Page 110 of Borrowed Pain
"Dr. Lemon," I said, watching floor numbers descend below ground level, "what did Dr. Harrow tell you about Dr. McCabe's mental state during enrollment?"
"Acute professional distress. Survivor guilt related to client suicide. She indicated he was desperate for therapeutic intervention."
Marcus spoke up from behind me. "Dr. Lemon, did Dr. McCabe speak directly with hospital administration about extended isolation?"
"Dr. Harrow handled all participant communication." Dr. Lemon led us down a long corridor. "Agent Andrews, I'm concerned that family interference could cause Dr. McCabe significant psychological harm."
The institutional manipulation was flawless. Harrow had convinced hospital staff that protecting Miles from his family was essential for his recovery. Every attempt to reach him would be framed as a dangerous disruption of breakthrough therapy.
"Dr. Lemon," Andrews said, "federal medical emergency protocols supersede research confidentiality."
"Only essential personnel are allowed in the isolation rooms," Dr. Lemon insisted.
"We are essential personnel."
The corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel, broken by numbered doors with small windows. Room 231. Room 235. Room 239. Each door had electronic locks and monitoring equipment that belonged in a psychiatric facility, not a research environment.
Two technicians emerged from Room 243, wearing lab coats over surgical scrubs. They froze when they saw our group.
The taller of the two approached. "Dr. Lemon? Are these the federal observers Dr. Harrow mentioned?"
"Federal investigators," Andrews corrected. "We need immediate access to research participant Miles McCabe."
The technicians exchanged glances. "Dr. Harrow requested no interruptions."
Matthew spoke up, his authoritative medical voice cutting through the bureaucratic confusion. "As a licensed paramedic, I must verify participant vital signs and mental status. Federal regulations require medical welfare confirmation."
The technicians looked to Dr. Lemon for guidance. She stood frozen between conflicting loyalties.
"Room 245," the shorter technician said finally.
My heart hammered against my ribs as we approached the door marked 245. Andrews reached for the handle, then stopped. Voices drifted through the door—clear enough to understand, muffled enough to require concentration.
Dr. Lemon pressed her ear close, her expression tightening as she caught the tone of a session gone wrong.
"That doesn't sound voluntary," she whispered.
"No," Andrews said grimly. "It doesn't."
Harrow's voice bled through the door, brittle with strain. "You think you've unmasked me, Dr. McCabe, but all you've proven is your incompetence. You failed your clients. You failed yourself. And you'll fail here."
Miles's reply came slow but steady, stronger than I'd dared hope: "I know exactly who I am. I'm a trauma therapist who helps people heal. What you're doing isn't treatment—it's exploitation dressed in clinical language."
Andrews's hand moved to his sidearm. "Dr. Lemon, open this door. Now."
She fumbled with her electronic keycard, hands shaking as she swiped it against the reader. The lock disengaged with a soft electronic click.
Andrews pushed the door open, revealing a mockery of everything I'd learned to value about therapeutic space.
"Federal agents," he announced. "Nobody move."
It was a nightmare masquerading as therapy.
Miles sat restrained in what should have been the client's chair, leather straps binding his wrists and ankles while an IV line snaked from his arm to a bag of clear fluid. His shirt was rumpled and his hair disheveled, but his eyes blazed with furious clarity.
Harrow's professional mask cracked, revealing something feral underneath. "You're interrupting critical therapeutic intervention. This participant is experiencing breakthrough trauma resolution."
"This participant," I said, stepping into the room behind Andrews, "is being tortured."
