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When I woke again I couldn’t move.

I opened my mouth to yell, but the scream died in my throat. Crying out wouldn’t help. To be released, I had to be quiet.

Good.

Sane.

I heard footsteps in the hall, then the sound of low, concerned voices.Let me out, let me out!It took all my self-control not to beg, but I kept my eyes and mouth shut tight. Kept my body utterly still, except for the peaceful rise and fall of my stomach, even as my mind crackled with frenzied thoughts. I’d had a breakdown. I was at Belman Psychiatric Hospital. I was strapped to the bed.

Again.

The voices moved on down the hall, and then I opened my eyes.

I was slowly trying to work one of my wrists out of its restraint when I heard a bright, familiar voice call out. “Oh, Hannah, you’re awake!”

Nurse Amy came bustling into the room. “You’re good now, aren’t you, hon?” she asked. She patted my immobile arm. “You know we hate doing this to you, but you weren’t being cooperative, not in the least.” She clucked her tongue at me and smiled. NurseAmy wore too much eyeliner and too much perfume, but she was young and pretty, with broad, soft shoulders and tiny perfect teeth.

“I’m good,” I lied.

How could I be good? I was in a freaking mental hospital!

But Amy’s definition of good was different than mine. She didn’t mean was I happy, healthy, and 100 percent right in the head. She meant was I going to try to punch someone anytime soon. She meant was I going to try to run.

I wasn’t.

“You can let me out,” I said. “I’ll behave this time, I swear.”

After Amy undid my restraints, I sat up and rubbed my wrists, which were an ugly red. My head felt fuzzy, and my tongue was heavy and thick, like it had grown bigger overnight somehow.

“Better now?” she asked, smiling kindly at me.

“Yes,” I said around my fat tongue. “But honestly, that isn’t saying much.”

CHAPTER 8

Nurse Amy patted my shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let’s get going—it’s time for group.”

That meant I’d slept through breakfast. My stomach was growling loud enough for Amy to hear it as I got up and followed her down the hall to the therapy room, where a dozen or so people had pulled their chairs into a sloppy circle. I flopped down into an empty one as Lulu, the therapist, looked up at me and blinked. Her face fell.

Gee, Lulu, you aren’t happy to see me? No? That’s okay, I’m not super happy to see you, either.

Don’t get me wrong—Lulu was nice. And I think she actually liked me. But every time I showed up on the ward, she had to wonder a little bit more about the effectiveness of Belman’s treatment protocols.

“Well, everyone, it seems we have another person attending group this morning,” she chirped.

You’d think this would be too obvious to mention, but in my experience, psychiatric patients sometimes need someone to point out the obvious. Otherwise, everything that’s going on inside their minds can drown the rest of the world out.

Most Belman patients fell into four main categories. Either they: (1) moved through the ward in a medicated haze, (2) practicallyvibrated with manic, psychotic, or otherwise chaotic energy, (3) withdrew into themselves, or (4) seemed totally with it and totally cool, and were only in the hospital for hardcore therapy because their family could throw money at a “problem” kid.

And then there was me.

I didn’t fit into any of those categories, and I didn’t belong here. But when my mind went to the past and my body stayed in the present, in what I’mtoldlooks a lot like a psychotic episode, I got sent to Belman.

I learned a long time ago not to fight it. At least the beds were warm and the food was mostly edible.

When Lulu turned back to me, her expression had returned to its usual brightness. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

“Hi. My name is Hannah Do—”