Page 3 of The Locked Ward

It doesn’t matter. There isn’t anyone you want to call.

Your bed is a thin mattress atop a one-piece, bright blue plastic base that’s bolted to the floor. It’s the only item in the room now that the man has removed his chair.

“Would you like to use the bathroom?” he asks.

You give a slight nod, then slide off the bed, your feet landing on the floor. Someone put socks on you last night, the nonslip kind with rubber dots on the soles.

The aide presses his back against a wall, staying a full arm’s length away from you. His eyes never leave you. He gestures for you to walk through the open door first.

You hear the scream just as you cross the threshold: “ She stole my glasses! ”

A woman about your age, wearing a light purple sweatsuit, is standing in the hallway, pointing at you, her voice outraged but her face slack and devoid of emotion.

You shrink back.

“ Give me my glasses! ”

The woman shuffles a few feet down the hallway, looking back at you the whole time.

You feel the skin-pricking sense of other eyes on you.

Other watchers. A tall, heavyset man with rumpled dark hair, in a green paper top and pants that match yours, stands in a nearby doorway, gaping at you.

Others appear, creeping forward in nonslip socks, appearing from doorways and around corners.

Like museumgoers gathered around a new exhibit. Like predators encircling prey.

“They smell fresh blood,” you overhear a nurse say, a chuckle in his voice.

You are no longer a woman who loves sushi and hates Zoom meetings, who carries a bag with a sewing kit, stain remover, mints, and spare gold bands to every wedding she oversees.

You are fresh blood.

The aide points to a door. “Bathroom’s here.”

You step in, and he closes the door, sealing you inside. You begin to tremble, as if your body is trying to shake loose the stares that still cling to you, the hungry gazes you feel through the door. You reach for the lock. There isn’t one. There isn’t even a handle on the inside.

The only items in the room are a low metal toilet with no lid, a quarter roll of toilet paper resting in an indentation curved into the wall, a small bolted-in soap dispenser, and a plastic sink with two buttons instead of taps.

Bile burns your throat, and you lean over and dry heave into the toilet.

“Everything okay?” the aide asks as he peers in the door. There are eyes and ears on you everywhere. Even when you’re crouched over the toilet. Even when you’re sleeping.

“You need something in your stomach,” the aide tells you. “Come on.”

You rise on trembling legs and step out of the bathroom.

There’s a long, low-to-the-ground table in the center of an open room at the end of the hall with individual paper trays of toast, scrambled eggs, oranges, and little cartons of milk and juice. Every face at the table turns to you.

A man waves a piece of toast, calling “Well, hello there!” in a bright, overly solicitous tone, the kind salespeople use as they approach. His eyes are vacant even as they stare at you.

Others stop chewing as their gazes roam over your face, your body.

Are you an exhibit or prey?

You know the schedule for today but not the rules. Is it more or less dangerous to reply?

The aide gives you a tray of food, which you clutch in both hands. “You can eat here,” he says, pointing to a low plastic chair. You have an assigned seat, like in preschool.

You don’t move. The seat is between the woman with partially grown-out pink hair that reveals the natural blond underneath and a man whose green pajama top is gaping open at his chest, exposing a thick mat of hair, a Roman numeral tattoo, and a keloid scar.

You won’t be able to breathe, sitting that close to them. Penned in on either side.

“Fine, you can eat in your room this morning,” the aide sighs. “But you need to go to activity.”

He follows you as you walk back to your room and sit on your bed, placing the tray next to you. You open the cardboard box of cranberry juice and drink it in one long, thirsty gulp. The tray holds a plastic spoon and fork, but no knife.

You look around your room again. You’re used to sizing up spaces in a glance; it’s a professional skill.

The room is eight by ten feet. There’s no closet.

The floors are linoleum. There’s a window that isn’t really a window; it’s covered with a glaze and a tightly woven metal screen that lets in only the faintest wisp of light.

There’s one item in your room you didn’t notice before: a small dome affixed to your ceiling. You’ve seen this item in hotels and shops. You know exactly what it is. The dome is made of plexiglass to keep the camera inside from being tampered with or broken.

Even though you’re in an empty room with a watcher standing in the doorway, other eyes are still observing you.

You are no longer the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in North Carolina, accomplished equestrian, daily Wordle player, expert on dozens of types of flowers suitable for a statement wedding bouquet, and passionate fan of deep-tissue massages.

You are Case Number NC-0416729.