Page 19 of The Locked Ward

“Would anyone like to talk about ways they make themselves feel better when they’re upset?” the therapist begins.

He isn’t the guy who looks like a Panthers fan. This man wears horn-rimmed glasses and looks like he’s barely thirty. Even though his voice is casual, he keeps lightly tapping his foot against the floor.

He’s nervous. You don’t blame him. He’s in a small room with six patients, including the giant man with the keloid scar.

You spend most of your time sitting just outside the nurses’ station, which means you overhear a lot of things.

Yesterday a patient asked a nurse if it was true that man had stabbed his father and buried him behind the garage, a question the nurse brushed off.

Maybe it’s a lie. Maybe the truth is even worse.

There are two young, strong aides sitting in chairs a bit apart from the group, but still, the therapist must know he’s outnumbered. He can leave at any time, though, disappearing through the thick wooden doors that are a portal to the real world.

“Can anyone share ways they make themselves feel calmer and happier?” the therapist asks.

A tired-looking woman raises her hand. “I have one,” she begins. She twists around, looking behind her. “Aw, get off me,” she says, her tone part affection and part exasperation.

There’s nothing on her.

“What’s your strategy?” the therapist asks.

“What I do is count to ten,” she says. She looks back at the empty space again. “Knock it off, c’mon.”

The therapist asks, “Who’s behind you, Devina?”

A guy in pajama pants and a navy T-shirt speaks up. “She thinks it’s a brown dog. He’s always jumping on her.”

The therapist frowns. “Um, is there a way you cope with the dog, Devina?”

You decide to escape in the only way left to you. You transport yourself into a different time and place: the day of your favorite wedding.

You thought you had the bride sized up when you met her.

Rich and privileged tends to equal high-maintenance clients.

But you were wrong. There was more kindness and love at this wedding than any you’d ever experienced.

The bride and groom wanted to focus on their guests’ comfort, so kids of all ages were welcome.

A few babysitters were hired, and a private room with movies playing on a big screen and a table full of craft projects was set up adjacent to the ballroom.

The bride wore her mother’s dress, even though she could have found one that was more flattering, and the groom left an empty space at the front pew for his father, who’d died the previous year, with a boutonniere on it.

The newlyweds surprised the bride’s grandparents by asking them to come onto the floor for their first dance.

Grandma spun around in her wheelchair while Grandpa did a few surprisingly fluid jitterbug moves; then he bent down to smooch his wife as the crowd cheered.

The day was pure love. You were there in the wings, watching it all, feeling a warm glow in your chest.

Then you’re jerked back into the present as you feel something behind you. Something is brushing against the back of your neck, gentle as a whisper.

Goose bumps rise on your skin. You can hear his quick breaths and smell his vinegary odor. It’s Josh.

He has crept up behind you and is running a fingertip along the back of your neck. You suppress a shudder and quash the instinct to jerk forward.

“Josh, won’t you sit down?” the therapist says.

“Just gonna stand here for a bit,” Josh replies. “Got a little cramp in my calf.”

The therapist is too green to take control. From his frown, it’s clear he wants Josh to sit down, but doesn’t know how to make him. And the therapist can’t see what Josh is doing; you’re blocking his view.

“It doesn’t work if you count quickly,” Devina continues. “So what I do is, I take a deep breath between each number.”

“Pretty baby,” Josh croons, his voice so low only you can hear.

A scream swells in your throat, but you can’t release it.

The therapist is oblivious to what’s happening. But one of the aides must sense something is wrong. He stands up and takes a step toward you, and just like that, Josh walks to his seat and eases down, his legs splayed out.

Your body is rigid, fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through it. Tears spring to your eyes, but you bite the inside of your lip, hard, and the shock of pain manages to staunch them.

Josh is even more dangerous than you thought.

He was smart enough to come up with a plausible excuse for lingering by your chair. And aware enough to bide his time.

This unit isn’t very big. You can avoid dead-end hallways and stay in view of the nurses as much as possible. But it won’t matter.

Josh will find you again.

There’s no way out.