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When he careens away, Dr. Klein turns to Jordan. “Cotard’s syndrome,” she says. “He believes he died last week.”

Jordan nods, like,Yes, I am completely familiar with that diagnosis. He makes a mental note to look it up later.

Then, to his utmost relief, Dr. Klein gives him one last look—her eyes so piercing he swears she can see right into his subconscious—and moves on, going to consult with one of the psychiatric nurses.

Jordan’s about to see if a kid with acne-scarred cheeks wants to play Connect Four when Brittany, a mental health tech just a few years older than he is, comes over and pulls him aside.

“Come on,” she says, “you can watch me do safety checks. They’re a big part of our days around here.”

Patients at the Delia F. Belman Memorial Psychiatric Hospital have to be checked on every thirty minutes, day and night. It’s obvious why this level of monitoring is important—the whole point of a locked psych ward is to keep struggling, unhappy peoplesafe—but Jordan still feels weird just walking down the hall and opening people’s doors.

Brittany chatters about the current residents as they go, and he tries to keep their names and diagnoses straight. Andy: schizoaffective disorder. Beatrix: dissociative identity disorder. Sean: bipolar disorder, rapid cycling.

Brittany reaches for a door handle, which is specially designed so that no one can tie something around it and use it to strangle themselves. Soap dispensers, showerheads, grab bars, towel hooks: everything at Belman is what they call “ligature resistant.”

“Safety check,” Brittany calls as the door swings open to reveal a small, dim room. It’s empty except for a wooden dresser and a low, narrow bed. Lying curled in a ball on the bed is the girl from yesterday morning.

The one who tried to run. Hannah.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her dark hair spills across the pillow.

He can’t help remembering the way he grabbed her around her thin waist. How she’d struggled in his arms like she was fighting for her life. And how he had wondered, for a moment, if he should just let her go.

Her breathing comes slow and even now. Sleeping, she has no idea that he’s staring at her, and for some reason knowing that feels even more invasive than walking in on the naked burpees in Room 3. She seems so small and so vulnerable. Jordan looks away, embarrassed.

“She’s probably still tired from her … episode,” Brittany says. “Plus the cafeteria lasagna is a lot of work to digest.” She laughs.

“Do you know her?” Jordan asks.

“Yeah, she’s what we call a frequent flyer. So are Michaela and Indy. The three of them are thick as thieves.”

“Can I ask—” he begins, then stops. Does he want to know what disorders they’ve been diagnosed with, too?

But Brittany’s already filling him in. “Michaela’s been diagnosed with depression, body dysmorphic disorder, and anorexia.Indy’s got obsessive-compulsive disorder, experiences suicidal ideation, and is probably Bipolar two.” Brittany gently shuts the door. “And Hannah—well, she’s an odd one. But she’s got schizophrenia in her chart.”

“What do you mean she’s an odd one?” Jordan asks.

Brittany sighs and suddenly looks older than twenty-two. “Let’s just say that diagnoses are not necessarily a perfect science. Anyway, she’s been on the ward dozens of times over the years.” Her brow furrows. “But somehow, we know almost nothing about her. And we can’t figure out how to help her.”

They finish the rest of the safety checks in silence, and Jordan’s on his way back to the lounge when he hears a piercing shriek—one that he immediately recognizes.

CHAPTER 11

He turns around and races back into the hall. He sees Hannah outside her room, kicking at the walls and pulling at fistfuls of her hair. She’s crying and yelling something about a castle, and his heart starts pounding.

“Hey, you in the button-down! Give me a hand, man,” says a nurse called Ron, who’s trying to hold on to Hannah’s arm.

Jordan hurries over, instinctively following directions. It hits him that for the second time in two days, this underfed, dark-haired girl is about to fight against his grip. It makes him feel awful, even as Ron looks at him expectantly and Jordan tells himself that this is to help a patient. He steels himself, then reaches out and catches her elbow. He puts his other hand reassuringly on her shoulder. She tries to shake him off.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not that she hears. He’s close enough that he can see her pulse beating in her neck. She’s freaking out, and he’s terrified.

“No!” she screams. “You can’t keep us down here!”

“Come on, kiddo,” Ron says. “Let’s go to the quiet room.” He looks to Jordan. “We’re just gonna pick her up, okay?”

Jordan balks. You don’t touch a girlanywherewithout her consent: he’s known this forever. The rules of the hospital world aredifferent by necessity, everyone tells him that—but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to do this. It doesn’t feel right.

“Come on, man!” Ron says. “Help me out!”