everything.
Just go! Devon’s mind screams. Please just go and leave me alone!
One last squeeze on the shoulder, then the woman’s feet step away, brush across the cement floor.
“Oh.” The woman turns back momentarily. “I almost forgot: welcome to Delta.”
The door clanks shut.
That sound again.
Heavy. Metallic. Final.
Devon stands with her face in her hands for a long time. Then she curls up on the rubberized mattress, turns toward the wall.
chapter five
“Devon?”
Devon opens her eyes, squints at who’s peering at her from her opened door. The voice belongs to a woman, someone unfamiliar. Light streams from behind this woman and into the dark cell, washing her out, so all Devon sees is a faceless shadow of a shape.
A dream. Devon closes her eyes, draws herself into a tight ball.
“Devon.” The voice again, more persistent. “Devon, my name is Dr. Bacon. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would that be okay?”
Devon’s eyes snap open. She’s awake and cold. She sits up abruptly, looks around. Her back is slick with sweat, her undershirt sticks to it. A sweat that would fit if she were on a field with a ball, newly clipped grass under her cleats. But she’s not. She’s inside a tiny cell with a toilet in the corner and a cement floor. The sweat exists because of the rubberized mattress beneath her and under that, the molded plastic bed.
“Devon?”
Devon finally turns her eyes toward the woman at the door.
The woman steps out of the shadow. Devon can see her face and hair, one long braid that slips down her slender back to brush her waist. “Sorry I had to wake you,” the woman says. “I know it’s been a long, hard day. You must be exhausted.” She twists to kick a jam under the door so it stays open, then carries a folding chair into the room, placing it the perfect distance from Devon—not too close, but not far away either. She rests her hands on the back of the chair and smiles, her eyes intent on Devon’s face.
Devon likes the way this woman is dressed. Dark straight skirt that hits her ankles, three-quarter-sleeved tee, sports watch, hemp trail mocs. And that braid. Earthy, yet neat.
The woman is older than she seems; her hair is almost entirely gray.
“May I sit down, Devon?”
Devon scoots backward until her back hits the wall behind her. She pulls her legs into her chest. The front of her jumpsuit is stiff from the dried milk. Always leaking, then drying, and leaking again. She can smell it, too. An organic sort of sourness.
Finally Devon nods, Yes.
The woman sits, her hands folded loosely on her lap, and watches Devon with quiet eyes.
“I’m a doctor who works with the residents at Remann Hall,” the woman starts. “A psychiatrist. And I’m here to talk with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions.”
Devon stares at her knees.
“Devon, I know what happened. Why you’re in Remann Hall.” Devon glances sharply at the woman. Her breath comes quick and fast.
“I know, for instance, that you recently had a baby, and that the baby was found in a garbage can behind your apartment.”
Devon hugs her legs closer, hides her face in her knees. If these things are true, why is her mind so blank? The pain, yes—she can remember that. But . . . the other . . . IT . . . She’s shivery and sick to her stomach.
“And I suspect, Devon, that you are not feeling very good about yourself at the moment.” She pauses. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why it’s important that you try to talk to me now. About your feelings. About what you’re thinking.”
The woman waits a moment. Devon can feel her eyes on her, observing the bent head, the rigid shoulders, the long straight hair spread across her shins like a gauzy fan.
“There are many reasons why people do things like put their babies in garbage cans. The purpose of this visit is not to speculate on why you did that, or to determine your guilt or innocence. I’m not the police.”
Devon
Just go! Devon’s mind screams. Please just go and leave me alone!
One last squeeze on the shoulder, then the woman’s feet step away, brush across the cement floor.
“Oh.” The woman turns back momentarily. “I almost forgot: welcome to Delta.”
The door clanks shut.
That sound again.
Heavy. Metallic. Final.
Devon stands with her face in her hands for a long time. Then she curls up on the rubberized mattress, turns toward the wall.
chapter five
“Devon?”
Devon opens her eyes, squints at who’s peering at her from her opened door. The voice belongs to a woman, someone unfamiliar. Light streams from behind this woman and into the dark cell, washing her out, so all Devon sees is a faceless shadow of a shape.
A dream. Devon closes her eyes, draws herself into a tight ball.
“Devon.” The voice again, more persistent. “Devon, my name is Dr. Bacon. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would that be okay?”
Devon’s eyes snap open. She’s awake and cold. She sits up abruptly, looks around. Her back is slick with sweat, her undershirt sticks to it. A sweat that would fit if she were on a field with a ball, newly clipped grass under her cleats. But she’s not. She’s inside a tiny cell with a toilet in the corner and a cement floor. The sweat exists because of the rubberized mattress beneath her and under that, the molded plastic bed.
“Devon?”
Devon finally turns her eyes toward the woman at the door.
The woman steps out of the shadow. Devon can see her face and hair, one long braid that slips down her slender back to brush her waist. “Sorry I had to wake you,” the woman says. “I know it’s been a long, hard day. You must be exhausted.” She twists to kick a jam under the door so it stays open, then carries a folding chair into the room, placing it the perfect distance from Devon—not too close, but not far away either. She rests her hands on the back of the chair and smiles, her eyes intent on Devon’s face.
Devon likes the way this woman is dressed. Dark straight skirt that hits her ankles, three-quarter-sleeved tee, sports watch, hemp trail mocs. And that braid. Earthy, yet neat.
The woman is older than she seems; her hair is almost entirely gray.
“May I sit down, Devon?”
Devon scoots backward until her back hits the wall behind her. She pulls her legs into her chest. The front of her jumpsuit is stiff from the dried milk. Always leaking, then drying, and leaking again. She can smell it, too. An organic sort of sourness.
Finally Devon nods, Yes.
The woman sits, her hands folded loosely on her lap, and watches Devon with quiet eyes.
“I’m a doctor who works with the residents at Remann Hall,” the woman starts. “A psychiatrist. And I’m here to talk with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions.”
Devon stares at her knees.
“Devon, I know what happened. Why you’re in Remann Hall.” Devon glances sharply at the woman. Her breath comes quick and fast.
“I know, for instance, that you recently had a baby, and that the baby was found in a garbage can behind your apartment.”
Devon hugs her legs closer, hides her face in her knees. If these things are true, why is her mind so blank? The pain, yes—she can remember that. But . . . the other . . . IT . . . She’s shivery and sick to her stomach.
“And I suspect, Devon, that you are not feeling very good about yourself at the moment.” She pauses. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why it’s important that you try to talk to me now. About your feelings. About what you’re thinking.”
The woman waits a moment. Devon can feel her eyes on her, observing the bent head, the rigid shoulders, the long straight hair spread across her shins like a gauzy fan.
“There are many reasons why people do things like put their babies in garbage cans. The purpose of this visit is not to speculate on why you did that, or to determine your guilt or innocence. I’m not the police.”
Devon
Similar Books
