Page 127 of Warrior

An older woman enters from another door, and she smiles widely. It’s toothy, but not in a bad way. Her hair is a mix of blonde and gray. Her dark-purple cardigan looks perfectly cozy. Jeans and tennis shoes complete the ensemble, plus a gold necklace and earrings.

“I’m Dr. Hawthorne,” she introduces. “What’s your name?”

My eyes widen.

“I didn’t tell anyone my name?”

She shakes her head gently. “Our initial hold for drug users is a week. If you elect to leave, we don’t keep records. This is day eight, so you are free to go if you want.”

She pauses.

I don’t say anything.

“Our systems are not online. Everything is handwritten, including if we reach a diagnosis or prescribe medicine. This makes us an attractive option for those who might not want to be found. Domestic abuse cases, et cetera.”

I nod along.

“So. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Would you like to take a seat?”

I eye her. “Is there any reason you’d bar me from leaving?”

“Only if you tell me you’re an imminent threat to yourself or others.”

“Okay.” I sit on the couch and immediately tuck my legs up under me. “I’ve just got to preface, Doc… I don’t think you’re going to believe me.”

She sits, her full attention on my face. Her gaze is warm. “Try me.”

Day…ten?

The withdrawal symptoms are manageable enough, so I move to the main house. Mary Catherine warns that I’ll have a roommate. They do night checks. There are a number of safety precautions, but it’s all for the security and wellbeing of the residents.

I hesitate to call myself that.

I’m more like a temporary guest.

It doesn’t matter, though. I keep that note to myself, a tiny imaginary asterisk following the word every time she mentions it.

*Not you, visitor!

Besides therapy and meals, there’s a relatively limited number of activities. I’m not allowed to go into town alone, although Mary Catherine seems to have designated herself as my best friend. She promises me that we’ll go as soon as it stops raining outside.

There’s no rain.

There hasn’t been rain.

I don’t say anything, though, and just smile along.

That afternoon, I find myself alone. I wander the halls, not quite lost… just exploring. Content to figure it out as I go. There are lines along the floor, and all the rooms are numbered. It’s not really rocket science.

One of the doors is open, and my attention snags on a pair of bright-blue shoes sitting on a desk. The rooms themselves lean more minimalist—a desk and chair, a bed, two pillows and one blanket per person—but I’ve seen howresidents*make their space feel like home.

The shoes, though…

I’m not sure what happened to my old clothes. I wasn’t married to anything I was wearing, and I didn’t have a phone to worry about. My cell is probably still in my condo, dead or neglected on the charger.

If I had it, I think they would’ve taken it away.

We’re not really allowed to have laces. That was another thing explained to me by both Dr. Hawthorne—with logic—and Mary Catherine—with horror. Because laces can be used to hurt ourselves if we really want, and shereally doesn’twant that.

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