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That’s the only word to describe what I’m feeling.

How is this happening? How is this my life?

“I’ll take those,” she says after unlocking the closet.

I hand over the armful of clothes I’m holding and let her put them away. When she’s done, she locks the door again.

“Would you like me to help you settle in?”

Through teary eyes, I shake my head. There’s no settling in when you’re locked up. We’re given nothing but a laundry basket to toss our dirty clothes into. The rooms are bare and everyone is stripped of all personal items. We can’t even have books in our rooms for the fear that we’ll use the edge of the paper to cut ourselves with. The staff makes sure there’s no contraband when they do their daily morning and evening room sweeps. All anyone can have is a few changes of clothes, which the staff keeps locked up along with our freedom.

Shanice tilts her head and encourages, “You’re going to be okay, Harlow.”

Her statement is a lie—untruths she probably says to everyone who walks through these caged halls.

She steps out into the hallway and takes up post against the wall. If I was allowed to close the door, I would. I don’t even know why there are doors in the first place because no one is ever to be left alone—ever. All of us are monitored constantly, even when we go to the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and, within the stillness, I go from numb to utterly desolate. The sensation washes over me, and I cling to it like a child would to a blanket. I gaze at my shoes, which have been stripped of their laces, and zone out. Everything around me fades away, and when I close my eyes, I wish myself to the driftwood on the beach. My eyes pinch tighter, and I swear I can almost hear the waves.

I try to lose myself more in my search for escape but the sterile smell of this place won’t allow me. It only reminds me that I’m diseased, that I’m not like the others who are out enjoying the freedoms of summer. Instead, I’m here, sad, lonely, and filled with so much anger toward the woman who gave me life. I want to call my brother or my father, but cell phones aren’t allowed and I doubt my mother has added names to my call list yet.

My eyes open, and I kick off my laceless shoes before lying on the bare mattress. Wallowing in what I’m powerless to change, I throw in the towel and surrender to the infestation of my own suffering.

HARLOW

“Renata wet the bed.”

My tired lids open, and when I lift my head, the frailest girl I’ve ever seen is sitting on the bed that’s against the opposite wall from mine.

“What?”

“The girl who was here before you,” she says. “She peed in her sleep.”

At the speed of lightning, I jump off the bed and look at the mattress, but I don’t see any stains. I lift the edge to take a peek underneath, but it appears just as clean.

“They must have replaced it,” she says as I drop the mattress and sit back down. “Did you touch my things?”

I shake my head as I try not to stare, but I can’t help myself. This girl has an eating disorder, no question about it. I could easily wrap my hand—with overlapping fingers—around her bicep. Her collarbone protrudes, her cheeks are sunken, and her hair is brittle and limp. She’s on the edge of death. It’s painful to look at.

“Don’t touch my things,” she warns.

“I didn’t.”

She frowns as she picks up her pillow and hugs it.

“What’s your name?”

“Harlow.”

“Are you messy?” she asks, still hugging the pillow.

“Um ... no.”

“Good,” she says before standing and setting the pillow on the bed, adjusting it a few times until it’s at just the right position for her. “I like things neat.”

My eyes drift down the edge of the wall where she has her shoes lined up meticulously next to each other.

Great. She’s OCD.

“So, what’s your name?”