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“Seriously,” I tell her. “The other girls got in a fight and I . . . I . . .”

“You held your breath until you passed out because you didn’t want to hear what was being said to you,” Amanda says into her hands.

“No,” I correct her. “That is not what happened.”

She sighs and her arms flop into her lap, like they’re too heavy for her to hold up anymore. “Look, I don’t know if I can make a convincing argument to keep you here, not after what just happened.”

“And what just happened, exactly?” I ask.

“You created a disturbance that upset other patients.”

“Technically my dad created the disturbance. All I was trying to do was talk to my mom after having a medical issue.”

Amanda nods slightly, and I feel myself nodding along with her to encourage the movement. “Okay,” she says. “I might be able to work with that. But you’re going to have to do something for me.”

I’m still nodding so she thinks I’m agreeable.

“Remember the mirror therapy they used with Brandy’s foot, the one you told me about?”

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the feeling of my phone vibrating under my pillow.

“Do you remember what you said you thought you’d see if you looked into one?”

“Yeah.” The phone gives a last, insistent pulse and falls silent. “I said I’d see Shanna.”

Amanda picks her keys up from the floor, where apparently she’d dropped them at some point in the tussle. “I made a mirror box for you,” she says. “It’s out in my car.”

My throat goes hollow, my neck muscles stiff. I cannot agree or dissent.

“I want you to look into it, okay? If I’m going to put myself out on the line to keep you here I need you to do this for me.”

“Okay,” I say, the word coming from nowhere, an automatic muscle response of agreement.

Amanda stands up slowly, eyes on me. “I’m going to check on your parents and send Karen in here to sit with you.”

“I’m fine,” I say, another gut reaction. There is nothing wrong with me.

“I don’t know if that’s—”

“I said I’m fine, and I said I’ll do it,” I snap.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and the utter silence of the hallway as she slips away reminds me of kindergarten after the teacher bawled somebody out and everyone else is trying to be really, really good to make up for it.

It’s shock and I know it. Other people’s shock gathers together and quiets them, a comfort of sorts, making it easier for everyone to process what happened, what I did, the cause and effect that probably sent the Civil War reenactors home early and canceled the woolies entirely.

There’s a jingle of keys and Amanda is back, a cardboard box in her arms with a picture of a cheap microwave on it.

“Seriously?” I say.

“I’m working with available materials around my apartment,” she says, and places it on my side table.

“You need to ask for a raise then,” I tell her. “That’s a crap microwave.”

Amanda shakes her head. “Sasha Stone, you have no idea.”

She smiles at me and I take a deep breath, my chest shaky. “Are my parents still here?”

“They’re not far,” she says. “Are you ready?”