The Gateway Trilogy: Complete Series: (Books 1-3)

The Gateway Trilogy: Complete Series

Books 1-3

Christina Garner

Contents

Gateway: Book 1 in The Gateway Trilogy

I. Gateway

Gateway

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chasm: Book 2 in The Gateway Trilogy

I. Chasm

Chasm

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Tether: Book 3 in The Gateway Trilogy

I. Tether

Tether

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Thank you for reading The Gateway Trilogy!

Pledge

Prologue

Chapter 1

About the Author

Also by Christina Garner

Gateway: Book 1 in The Gateway Trilogy

I

Gateway

Book 1 in The Gateway Trilogy

Copyright © 2015 by Christina Garner

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover by raven + crow studio

Gateway

Everybody has their demons… Ember’s want her dead.

Ember has always known that she doesn't belong in this world, but when she takes matters into her own hands, she winds up in a mental institution.

There she draws the attention of Taren, a mysterious boy with a dangerous secret.

When demons attack, they are forced to flee together, and Ember learns her secret might be the deadliest of all.

With a gateway to hell opening in Los Angeles, Ember must choose—will she save the world...or end it?

Prologue

In the end, only the Voice remained .

I told you it would be better this way…

I was drifting, floating on something too silky to be water. It was warm, and it penetrated the deepest parts of me. 

The Voice was right. It was always right. Everything finally felt soft. My sharpest edges were being worn away, melting into oblivion. I felt like candle wax before it cooled; nothing to do but let the remaining drops of consciousness slide down…  

Pain. Where did that come from? How could I feel pain when I didn't have a body anymore?

My throat. It was my throat, being stabbed, or—

Shh…let it go. Let all the pain go. Rest easy…

For a moment I was comforted, the gentle motion of the not-quite-water lulling me, pulling me back to safety.

But I was heaving. Huge, uncontrollable spasms. And then I was vomiting, although that word isn’t strong enough. I was erupting. The contents of my stomach spewed from my mouth, my nose. The wetness hit my chest, then my belly, and finally dribbled down my chin. My mouth tasted of charcoal. The warmth receded. The peace went with it. And I knew.

1

My throat burned. My stomach ached. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way .

I tried to remember how good I’d felt…the sensation of floating, of being complete, wanting for nothing. I willed myself to drift, and after a moment, my lips twitched into the tiniest bit of a smile. But if I were truly approaching oblivion, I wouldn’t even remember I had a mouth, and the realization brought the pain crashing back.

My eyelids heavy, I fought to open them. The light was too bright and I squinted against its harsh intrusion.

She’s awake! Nurse—she’s awake!

My mother sprang toward me and clutched my hand, her eyes wild with worry.

Ember, honey, you’re OK. You’re in the hospital. You had an accident and…

I stopped hearing her. I didn’t want to process the relief on my mother’s face when I was so disappointed. I receded back, if not into the comfort of oblivion, then at least into an inky blackness.

2

Sunlight warmed my face, causing spots to dance behind my eyes. I feigned sleep, wanting to gauge the emotional temperature of the room before admitting wakefulness to anyone else present. No voices in the room with me, but a low buzz of conversation drifted in from farther away .

When I opened my eyes, I knew I was somewhere different. From my slanted vantage point—I still wasn’t willing to move my head—I saw that the tile was still institutional, but this seemed older somehow…more dingy. I remained draped in hospital linens, but the bed itself felt softer and lacked rails. No sign of my mother. I tilted my head.

A long bureau with flaking paint dominated the wall space between where I lay and an empty bed—neatly made and decorated with stuffed animals. Past the end of my bed I spied two closets, a bathroom separating them. The door to the room was halfway open, allowing only a partial view of the hall. 

Psych ward. Where else would they put someone who had swallowed a cocktail of leftover prescriptions, put on some Ani DiFranco, and gone to sleep? It was so cliché. The worst part—other than being alive—was the knowledge that I was just another teenager who had tried to off themselves because life had gotten too hard. Another loser trying to run away from her problems. They wouldn’t know I’d been running to something. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell them. Life was bad enough before, but life in a mental hospital seemed even less appealing. I’d keep the Voice to myself.

The door creaked and I was too slow in closing my eyes.

Well, nice to see you’re awake, Ember.

She was middle-aged, dressed in a nurse’s uniform and spoke with the calm authority of one who knew she was in charge and didn’t need to prove it.

I wasn’t going to be able to bullshit her.

Not feeling very talkative? She approached my bed. That’s all right. You’ve been through a lot these past two days.

"Two days?"

My surprise overrode my wish to be silent. My words came out as a croak, my throat still raw.

Mmhmm, she said, feeling my forehead. Some of the pills you swallowed had metabolized before the doctor was able to pump your stomach. You slept in the E.R. for fourteen hours. They moved you here once the doctors were confident you were out of the woods. That was yesterday.

I respected her lack of sugarcoating. She didn’t add the word ‘accidentally’ before the words pills you swallowed. She’d been through this before.

I guess I needed some rest, I said.

The truth sounded flippant when spoken aloud.

Mmhmm, she said again.

She was looking at me, sizing me up. Was I nuts? Looking for attention? Or was I one of the few who actually wanted to die? I didn’t answer the unspoken question. She was quiet for a moment, trying to see if I would be so uncomfortable with the silence that I’d have to fill it, hopefully giving her a morsel of information she could pass on to the shrink about why I’d ended up here. She had no idea how well I could play this game. 

She broke first. Dr. Shaw wanted to be notified when you woke. It won't be a full session as he's got a heavy schedule today, but he'll do some intake and explain the way things work around here.

Intake? That didn’t sound right. I thought the psych ward was just a cooling off place before they sent you home or carted you off to the nuthouse. 

Realization dawned. My nurse friend noticed. A look of sympathy crossed her face and then was gone. She had probably learned not to get too involved.

You’ll find your things in the bureau and the closet. Meet me at the nurses’ station at the end of the hall and I’ll take you to his office.

She gave me a kind smile and left the room. Left it to me and my thoughts which, as usual, were too large to be contained. They were bursting out, seeping through walls, shattering the window.

Boy, you really effed up this time. You're screwed. The nuthouse? We’re adding nuthouse to the resume now?  They will never let you out of here. OK, here’s what we have to do: play the game, you don’t know what got into you, you love your life, you were upset about a boy, you realize it was stupid, you’ll never do it again—no, eff them, I’m done playing games. I’ll just tell them. The mistake wasn’t the pills; the mistake was being born in the first place. You only have to look at me to know I don’t belong in this world…

On and on the voices warred. Not the Voice, the one that wanted to help me, just my own, and they hated me.

I pulled myself back from the brink. As pleasant as my nurse friend seemed, I had a feeling that if I didn’t materialize at the nurses' station soon, I’d be dragged to this Dr. Shaw's office regardless.

I opened the drawer closest to me and found my hairbrush, toothbrush, and some tooth paste. I stiffened, horrified at the thought of my mother going through my things in order to pack for my stay, but I quickly let it go. What—was she going to find some of my darker artwork? Read my diary? I was in a mental hospital; my facade of normalcy was surely blown. I had doubts it had ever been firmly in place.

I looked horrendous. There was no denying it as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Black ringed my lips, my eyes more deep set than normal, my brown hair a rat’s nest. Things weren’t so good on the inside either—my mouth tasted like charcoal and death. Attempted death, anyway.

Washing my face helped some, returning my lips to a human color. For a moment I got lost watching the charcoal swirl down the drain, wishing I could follow. Brushing my teeth removed the fuzzy coating. My hair, on the other hand, was a lost cause. No comb was going to tame it. I twisted it up and attached it with one of the clips I’d also found in the drawer. My mother was nothing if not sensitive to the needs of vanity. 

The closet was well stocked, also, which didn’t bode well for my hopes of a speedy discharge. I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and a hoodie, tossing the gown in a corner of the closet.

The hallway looked exactly as I’d thought it would. Nondescript, doors every eight feet or so, inoffensive pastel artwork on the walls. Nothing to upset the unbalanced mind—unless, of course, it had any taste.

I reached the nurses' station. A large black woman looked up from the papers in front of her and smiled. Jo said you were awake. How you feeling?

I shrugged. I’d save my platitudes for the shrink.

Jo walked up then, saving me from another silent standoff. 

This way, Ember.

I followed dutifully. 

She led me around the corner and down another hallway. She paused where it ended at large double doors, then slipped her hand under a covered keypad. Her fingers moved deftly as she punched in a code, and the doors lurched open. 

A moment later, we paused at a doorway with a nameplate that read Herbert Shaw, MD. Apparently, I had graduated from psychologists and was now in need of a full-blown psychiatrist.

Inside was a receptionist and a small waiting area, which consisted of two chairs and some magazines.

Karen, this is Ember Lyons. She's here to see Dr. Shaw.

Karen smiled warmly from behind her desk. Yes, he told me we'd be fitting her in. Please, have a seat. He's with another patient right now, but he'll be with you shortly.

I took a seat, picked up an issue of a nature magazine dated two months prior, and opened to a random page. Jo gave me a reassuring nod as she left, while Karen went back to her typing. I glanced down at my magazine and became absorbed in a picture of hikers entering a darkened cave. I imagined I was there, entering the blackness…

Probably better you don't mention me.

Agreed. I had kept the Voice a secret for the past year; I certainly wasn't going to start blabbing about it now, when they already had proof I was disturbed.

I closed my eyes and found myself wondering where I'd gone wrong. I'd taken enough pills, I was sure of that. But I’d known my mother would be home by ten thirty and would check on me—she always did. Why hadn't I waited until after she had gone to bed? It had made sense at the time, but sitting in that waiting room, I couldn't imagine why. I wasn't an attention seeker. If anything, I wanted to be left alone. Completely alone. People just let you down. I wanted an end to people. An end to everything. So why had I screwed it up so spectacularly?

The click of a door opening brought me back to the present. A waifish girl of no more than twelve emerged from the back office. She stared at the carpet as she made her way out, her long blond hair curtaining her face. When she neared me, her breath caught and she stopped dead, her head slowly turning to look at me. Frightened blue eyes stared into mine, her lips moved silently.

The moment stretched, the girl seemingly entranced, and me, too freaked out to say anything.

Callie? Karen asked. Everything OK?

The girl, Callie, pulled her gaze away from me and said softly, Yes, fine. Sorry.

She scurried out of the room. I stared after, disconcerted. I guessed I should learn to get used to that sort of thing if I was going to be spending time in a mental institution.

Ember? The doctor will see you now.

Karen gestured to the doorway Callie had just come from.

I tossed the magazine back onto the table and paused at the door. Here we go.

Dr. Herbert Shaw, MD, sat behind a large mahogany desk. His balding head was bent over a file folder stuffed with papers. He looked up, his smile revealing tobacco-stained teeth, and perched his reading glasses on top of his head.

Hello, Ember. I'm glad to see you up and about. I'm Dr. Shaw.

He rose from his desk and extended a hand. It was unnaturally soft for a man's hand. Not that I had felt the hands of many men.

He gestured for me to sit in the chair across from him.

So, how are you feeling? he asked, retaking his seat.

I've been better.

I would think so, he said, and flipped through the folder. He lowered his glasses and read aloud, Lithium, clozapine, diazepam…That's quite a lot to ingest.

I waited for something to respond to. He hadn't asked how I'd gotten access to such a mix of pills. My mother's condition must have been in the file. Being bipolar with a side of paranoia wasn't something she acknowledged readily; she must have been terrified for me. I felt more than a twinge of guilt.

As if reading my thoughts, he said, I have a full history on both you and your mother, but nothing on your father. Why is that?

If he was trying to provoke me, he was about to be disappointed. The admission that had once pained me, now flowed without emotion.

Because I've never met him.

I see, he said, making a note. Is he deceased?

I have no idea, I said. Isn't that in the file?

Instead of answering, he asked, Does it bother you, the way you were conceived?

So it was in the file; he just wanted to see if I'd squirm. I looked him square in the eye.

Would it bother you? To be conceived in a bathroom at The Roxy while a hair-metal band played?

He didn't blink.

Yes, he said, it would bother me very much. Although, I'm sure you know it was due to your mother's mania that she participated in such risky behavior.

I did know that, but knowing didn't change anything. I would never meet my father because my mother hadn't gotten his name.

Dr. Shaw folded his arms upon his desk. There's no denying you've been dealt a difficult hand, Ember. I won't try to convince you otherwise. But I see that things have taken quite a turn for you this past year: lowered grades, repeated truancy, an inability to make friends. Can you tell me about that?

Nothing that isn't in the file, I said.

I couldn't deny the charges; they were all true. Except that part about not being able to make friends. I was able, just no longer willing.

And this?

Dr. Shaw held up a sheet of college-ruled paper, frayed where it had been ripped from my notebook. There, in ballpoint ink, was the drawing that had put me on the radar of the school administration. It was crude; the spiraling black lines pressed deep into the paper, causing it to tear in the center.

It’s just a doodle, I said.

Were you angry when you did it?

And therein lay the problem. I hadn’t been angry—I’d felt fine. As fine as I ever did, anyway. What most people found disturbing, I found comforting, even beautiful. When I’d started, I’d been drawing the inner rings of a tree, which is what I’d said when my teacher had caught me drawing in class. But as often happened, the piece had taken on a life of its own, morphing into something darker and apparently more sinister looking. She had held the paper up for the other students as a type of Rorschach test, people calling out what they saw in it.

I don’t know what it is, but it’s creepy, a girl in the back had called.

It’s like a tornado. If they had tornadoes in hell, another had said.

I’ll tell you what I see—a lot of therapy in her future. That had been Todd McKey. We’d kissed once, back when I still went to parties.

The entire class had broken into laughter. My drawing had been confiscated and I’d spent the rest of the period staring at a spot on my desk, willing myself not to run from the room.

After class that day, Clare Humphries, cheerleader and all around high school superstar, had broken away from her group of friends to talk to me at my locker.

Hey, she’d said, don’t listen to those jerks. I thought it was pretty.

Uh, thanks, I’d replied, suspicious.

Clare Humphries had never spoken to me before in my life.

No, I mean it, I could totally see your work in a gallery.

I’d let myself smile. Oh, well that’s nice of you—

Right next to paintings by Charles Manson, she’d said in a singsong voice, then turned back to join her snickering cohorts.

I’d spun to face my locker, tears stinging my eyes.

The next day, I’d been called in to meet with the school guidance counselor and Clare Humphries got elected to prom court.

Well, Dr. Shaw said, snapping me back to the present, this file may tell me what you've been up to, but it doesn't tell me why, and that is what we'll be delving into during your sessions with me.

I decided to cut to the chase. How long do I have to be here?

I can tell you aren't going to like this answer, he replied, gazing at me over steepled fingertips. But that will be entirely up to you.

He was right. I didn't like it one bit.

3

Iremained with Dr. Shaw only a short while longer. He could tell he wasn't going to get much from me, and Jo had mentioned his full calendar. When I left, there was a boy about fifteen with cropped black hair occupying the seat I had recently vacated in the waiting room .

There's an orderly waiting outside to take you back to your wing, Karen said as I made my way to the door.

Thanks, I mumbled.

Josh, Dr. Shaw is ready for you now.

About time, the dark haired boy muttered as I shut the door behind me.

As promised, the orderly accompanied me back to the nurses' station, and thankfully, he did it in silence. Jo was drinking coffee when I returned.

I see you got the rules, she said, nodding toward the rolled up papers in my hand.

Yeah. No fighting, trading meds, hooking up… That's all I remember for now.

Those are the big ones, she replied, but make sure you follow all of them and you and I won't have a problem.

Got it, I said, then looked around awkwardly. What was I supposed to do now?

Your roommate is back from class, Jo said, coming out from behind the station. I'll introduce you.

I followed behind, and when we reached my new home away from home, Jo opened the door to reveal a petite blonde sitting cross-legged on the bed. She looked up from her beauty magazine and gave me a perfectly dimpled smile. What was her problem? The world loved girls like her.

Eating disorder.

Of course.

Lauren, this is Ember. Play nice, Jo said, giving Lauren a warning look before she exited.

Don't listen to her, I'm harmless. Her smile twinkled, but her tone left room for doubt. What do you think of our room?

I looked around and shrugged. Um, it’s fine, I guess. Hopefully I’m not here long enough to get too settled.

She arched an eyebrow. Aren't you here on a suicide?

So they tell me.

She made a sound I couldn't distinguish, somewhere between sympathy and mocking. 

Come on, she said standing. I’ll show you around.

I had no choice but to be rude or follow. It didn’t make sense ticking off my new roommate, so I trailed after her. Plus, getting the lay of the land couldn't hurt. Just past the nurses' station was a set of double doors propped open with chairs.

This is the rec room. Group meets here on Monday, she said, and you’ll have a one-on-one with Dr. Shaw once or twice a week.

Depending on how screwed up I am? I asked.

"Basically. Your first real session with him takes like two hours, and after that he’ll decide how 'screwed up' you are and give you a schedule. Don't get your hopes up—on a suicide you're pretty much guaranteed two."

In the corner, a small group of patients huddled around a nineteen-inch television set from the ‘90s.

Strictly basic cable, Lauren said, rolling her eyes.

Another corner housed art supplies, which was the only bit of good news about the place so far. A middle-aged woman sat alone, doing a small watercolor of the trees outside.

Can we use these anytime? I asked.

Except when the room is being used for something else. And you can't take anything from here into your room.

We'd see about that.

Before I’d completed my mental inventory, Lauren was already leading me down another hall.

This is the dining area. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. The food sucks. If it weren’t for the vending machine I’d have to become anorexic.

My mouth twitched into a smile. Bulimic. The Voice had been right. It was always right. So how had I ended up here?

She stopped short and fixed me with an intense gaze. The peanut butter cups are mine.

My smile broadened, but then I realized she was serious. Um, OK…sure. You got it.

She let out a breath I hadn’t realized she was holding. Good. My last roommate just could not keep that straight. It was a real problem.

On the surface she was everything I hated, but I kind of liked her for her honesty. It was refreshing. How often in life does someone just lay out what they need from you, no BS attached?  I knew I wouldn’t be baring my secrets so easily, the least I could do was oblige her. 

We came to a window at the end of the hall. From the looks of it, I guessed we were on the third floor. Lauren pointed to a small building across the lawn.

That’s where we go to class, she said.

Yeah, Shaw told me about that. We’re in a nuthouse but we have to go to school? That is such crap.

As if either weren't bad enough on their own.

It’s not so bad, she said. We take our time walking there—it’s nice to get outside—and everybody is in a different grade so half the time you’re just doing your own thing. And Mr. Morehouse is OK, as long as you don’t get on his bad side.

There wasn’t much else to show, so Lauren went to watch TV. I felt anything but social, so I shuffled back to our room and laid down. I wanted to read, but for all the bath products in different scents my mother had packed, she had, of course, neglected to pack a single book. Who needs mind expansion when you can smell nice?

Again, the thought of my mother brought up feelings of guilt at what I’d done.

Like she consults you on major life decisions…

It had a point. Three different high schools in three years. We moved whenever she had the whim, or whenever our neighbors complained too much. All in L.A., but still, back when I had friends, it had been nearly impossible to keep in touch once we'd left one zip code for another. In a city with traffic as bad as Los Angeles, five miles became a long-distance relationship.

Still, I wondered how she was, what she was doing. She'd been off her meds for over a month now, which is why there had been such a healthy supply for me to utilize. I imagined her pacing the floor of our apartment, chewing on her fingernails and muttering to herself, alternately worrying about me being under the care of doctors, and what might happen if I weren't under their care. My mother distrusted doctors. For a while that had worked to my advantage, helping me avoid having to see a shrink, but after my second suspension, the school had insisted.

Neither of us were prepared for me to be home-schooled, so she had relented six months ago and I'd begun seeing Dr. Borden, PhD, in Van Nuys. I hated everything about it. The bus ride was needlessly complicated, the office was cramped, and Dr. Borden was a self-important woman with yellow hair and fake breasts that protruded from a neckline too plunging for her age. It didn't take long for me to realize that the only way to get through those sessions was to parrot back the psycho-babble she was spewing and act grateful for her insight.

Mom had been so relieved when Dr. Borden informed the school that I had made real progress and now had the tools to cope with the everyday pressures of being a teenager. In reality, Dr. Borden was clueless to the facts of what my days were filled with.

Since waking up that afternoon I'd been on auto-pilot, numbly obliging to being led through the day, but as usual, being left to my own thoughts was an exercise in torture.

Only you could screw up a suicide. You're as crazy as your mother; they should just leave you here. How do I get out of here?

That was the most prominent question, and I waited for the Voice to answer, but It didn't. I was never able to summon It at will. It just popped in when It felt like it, giving me morsels of information. Still, I was grateful for It. For months It had been my only friend, if It could be called that. And if It was just a figment of my imagination and I truly was insane, then at least I wasn't completely alone.

Time passed, and I was no closer to figuring anything out. I found myself staring blankly out the small window near my bed, doing my best to block out the incessant chatter in my mind.

When six o’clock rolled around, Lauren popped her head in.

Dinner time.

We walked down the hall with the rest of the inmates. Lauren gave me a sidelong glance, her nose wrinkling.

So, um, if you don’t have any bath products you’re welcome to use mine…

I barked a laugh. Subtle.

She shrugged, unembarrassed.

I guess it has been a few days, I said, even if I don’t remember them. I’ll wash up after dinner.

Lauren chattered on as we walked through the dinner line. We both turned our nose up at the Salisbury steak and opted for the limited salad bar. I went to reach for a dinner roll, but Lauren gave me a slight shake of the head.

Those are hard as bricks by now. Only go for those on Mondays and Tuesdays.

I trusted her at her word. We got to the end of the line and she pulled a container of pudding from the stack on the counter. She tossed one to me without warning. Even in my surprised effort to catch it, I noticed her shove two more in her knapsack. Then she added one to her tray. It was a deft maneuver, not her first time.

"You’ll never get better if you aren’t self-aware about your destructive behavior, Lauren," Josh said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He’d apparently muscled his way to the front of the line.

Lauren very pointedly ignored him.

Undeterred, he went on in a low voice, Give me one of the extras or I’m telling. His eyes shone with a cruelty that made me think he’d rather rat her out then get the extra dessert.

There was a brief standoff while the air around us buzzed with an intensity I wouldn’t normally attribute to pudding. Lauren cracked first.

Fine. Here. Her hand slid from inside her purse, depositing the contraband into Josh’s jacket pocket. 

As we turned away I heard him mutter, Friggin’ tapioca. Great. 

Lauren winked at me. Served him right.

We exited the line and I surveyed the room. Most of the tables were already occupied with people dining. For a moment I wondered what had brought all of these people to be patients here. Did they all feel the way I did? That their lives were a mistake? Some major cosmic screw-up that had deposited them in a world where they were never understood, and rarely—if ever—happy?

Ooh, Taren's table has seats. Lauren zigzagged her way to a table near the back of the room.

The young girl I had seen exiting Dr. Shaw's office sat with her head down, pushing food around on her plate. Next to her sat a tall boy with honey-colored hair and angular features. At our approach he looked up, revealing a set of disarming hazel eyes. Callie looked up, too, startled.

Hi, Taren. Lauren beamed at him, saying hello to Callie only as an afterthought. 

He gave Lauren the briefest of nods and turned back to Callie, who still seemed to be holding her breath.

This is my new roommate, Ember. She tried to kill herself.

Lauren’s tone was matter-of-fact; my eyes bulged.

Taren looked up again, registering my presence. Well, that's an introduction you'd only get in a place like this, isn't it?

You can trust him.

I nearly dropped my tray. Of all the things the Voice had ever said to me, this was the first time It had told me to trust someone. What?

He's one of the good ones.

I was standing stock still with my mouth hanging open. Taren cleared his throat and I realized he had stood and was holding out his hand for me to shake. I gave an embarrassed smile and held out my hand.

Sorry, I…um…

It's OK. Lauren is still learning tact.

I nodded gratefully, but Lauren bristled and said, "Well, it's true…"

We took our seats. I grasped for meaning to the words that had bloomed in my mind. It was always like that. Little hints about things that always proved true. But in the past, I’d been warned away from people. This girl is spreading rumors about you, that boy just wants to use you. I couldn't make contact at will. It just whispered things when It wanted to, and I vacillated between the certainty that I was losing my mind, and gratitude that I was being given insight from some sort of all-knowing being.

Have you met Callie? Taren asked, gesturing to her.

Not officially, I said, then addressed Callie directly. But I saw you coming out of Dr. Shaw's office. Nice to meet you.

I did my best to sound pleasant, but when Callie lifted her eyes, she looked only marginally less frightened than when I’d first seen her. What had been done to this poor girl?

Hi, she said, her voice barely a whisper.

She lowered her gaze and hunched forward as she rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of one hand. Her entire presence held an air of fragility.

I bent my head toward my plate, but peered through my bangs to study Taren, who in turn was watching Callie. So, he was one of the good guys. I had no idea what to make of it, and felt the need to explore the idea. But before I could come up with anything to say, Callie began muttering to herself. I didn’t understand the words, but she was clearly agitated.

You OK, Cal? Taren spoke with concern and put a hand on her shoulder.

Lauren rolled her eyes. Here we go again.

Taren looked up sharply and fixed Lauren with a glare, but instead of replying, he turned his attention back to Callie and began speaking softly to her. I couldn't make out what either was saying, but he was clearly trying to soothe her.

What? It's not my fault that we can't get through one meal without an incident. Look at her, she's totally faking it.

She's not faking anything, Taren said, breaking away from comforting Callie to admonish Lauren. Not everyone needs to be the center of attention all the time.

Lauren flushed scarlet and clenched her jaw. Taren stood.

Come on, Cal, let's get you back to your room so you can rest. He helped Callie stand and led her out of the dining hall.

Lauren resumed eating as if nothing troubling had occurred. That girl belongs upstairs, she said between bites.

Upstairs?

With the really crazy ones. You know—perverts, schizophrenics, the occasional ax murderer. People who don't even get the plastic knives. Lauren held up her own knife for emphasis.

Lovely, I replied, pushing my tray away. The wilted lettuce and anemic tomatoes weren't enough to rekindle my appetite. I felt sympathy for Callie. Twice I'd seen her, and twice she’d seemed like she was really losing it.

Taren's gorgeous, huh? She said it in a way that made me feel like we were discussing peanut butter cups.

Sure, I said casually, if you like that type.

Lauren smiled with satisfaction while I wondered what type Taren was.

When Lauren had finished dinner, we made our way to the rec room. She was content to watch more television, but I made my way over to the art supplies. There wasn't much of a selection, so I opted for a charcoal pencil and white printer paper. I sat at a folding card table and contemplated what to sketch.

So, you're an artist?

I hadn't heard Taren approach. He stood across the table from me, his hazel eyes holding mine in their steady gaze.

I try to be, I replied, then gestured to the blank sheet in front of me. Not feeling very inspired, I guess.

This place has that effect on most people, he said and sat down.

How's Callie? I asked.

Better. She has a hard time with crowds.

Does she really do that at every meal? I asked.

No, that's just Lauren being dramatic, Taren said, his expression registering distaste. Which does happen at every meal.

I gave the slightest of smiles; it seemed all I was capable of. There was a moment of silence between us, and it felt like I was being judged for the tenth time that day. I was afraid to ask what his verdict was, and his face revealed nothing.

Instead, I blurted out, So, what are you doing here?

Taren blinked in surprise and I hastily added, I mean, not here, at this table, you can sit…wherever, um…

He saved me from my complete awkwardness by shrugging and saying, Behavioral issues.

That's pretty broad, I said. Don't all teenagers have behavioral issues?

Mine caused me to light things on fire, he said, not seeming ashamed of the revelation.

This was the guy I was supposed to trust? An unrepentant pyro?

Anyone get hurt? That was a non-negotiable—no matter what the Voice said.

He smiled and shook his head. No, my destructive tendencies apply only to abandoned property.

Not ideal, but I could live with it. He’d seemed like a good guy earlier, with Callie.

So, how many days a week does being a pyromaniac get you with Shaw? I asked.

Two, he said, but I’m making real progress.

How can you tell? We’re not allowed anything flammable.

Taren gave me a smirk and said, What are you drawing?

I looked down to see that I'd been doodling without realizing it. It was the same swirling line over and over. I'd drawn it hundreds of other times as a way to calm my nerves. It dawned on me that having the Voice tell me to trust someone, when I'd learned to never trust anyone, was almost as unnerving as my current confinement.

Oh, it's nothing, just—

Taren, don't you want to come watch TV? Lauren's voice dripped honey as she approached.

Maybe later, he said, without turning in her direction. I'm talking with Ember right now.

He gently plucked the paper from my hands and slid it over to his side of the table. For a moment his eyes flashed surprise, but quickly returned to casual study. I wasn't sure what to make of his reaction, it was hardly a complicated design, but I didn't have time to ask. Lauren's arched eyebrow indicated what was expected of me.

Actually, I said, standing, I'm pretty beat. I think I'm gonna head back to our room.

Lauren smiled with satisfaction. Come on, Taren, I saved you a seat up front.

He rose to follow her, but I felt his eyes on me as I exited the room.

Upon returning to our room, I decided to make good on my promise to Lauren and took a shower. It was a cramped stall, but the water was hot and had decent pressure. Muscles began to unwind and so did my emotional numbness.

Before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor of the shower, hugging my knees and sobbing. It had been months since I'd cried, and once the floodgates had opened, there was no stopping it. Even my internal dialogue was silent in the presence of such raw emotion.

Days earlier I had come to the decision that there was only one way out. Either the Voice was right and no one and nothing could be trusted, or the Voice was a figment of my imagination and I was already insane. Either reality wasn't one I had been willing to accept, so I had taken action.

But I had failed, and now things were even worse than before. I hadn't thought it possible, but here I was. In a mental institution. Rooming with an over-possessive bulimic cheerleader type who would never deign to acknowledge my existence in the real world. My meals regulated. Forced therapy sessions. My discharge dependent on my sanity, which more and more I was beginning to doubt I could even fake. My only comfort—when my already broken-down world had further deteriorated—had been that I wasn't the crazy one. It was all of them—the masses. But I was the one in here, so even if that were true, did it really matter? I'm the one here…

When my sobbing finally subsided, I was exhausted. I dried myself off and wrapped my hair in a towel. Lauren hadn't returned, for which I was grateful. I slid beneath the covers and hoped sleep wouldn't be long in coming. I'd had enough of being awake. Which I supposed was what had landed me in this situation in the first place.

4

Sleep did come, but was restless, and I woke that morning as I often did, with a feeling of dread. It took me a moment to register where I was, and once I did, the feeling grew .

Breakfast in ten, Lauren said when she realized I was awake. She was sitting on her bed, applying mascara with a deft hand.

The towel that had been wrapped around my head when I’d gone to bed was now on the floor, and I could tell just by touching it that my hair was a mess. I stumbled sleepily to the bathroom and assessed the situation. I decided it was salvageable and pulled a brush gently through the tangles. I didn't have time to do much else beside get dressed and brush my teeth. I told myself I didn't have anyone to impress, anyway.

The line for food was long, and Lauren seemed annoyed at having to wait. The eggs looked rubbery; I opted for cereal and juice. I wasn't surprised when Lauren led us straight to where Taren was sitting with Callie. She was nothing if not persistent.

Callie seemed more bright-eyed this morning, but tensed at our approach.

Good morning, I said, trying to put her at ease, yet wondering what her problem was.

Hey, she replied in her usual soft tone.

How was your first night? Taren asked before taking a bite of toast.

She thrashed around all night, Lauren said. I could barely sleep myself.

Sorry, I mumbled.

I get bad dreams, too, Callie said with a sympathetic smile.

Do you have nightmares often, Ember? Taren asked with an interest that bordered on obtrusive.

I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss my sleep issues, but Callie saved me from needing to.

Taren, I don't feel so well, she said.

Lauren looked at me knowingly and mouthed, every time.

You're OK, Cal, I'm here. Taren's reply was so low I almost didn't hear it. Not for the first time, I wondered about their relationship.

Callie was now panic-stricken. No, I have to get out of here. Get me out—

Please, Lauren interrupted, do as she says, get her out of here.

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! The voice that erupted from Callie seemed too big to have come from such a small girl. She lurched up from the table and launched herself across it—straight at me.

I was taken by such surprise that I didn't have time to react. One instant I was sitting in a folding chair, and the next I was knocked to the cold tile. Callie was stronger than her looks suggested; it was all I could do to fend her off. As blue as her eyes were, they seemed on fire. Her hand arced up and I saw it—a plastic knife. My eyes widened. My last thought was going to be, What the fu—

And then Taren was there, pulling her off of me. Stunned as I was, I saw him try to pocket the knife, but orderlies had rushed over by then and confiscated it. 

Taren no longer needed to restrain Callie, she was sobbing into his chest. The orderlies pried her off, though she clutched at him. 

Her eyes bore into me as they dragged her away. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I swear I didn't want to. I'm so sorry… 

The entire dining hall was silent, though it wouldn't have needed to be to hear Callie's scream a moment later.

What are they doing to her? I asked, still breathless and trying to calm my racing heartbeat.

Taking her to the elevator. They're going to move her upstairs. Taren looked tortured, helpless. 

I suppose I shouldn't have cared—she had just tried to stab me, after all—but she was so small, even if she was freakishly strong. And the way she'd looked at me as she apologized… I believed her.

Yeah, they'll let her chill out in solitary until Monday, Lauren said.

Monday? But that’s three days from now. I couldn't imagine Callie locked up that long with people who were truly dangerous.

Lauren shrugged. It's a mandatory twenty-four hours, and Shaw is off on weekends. She should have known that today was the worst day to go off the rails.

Hard as it might be to believe, Taren said, his voice brittle, not everyone manipulates their behavior just to get attention.

Lauren’s mouth hung open, clearly affronted, but before she could respond, Taren tugged at my arm. Can I talk to you for a second?

He didn't wait for my reply, just pulled me a few feet away.

Did she hurt you? Your head hit the tile pretty hard.

That explained the spinning, and the pain that was starting to seep through the cracks of my shock. I reached up to touch the back of my head.

Ow! Yeah, I guess she got me pretty good. What was that about, anyway? What's her problem with me?

Before he could answer, one of the nurses approached. We'll get you checked out now, dear.

I was just going to get her some ice, Taren said, his hand on the small of my back, steering me away from the nurse.

Don't be ridiculous, the nurse said. She could have a concussion. We need to take her to the E.R. Wait here—I’ll be right back. 

She went to confer with an orderly, and I stifled a laugh. I had been wanting to get out of there. Maybe if my mother knew I was just as likely to lose my life inside the mental hospital as out, she'd spring me that much sooner.

Ember. Taren leaned close, his breath warm in my ear. My pulse went back to racing. Do you have any…birthmarks?

His question was so bizarre, that heedless of the pain, I snapped my head to face him.

What?

His eyes were only inches away, boring into mine. He grabbed my wrist and pushed up the sleeve of my hoodie, searching. I tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.

Do you? he asked again, checking the other arm.

N-no, I stammered.

Intensity didn't usually unnerve me, but at that moment, his definitely did.

Taren, enough! the nurse said, hurrying back to us. What on Earth are you doing?

She pried his hands from my arm, causing Taren to come back to himself.

Nothing, sorry. He dropped his gaze. Sorry, I hope you feel better.

He turned abruptly and strode away.

By the time I got to the E.R., my head was throbbing. A welt had formed despite the ice pack I'd been given for the ride. The waiting room was mostly empty, so I didn't have to wait long to be seen by a doctor. He ordered a CT scan, and the wait for that was considerably longer.

With nothing to do and no one to distract me, I was forced to process Callie's attack and Taren's strange behavior. I had no idea what to make of either. I'd been nothing but nice to Callie, and why Taren was interested in a non-existent birthmark, I couldn't fathom. I wondered if Lauren was right about Callie being seriously disturbed. If anything, the idea made me sympathize with her even more. If life with my mother had taught me anything, it was that being mentally ill didn't make you a bad person. Hard to deal with sometimes, yes, but not necessarily bad.

As it turned out, I didn’t have a concussion, and after a few hours I was back at Windsor. I found Lauren painting her toenails on her bed.

Your mom is a trip, she said, admiring her work.

My mom was here? I had been both surprised and relieved that she hadn't shown up to the E.R.

"Is here. She's talking with Dr. Shaw, I think."

I groaned. This would either be really good or really bad. As if on cue, my mother burst into the room.

Ember! She rushed to me, pulling me into a tight hug. Thank God you're all right.

Her tone was an octave too high; she was either close to hysterics or just coming off of an episode.

Hi, Mom. I could hear her heartbeat racing.

She let me out the embrace, but held my face in her hands. They didn't call me until an hour ago. She glared over her shoulder at Dr. Shaw standing in the doorway, then turned back to me. If I'd known, I would have come to the E.R. right away. You know that, right, baby?

Of course, Mom. It's OK.

It is most certainly not OK, and I've let Dr. Shaw know it. Letting a dangerous criminal run around with knives, attacking people—

She's not a criminal, Mom, she just… I struggled to explain what I still found baffling. She was just…confused or something.

Well, you don't need to worry, it won't happen again. Dr. Shaw has promised that there will be a set of eyes on you at all times until you're well enough to leave.

Perfect.

We'll take good care of her, Dr. Shaw said, in a conciliatory tone.

Mom gave him a withering look and turned back to me. You just concentrate on getting better. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you, so just do whatever they say and get better so you can come home. OK, honey?

Yeah, Mom. I'm feeling better already. I think if you took me home—

She cut me off with another too-tight hug. Good. That's good. Her heartbeat had slowed a little—a positive sign. She held my face in her hands. Now, they don't like you to have any visitors your first week here, but I've informed Dr. Shaw that given last night's incident, I'll be dropping in quite often to make sure you're being taken care of.

Thanks, Mom, that would be nice, I said, trying to hide my disappointment that she wasn't taking me home immediately.

She gave me a tight smile, her eyes growing misty. I'm so glad. I was sure you'd be angry with me. While my mind raced for a way to stop her tears before they started, she went on. Angry that I had to put you here. I'm sorry, honey, I just didn't know what else to do. If you ever left me…

No, not the sobbing. Not in front of Lauren and Dr. Shaw.

Mom, don't be silly. I said, trying to make my voice light. Everything is fine. I'm fine, you're fine. I know I didn't leave you any choice. I'm not mad. I held up her hand and inspected it. Look at this, your nail polish is chipped. Why don't you go get a manicure?

She looked at her hand as if seeing it for the first time. It looks terrible, doesn't it? She wiped away the tears that had been threatening to spill.

You could never look terrible, Mom. I gave her my most reassuring smile.

After that, she left without incident, other than fixing Dr. Shaw with another firm stare. Once they'd both gone, Lauren turned to me, her expression a mix of shock and fascination. I waited for the onslaught of questions about my mother's mercurial behavior.

"Your mom looks fantastic, she said. What does she do to stay in shape?"

I couldn't help but laugh. Leave it Lauren to excuse her behavior simply because she looked good.

Pilates, I said. She's an instructor.

Pilates… Lauren breathed, as if she'd found the Holy Grail.

5

I'd only eaten a bite of breakfast and it wasn’t yet time for lunch, so I paid a visit to the vending machine. I was contemplating my purchase— being careful not to include peanut butter cups in my decision—when Taren approached .

An orderly observed from a distance. Dr. Shaw was making good on his word. So far I'd noticed nurses and orderlies passing my room at regular intervals, always making sure to peer in. Being watched set my teeth on edge.

I stepped back from the machine. Go ahead, I haven't decided.

Even with the whole morning to figure it out, I still had no idea why Taren had acted so strangely. We were in a mental institution, so maybe that should have been explanation enough, but I really wanted to believe he was sane. That however bizarre his behavior, there was a reasonable explanation.

I'm not hungry, he said in a low voice. He continued to stare at the vending machine, as though deciding what to get.

Um, OK.

I need to talk to you, he said.

Does it involve checking my body for birthmarks?

He shook his head. No, I should have known better, you're too—never mind, he said, and took a breath. Look, I'm sorry I did that. I wasn't trying to scare you.

I shrugged. Would it surprise you to know I've seen weirder?

His face twitched into a wry smile. No, actually, it wouldn't.

Was this what you wanted to talk about? I asked.

No, he glanced at me from the corner of his eye. I need a favor.

What kind of favor? Why was my pulse quickening? It was the intensity in his eyes again.

I need you to come with me to see Callie. He cast a glance toward the orderly that had just passed, making sure he hadn't heard.

I blinked. Callie? Why?

She's having a really hard time upstairs. She feels terrible about what happened and wants to apologize.

Oh, well, tell her I forgive her. I mean, my head hurts, but I'm not going to hold a grudge. There's clearly something wrong with her. Life with my mother would have been impossible if I hadn't learned to excuse the inexcusable.

He gave me a considering look. That's big of you, and I know she'll appreciate it, but I think it has to come from you. If I can arrange it, will you come with me to see her?

If she's in solitary, then how—?

Let me take care of the how, he said. Will you do it?

Say yes.

Once again, I was taken aback by the Voice's apparent shift in focus: urging me toward a person instead of away. I was aware of Taren's eyes on me, waiting for an answer. My curiosity combined with my sympathy for Callie made it an easy decision.

Yeah, sure. If the powers that be say it's OK, then—

Great. I'll come get you when it's time.

He jammed some coins into the machine and grabbed the pretzels he’d chosen at random, before walking away. I was the one left to stare after him this time.

6

The rest of the day passed slowly. Lauren had visitors and forgot I existed, while Taren spent most of the day playing cards with some of the younger kids. I found myself almost looking forward to Monday, when I'd start class. At least there would be something that required my attention. As it was, I spent the day watching reruns of sitcoms. I hated sitcoms—all that phony laughter and tying things up within thirty minutes—but there seemed to be a hierarchy to who controlled the remote and I wasn't yet a part of it .

By the time dinner rolled around, my brain was mush. I stood in line