard, "Hate being here?" I spun around.

"Pardon me?"

Still, without turning, he spoke again.

"I can tell you don't want to be here."

"I don't. I was kidnapped, locked up before I knew what was happening," I said. That animated his face to the point where he at least raised his eyebrows. He turned to me slowly, only his head moving, and he gazed at me with eyes that seemed as cold and as indifferent as eyes on a mannequin.

"What about your parents?" he asked.

"My father doesn't know what my stepmother has done. I'm sure," I said.

"What's the charge?"

"Pardon?"

"What's the reason you're supposedly here for? You know, your problem?"

"I'd rather not say. It's too embarrassing and ridiculous."

"Paranoia? Schizophrenia? Manic-depression? Am I getting warm?"

"No. Why are you here?" I demanded.

"Immobility," he declared. "I'm unable to make decisions, deal with responsibilities. When confronted with a problem, I simply become immobile. I can't even decide what I want to do in here," he added nonchalantly. "So I sit and wait for the recreation period to end."

"Why are you like this?" I asked. "I mean, you know what's wrong with you, apparently."

"Insecure." He smiled. "My mother, apparently like your stepmother, didn't want me. In her eighth month, she tried to abort me, but I only got born too soon instead. From then on, it was straight downhill: paranoia, autism, learning disabilities," he recited dryly.

"You don't seem like someone with learning disabilities," I said.

"I can't function in a normal school setting. I can't answer questions. I don't raise my hand, and when I'm given a test, I just stare at it. But I read," he added. "That's all I do. It's safe." He raised his eyes to me. "So why did they commit you? You don't have to be afraid of telling me. I won't tell anyone else. But I don't blame you if you don't trust me," he added quickly.

I sighed.

"I've been accused of being too loose with my sexual activities," I said.