Page 44 of Good Half Gone

I look around at the two rows of neatly made bunk beds. The sheets are crisp white; a gray blanket is folded across the foot of each bed with a pillow sitting neatly atop it.

The first bunk is a few feet away from where we stand. “How do I know which beds are free?”

She points to a clear credit-card-sized envelope attached to each bunk. “There’s a green side and a red side. Green means the bed’s open, red means it’s been claimed. Find yourself a bed and put the red side out. It’s your lucky day because you get first choice.”

Simple enough.

“One more thing before I leave you to it: when your stay at hotel HOTI has come to an end, strip the bed and take your dirty bedding over to the laundry chute—it’s right over there.” She points to a metal door in the wall. “It just got fixed. Works kind of like a trash chute, but instead, everything shoots out the end into a giant hamper. No need to strip your sheets every day, just the last day you’re here so we can get it ready for the next crew.” She is walking me over to a room markedStorage. “Get a clean set from here and remake it at the end of day three. Got it?”

I survey the shelves of crisp white sheets and another of plaid blankets.She glances up at me to see if I’m following along. I’ve been nodding all day, I feel like a bobble head.

“I gotta go.” She taps the face of her Apple Watch. “Shoot, I’m already late.” With a quick wave over her shoulder, Benni is gone.

Some curtains are already pulled around their beds. I find it unsettling; has its occupant merely shut the curtain to hide an unmade, or is there a human back there? Benni hadn’t said the dorms were closed during the day, so they very well could be occupied.

It’s kookamatoo!

Gran’s word makes me sad. The fact that I might not hear her say it again…

I bite down on my tongue to shock myself. I’m tired—not thinking clearly; the lack of sleep is making me feel cagey and morose.

The schedule board is on the wall near the admissions office. There are always a couple people crowded around it, looking disappointed or pissed. And then I see it—Walsh/Irisnext to the lettersdsordark side. A rush of excitement passes through me. It feels as if I’ve passed a test. And then I realize that whoever made the schedule has done it on purpose—written out my full name. My stomach drops.

“Doing the fun stuff today, Walsh. Don’t get used to it.”

I look over my shoulder at Bouncer. She’s uncomfortably close, leaning in as if she has something to tell me. She doesn’t tell me anything, however, just stares at the whiteboard, her eyes hovering on my name. She’s not wearing her eyelash extensions, and her naked eyes are alarmingly lizard-like. Foundation is caked around her mouth and nostrils, and her breath smells five days old. I turn back to the board, fuming. I’d lied to her by telling her my last name was Iris. Had she found out my full name and googled me? Panic rises in my throat, clogging my breath.I think about all the files piled on Jordyn’s desk; my information could easily have been in one of them. Had Bouncer seen my file?

“It’s Iris,” I say through my teeth. “I told you that.”

I snap a picture of my schedule and casually put my phone in my pocket. I don’t want her to know she’s upset me. She doesn’t move; I feel her frenetic energy buzzing behind me.

“You’re going to be his plaything for a while, we all were. It’s not going to last, and I promise you it won’t end well.”

I turn around now so I can fully see her.

“What?” My hackles are raised.

“Don’t play dumb, Walsh.”

The way she says my name makes me want to laugh:Wol-shh.I hover between flight and fight like a bee caught in the wind. The Iris who did nothing in the movie theater that day is frightened into a state of frozenness, the Iris pissed that she did nothing in the movie theater that day wants to punch Bouncer in the face. I study her more closely. She’s high…maybe drunk by the smell of her. We are alone. I step quickly to the board and use the back of my hand to eraseWalsh. The chance that someone will make the connection between Piper and me are slim, but I don’t want to take any chances. When I turn around, she’s grinning like she’s caught me. I feel a flash of anger, the urge to take back control of the situation.

“Go take a shower, sober up.”

The grin slides from her face, and the vein on her temple begins to pulse like an inflamed worm. “Fuck you, bitch.”

A run-of-the-mill insult, a little trashy and hardly offensive. I refrain from reaction. Instead, keeping my voice low, I say, “I don’t know what you gave me earlier, but I’m warning you right now, if you pick a fight with me, I’m going to win.”

I don’t stick around to see her reaction. I shove past her, my mind already on the next few hours of work. Supervising activities and group therapy with Dr.Grayson was the double rainbow in my sky.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to take pills from strangers?”

Her words pierce like cold water, and I feel my heart react, swelling painfully behind my ribs. I climb the stairs, swipe my badge, drop my phone in the basket along with a couple Hershey kisses for George and bury the anger for later.

I’m to assist with the patient-led classes: art, then dance, after which I will sit in on group therapy led by Dr. Grayson. I meet Peter—an art prodigy, who teaches painting as part of his therapy plan. He is the one responsible for the disturbing scenes decorating the walls. Janiss introduces us, her hands clasped at her waist like a proud mother. He is a delicate-looking man who wears thick, square-framed glasses too big for his face. His thin, mousy hair is desperately scraped into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Ponytail Peter says very little as he supervises finger painting. He moves around the room like a cat—expressionless and unpredictable. I think I hear him murmur into someone’s ear at one point, but I never actually hear his voice. He is the rabbit in his paintings on the wall—or maybe that’s too art student of me. I’m glad I only have to look at his art when I’m on the dark side.

After lunch, a man named Lucian plays soft music and leads us through a swaying meditative dance he calls tree ritual. A handful participates—arms waving, hips swaying—while others look on listlessly, unimpressed by our willow arms. The whole thing makes me sleepy.

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