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“He’s not here.”

I freeze. “What do you mean, he’s not here?”

Tiffany stands, too, lifting her arms and sniffing her armpits. The Crazy House dissolves polite boundaries like that.

“My session is at seven thirty, so I’m the first every day. There was a note on the door that said he’d be back tomorrow, but he’d be watching the group session remotely. Basically, don’t fuck up.”

“Huh,” is all I can manage.

Tiffany jumps off the stoop and heads toward her cabin.

“Tiffany?” I call out and wait for her to turn around. “Why were you crying?”

I can’t see her eyes, which are shaded by her hand, but I can see the small lift of her mouth.

“I’m six months without a relapse. I was feeling emotional about it, but after talking to you I feel better.” She waves and saunters off.

Greaaat. In my experience, there’s only one surefire way a person feels instantly better about their problems—talking to someone who they think has bigger ones.

With a sour feeling in my belly, I head toward the Fish Tank. As I bypass the labyrinth, Kinsey waves at me.

“Hey, Mia! Charlene wants to see you.” She glances at her Rolex. “Right now. Better hurry! That bitch is mean.”

It takes my brain a minute to remember why I knew this was coming.

The pool incident.

Kinsey walks on, a bounce in her step I’ve never seen until now.

“Seems like everyone’s getting better,” I grumble and head inside to face the music.

Charlene doesn’t bother disguising her satisfaction at having me on the wrong end of a disciplinary hearing. She, Frank, and the third group moderator, Ruben, sit behind a long table, while I face them in an unbalanced plastic chair that squeaks threateningly every time I shift my weight. It’s a petty tactic, but I have to admit it’s working.

I’m literally and figuratively on edge.

“… not what you did, but that you involved another patient. Inciting rebellion is a serious offense.” Charlene glares at me with righteous indignation.

Frank and Ruben exchange a glance. At least I’m not the only one who thinks this is ridiculous.

I swallow back what I really want to say to her. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Apparently an apology wasn’t the right move. Charlene’s face darkens with an angry flush. I kind of wish my father were here. Dodging accountability is his specialty.

Frank speaks up, “Thank you for apologizing, Mia. That’s a great first step.”

Ruben nods in agreement.

Charlene smiles. Not a good sign.

“Unfortunately, actions have more power than words. To make restitution for your offense, you’ll mop the Fish Tank and adjacent hallways tonight.”

I merely smile. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

Charlene is seconds from a meltdown, which gives me immense satisfaction. She expected me to throw a fit. She thinks I should be horrified at the prospect of doing menial chores. That mopping a floor is beneath me.

Oh, she thinks she knows me.

How fun.