Say my fucking name, Hope.
My breathing hitches. One more stroke and—
Voices outside my door.
My hand stops. The steel between me and the hall is three inches thick, and the guards who walk this wing believe it buys them privacy.
Good old Officer Rick. Wednesday night rotation. I know his voice well. His partner tonight is Justin, early fifties, a man who does his rounds and keeps his mouth shut because retirement is close enough to taste.
"—follow her to the parking lot." Rick's voice comes through flat, stripped of the friendly tone he wears for daylight. "She parks in the west section. Back row. No cameras past the dumpster enclosure."
Justin's boot scuffs the floor. "Rick."
"I'm not going to touch her, not really. I'm just going to talk to her. Remind her who signs off on corridor access. She didn't listen to my first friendly warning, maybe I need to be firmer this time."
"And if she writes that up?"
"What's she going to write? A colleague walked her to her car? I'm concerned about her safety. I'm being friendly." A pause. The rasp of a lighter. "Nolan's on board. Hudson won't say it out loud but he's done with the reports. All I need is for her to understand that this place has a memory."
Justin doesn't answer. His silence has weight. A man who has decided that what he's hearing isn't his problem as long as his name never touches the paperwork.
Their voices fade down the hall. Rick's boots heavier than Justin's. The checkpoint door opens and closes. The lock cycles and I'm alone with the buzz of the fluorescent.
Rick Dutton goes on the list. Not at the top. That position has been filled by the man who signs my medication orders. But high. Above Josh Cain.
Below Rick, one line down: Casey Robin.
Ward A. Mid-twenties. Dark hair, wide smile. I've seen him four times through the transfer window. Every time I passed he sat in the path she walks. The bench near Ward B. The vending machine at the turn toward admin. The magazine rack opposite the checkpoint. His body angled toward whatever door she'd come through next. His eyes patient and fixed on the space she'd fill. I've watched him watch her walk past without turning her head. She smiles at him the same way she smiles at everyone and keeps moving. She has no idea.
Casey disgusts me. Not morally—morality is a word people use when they want to dress up a preference—but technically. He's obvious. Compulsive. His mask has gaps a first-year psychology student could spot and the only reason the staff don't see it is because they're too busy watching me.
I run through what I know about her. Her aunt's name. Her aunt's partners' names. Her best friend Mishel, the foster system and the caseworker who forgot the paperwork. The instant coffee she defends with her whole chest. She gave me all of it in a single session without stopping to think about what a man with my history would do with names and routines and the people she loves.
She held one thing back. Her eyes shifted left and her thumb pressed harder against the pen barrel, she moved past it and I wanted what she kept more than anything she gave me.
Kent comes the next morning. He sits in the visitor chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, and skips the pleasantries.
"Dr. Hudson's pushing a twenty-percent sedation escalation."
I look at him.
"Clinical review next month. He's citing your recent Code White with Dane as justification. Kennedy hasn't challenged it." Kent pauses. "Her reports are the only thing standing between you and a dosage that puts you on the floor for sixteen hours a day. The court liaison flagged her most recent audit as inconsistent with the proposed increase. Hudson needs an incident to override her numbers."
"I've given him nothing."
"I know. Keep it that way." He meets my eyes. "Stay flawless. Her reports are all we've got."
I bank the rage I have reserved for Rick in the same place I've put everything else. Behind the quiet that makes Devina's hands shake and Lane's eyes follow me down the hall.
"How long?"
"Five weeks to the review."
"And after?"
Kent uncrosses his leg. Leans forward, elbows on his knees. "After depends on how many clean reports she files between now and then, and whether Hudson finds a way to bury them."
He doesn't say what we both know. If they push her out, I lose the only person documenting what they do to me. If I let out my urges then her reports stop. Then Hudson will get to put me into a chemical coma.
