Page 169 of Wrath

Why am I here?

Who…or what is MILLER?

I look at the check-in desk. Nobody back there.

I look at the door to the tile stairs that lead to outside—its windows streaming slats of sunlight over the rug.

I stand up. Hold onto the chair. A woman in a pink shirt, readingWomen’s Daymagazine, blinks up at me.

I look at the check-in again. Then I walk out the door and down the stairs and start into the field beside the building.

Ezra

January 4, 2019

I’m in the laundry room when I feel someone move behind me. “You got the hang of these things?”

I flinch, but it’s just Amelia—the short, slim, gray-haired lady who runs this place. She moves closer to me but gives me my space, resting her palm atop one of the ancient washing machines.

“Sometimes they stick,” she says, touching the coin insert slot on one of them.

I nod, trying to look capable. “I’ve got it.”

I move my clothes from the washer into the dryer, and I think she takes a small step back, probably not wanting to crowd me.

“Just checking in on ya. You have any needs today? The on-call doctor will be here in about an hour. There’s a sign-up in the common room.”

She doesn’t push about it, and I’m glad.

“I think I’m good. Thank you.”

“This is your fourth day with us, is that right?” she asks.

I nod, forcing myself to meet her kind blue eyes.

“You’ve been clean as far as I know,” she says. “But you’re not using prescription medications to assist with cravings. Is that what you want?”

I nod, inhaling slowly as my eyes drop to the floor. I tug them back up to meet hers. “I don’t need them.”

“There’s no harm in taking things. To make it comfortable.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She gives me a smile. Almost grandmotherly. “Okay, Miller. We’ll see you at dinner. It’s spaghetti night. Ronald makes the most delicious garlic bread.”

She’s gone fast enough, but her voice hangs in my head. Amelia, the founder of this place, is a doctor from Canada. So she has this accent.

Four days later, and I still can’t fucking believe my luck with this place. I think about it as I walk the short hall to my room—a private room. It’s large enough to hold a twin bed, a small dresser, a nightstand, and a flatscreen TV. There’s a plant in one corner, a slightly dated laptop on the dresser, and one curtained window that’s not made of plastic.

I lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember Monday. I’m pretty out of it after an ECT session. Sometimes Mom told me in the past that I would cry or get sick. Shit like that. I have lots of hazy memories of being pushed through hallways in those fucking wheelchairs. So I don’t reallyknow how I managed to break free. I’m not even totally sure why I did it.

It had something to do with the name marked on my arm. With my tattoo. Gerald, this guy who’d just checked out of Mach House—the place where I am right now—saw me sitting underneath a tree in a park and looking fucked-up, I guess.

He came over, asked if I had anywhere to go, and when I said I didn’t, he asked did I want to be taken to a rehab-oriented shelter. Rehab had me saying “no,” but he said it’s completely voluntary. No drugs pushed on you, no one making you stay or anything. By that time, I’d seen a cop or two, and I figured Sheppard Pratt and Dr. Katz had put out some kind of lost person warning.

Gerald had a truck and offered to drive me down to Federal Hill. I was so scared, I rode in the back of his truck, lying down on my back, watching the clouds smear by.

As soon as we got here—it’s a big, two-story Victorian house on a residential street with a long row of stately brick townhomes—Amelia came out and talked to me. She could probably tell I was a little out of my head, but I got good vibes from her. There was a rainbow flag on the porch, which made me feel comfortable. When I saw the open room, the regular glass window, I felt grateful for the hookup. Gerald is a good guy. Even came to check on me the second day.

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