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Ann

Igo throughthe rest of my rounds in a daze, speaking softly to the tormented men with their goals and their glassy gazes.

The whole time my thoughts are on Patient 34—a man without a name. Without goals. Without a story.

The only one who has ever shown me compassion in this place.

I don’t tell on him.

It’s a decision I make from the gut.

Tuesday. Delivery day. I collect myself enough to time my supply refill visit to Pharma Two to happen around the time the delivery truck arrives. I make myself look busy refilling my cart with pads and cotton and sterile setups while one of the pharma staffers checks things in.

Donny wanders in, which is interesting. He squeezes past me, mumbling something about aspirin and touching my ass in a pseudo-accidental way. He heads to the rack on the end.

I watch how the staffer logs the shipment and puts the stuff away. The invoices go into a three-ring binder stored in a cabinet that isn’t locked. It’s stunningly low-tech. I try to think how I’d get extra ephedrine going through here. I could think of a few ways for sure. It’s a soft operation.

I turn and leave, much as I want to stay and see what happens. I’ll come back and tally the ephedrine supply and study the sheets. With an investigation like this, a clear and detailed picture of current reality is always where you start.

Needless to say, my mind is not on the supplies; it’s on Patient 34 and the gravitational pull of his story. His lack of story.

I tell myself there are rational reasons to get his story; if he’s a serial killer, for example, people have a right to know he’s not sedated like they think he is.

Deep down, though, I know he’s not a serial killer. I’ve met serial killers. I’ve met every kind of person. Until 34.

I skip lunch in favor of hitting up Fancher’s administrative assistant, Pam, while Fancher is out of his office—exactly the kind of attention-getting activity I shouldn’t be doing.

Pam has frosted hair, a friendly face, and lot of owl collectibles. She’s the one who tracks the institute’s calendar.

I tell her I’m looking to put in a good word for one of the patients in time for his next commitment hearing. This is actually true—it’s a kid named Jamaica. His official sentence ran out two years ago, but like so many here, he continues to be kept, and this guy has been really conscientious and helpful around the general room. I ask her to walk me through how to find out when a patient’s hearing is coming up.

She lets me come around the back of her desk, and she goes into her spreadsheet. She explains the procedure. There are two lawyers at every commitment hearing—one for the state and one for the patient—plus a psychiatrist. She shows me where their names are, shows me the notes function, and how the group emails get sent when there’s a change. I’m supposed to email her with notes.

I know all of this stuff already, but I act clueless because I want her to explain it, and most of all, I want to see her screens. I’m scanning for 34. If I can see his schedule of hearings, I can figure out the date he was committed. It’s amazing how much intel you can draw from a date. Zara had said “a year and some change,” but that’s not good enough.

I finally find his row, and it’s not just blank—it’s grayed out. Nothing can be input.What. The. Fuck.

“Huh. No hearings for 34,” I say neutrally.

“Fancher handles 34. Patient 34 is in a separate category.”

“Huh.” I quickly point to something else. I can’t look too interested in 34. That’s a reporter trick. You always look like you’re going for something else, not the thing you’re actually going for.

I can still feel his hand around mine, the connection between us buzzing with life.

I scan around the office while she talks. His commitment papers have to be here somewhere. Those papers would tell me a lot. And if there aren’t commitment papers for him, that’s even more of a story. It means he’s in here illegally.

“Would you need the note of support for transition to a halfway house in a hard copy with a signature, too?” I ask. “Where I worked before, they signed the notes and kept them together in the commitment files. We’d just add them in.”

“Staff had access to commitment files?”

“Oh yeah.” Actually this is something that would never ever happen.

I wait for her to show me where the commitment files are kept. Sure enough, her gaze flicks to Fancher’s door. So that’s where they are.

Fuck.

“But of course it was overseas,” I add.


Tags: Annika Martin Erotic