Transit

I explore the ward during free hours, mapping its geography like terrain I might need to navigate quickly.

One room draws attention: a girl under constant surveillance. Two guards at a time, rotating every eight hours. They sit outside her door with the patience of people paid to wait.

Last year there was an identical setup. I recognize some of the guards, same faces, same postures, same institutional boredom barely masked as vigilance. The girl looks familiar too, though they tell me she's different. Another one, they insist.

I study her through the observation window. Early twenties, aggressive body language, exhibitionist without shame, probably mixed heritage. She's committed some crime that landed her in psychiatry rather than prison. Eighteen months in this room, linoleum floors, windows facing only tar and concrete.

Another trafficked child grown into dangerous adult.

My silent roommate gets transferred to a different facility. Now just me and the other two women.

Days establish rhythm: reading, conversation, occasional card games, drawing to fill time between medication rounds.

A memory surfaces from last year, I'd tried painting the night in the woods. The tunnel, the cave, the routes they use to move children. Another painting showed a distant beach from years ago, some trip I took before everything fractured.

I gave those paintings to the nurse who'd provided the watercolors. He gave me his own work in return, surreal pieces, genuinely talented. Showed me his entire online portfolio, one beautiful piece after another. Often copies or reinterpretations of famous works.

One matched perfectly a silver tree I'd offered years earlier as an anniversary gift for my aunt and uncle. Hundreds of branches, intricate detail.

"That's impossible," he said when I mentioned it. "That original is very expensive. Never reproduced."

The young girl with self-harm scars can't sleep. First night here, every doctor and nurse cycles through her bedside. I wake repeatedly, they're always there, clustered around her bed like they're waiting for something specific to happen.

Morning brings doctors to my bed. "We'd like to add another medication. Would you consider it?"

"What is it?"

They tell me the name. "I'll think about it."

I consult the algorithm during bathroom break. The response is immediate: Never mix these two. Dangerous interaction.

Next medication round, I decline.

A text from 3, long time haven’t herad of, “Are you ok?”.

“History repeats itself” I reply, “But this time, everything is under control”.

The young girl's parents visit daily. Kind people. They offer to wash my clothes, bring me fresh ones.

I accept, surprised and grateful. Last year I spent two full weeks in the same denim and sweater. No underwear, no bra. Just slowly becoming part of the institutional smell.

I notice the medications seem universal, following trends. Last year one pharmaceutical company dominated prescriptions. This year, different brands, different formulations. I write the observation in my notebook.

A nurse enters to change the young girl's bandages. On his way out, he pauses at my bed.

"You're just in transit. Moving somewhere else soon. Somewhere with thicker walls." He meets my eyes. "You're right about everything, by the way." I'm not sure what he means.

Thicker walls. I imagine someplace secure. Safe to finish assembling the evidence.

Talking with the depressed woman, details emerge: she's a clan boss's daughter. Connected to powerful networks. She and her husband might help me open a restaurant if I want. Partnership opportunity.

I consider it. We exchange phone numbers.

One evening I can't sleep. Strike up conversation with one of the guards monitoring the young girl.

"I'm thinking about going vegetarian," I tell her. "There's research on bacteria, engineering them into complete foods. Cruelty-free. With biochemistry advances, we can produce natural flavors, make bacteria taste like anything."

She nods, interested.

"I'm conflicted about milk too. Cows get exploited, separated from their calves."

"There are GMO cows now," she says. "Living in mountains. They produce milk without needing calves. Good life up there."

I'm skeptical but don't argue.

Another day, I'm warming myself against the hallway radiator. The guarded girl talks with her surveillance team nearby. The guard asks about her mother. Both of them glance at me.

"We're taking care of her," the girl says.

That evening, as I finish dinner, she leans close. Whispers: "Hurry. You need to hurry."

"Yeah, I'm hurrying," I respond automatically.

Did I actually hear that? Or did I imagine it? Two people in one week telling me the same thing. I turn to ask for clarification but she's already retreated to her room.

Sixth day, afternoon. A nurse appears. "Get ready. Time to go."

I pack quickly, say goodbye to my roommates, wait outside a door beyond the ward entrance.

The head psychiatrist arrives with another doctor. They greet me warmly, kisses, embraces, the kind of farewell that feels excessive for six days of institutional care.

Puzzling, but I return the gesture.

An ambulance with tinted windows. I can't tell which direction we're traveling or how long the journey takes.

The new facility looks different, cleaner, quieter, better maintained.

I settle into my assigned room, then head to the smoking area.

The walls are covered in graffiti. Messages that read like pages from the flowered book.

Some signed by Henry and Vincent.

One exchange stops me cold. Signed "87", my mother's name.

The handwriting says: Stay strong. Don't give up. We're all with you. We love you.

Response below: About time. Couldn't you have acted sooner?

87 again: But you know we've already met in other dimensions. Patients begin filing into the smoking room. One approaches, explains the routine. "You'll be here a few weeks. They'll try to understand what's wrong, run tests, do assessments."

One by one they introduce themselves. Names, diagnoses, medications, how long they've been here.

Emotion rises in my chest, overwhelming, unexpected.

Maybe this time it's real. Maybe the escape is actually beginning.