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He glances across the room, and when I look over my shoulder, Marcus takes a cautious step closer. “Harlow,” he warns in a tone meant to calm.

I turn back to my dad and plead, “Don’t leave me here. I swear to you that I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Fisting my hand to dull the unrelenting needling, I lose it. “This isn’t fair!”

In the slip of a second, Marcus has my wrists locked in his hands and pulled behind my back.

“Let go!”

His grip tightens, and I thrash to try to break his restraint, but he’s too strong. “I need you to calm down.”

But I won’t. I ignore him as I yell, begging my dad, “I want to go home! Please, don’t leave me here!”

Tears slip down his face as Marcus drags me out of the room, but I don’t stop kicking and screaming.

“Don’t leave me here, Dad! Don’t do this! Please.”

“I love you,” is all I hear before the door slams shut.

“Dad!” I cry out before Marcus shoves my chest against the wall.

“If you don’t calm down, I’ll call for backup.”

“No, don’t!”

“I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.”

“I want to go home,” I cry.

“I know you do, and I want that for you too, but you need to calm down,” he says. “Don’t make me sedate you.”

Fury pops into a thousand pieces of devastation that rain down over me, and as Marcus continues to do whatever he can to spare me from another sedation, I give up.

In his hold, I go limp against the wall and begin sobbing.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“Do you need assistance?” a nurse asks from down the hall.

“No, everything’s fine. She’s calming down.” Then Marcus leans in, cautioning me quietly, “You have to pull it together, Harlow.”

I give him a compliant nod, knowing all too well how some of the other staff members are quick to shove their needles into our hips.

He holds my wrists for a minute longer before slackening his grip. “Can I trust you to stay calm if I let you go?”

“Yes.”

Once his hands are off me, I turn and press my back against the wall while staring at him in defeat. His expression is soft, but it doesn’t matter if he’s sympathetic. It isn’t as if his feeling bad for me is going to get me out of here.

I’m stuck until my parents or the doctor says otherwise.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” I scoff at his stupid question. Of course, I’m not okay.

“I’m just trying to help.”