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“And how do you feel about these?” Dr. Lý asks when I hand my selection over.

I shrug, chewing on the silicone bracelet she bought me. “Like I’m guessing.”

“Elaborate.”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes at her. “Like none of them are right.”

“Well,” she says, “God didn’t read the DSM, pluck a disorder from the pages, and bestow it upon you. It was written by people trying to catalog patterns of behavior. We simply need to find ones that give us the best angle to help.” She reads through my choices. “Though you may also be taking the criteria too literally and getting caught up on that. These are very solid starting points.”

Together, we make a list of things we want to untangle. I’m currently under investigation for the deaths of two people, so I figure we should start there. I’m convinced I’ll eventually hurt myself, or someone else, again. My brain gets stuck and it scares me. I don’t know why I hate the word victim so much. We should probably discuss my drinking, and locked doors, and what Daniel did to me in his apartment. There’s a lot to cover with Alyssa and Leah. Mom, too.

I say I need to tell her the truth about what Dad made me do, but I’m not ready yet.

She says she’ll wait until I am.

“In the meantime,” Dr. Lý says, reviewing her notepad, “are you excited to see Felicity today?”

It’s my social worker (none of the foster parents in the district will touch me) who takes me to the hospital. Her name is Hetty, and she’s a gangly white lady who has been doing this forever. Besides the day she picked me up, when she asked if I wanted to cut my hair and/or stock up on boy’s clothes, we haven’t said much to each other. So we get along pretty well. I didn’t cut my hair—I couldn’t bring myself to do it—but at the thrift store, I found a hoodie in the men’s section with a Metro map on it, which was cool. I’m wearing that now.

In the mirrored surface of the hospital elevator, new clothing doesn’t magically change everything; an oversized sweatshirt and baggy joggers aren’t testosterone, after all. Especially not when I can’t convince myself to leave the house without eyeliner, and my long hair is hauled back into a messy claw clip.

We’re getting closer, though.

And on the third floor, the recovery floor or observation floor or whatever it is, Hetty and I hear Felicity before we see them.

“Get the fuck out!”

A few rooms down from theirs, we pause. I glance up to Hetty, trying to get her read on the situation, but her face is flat and impassive as usual. A nurse passes by with an eyebrow raised.

Felicity’s voice doesn’t sound the way it used to. Like some consonants can’t form correctly, or aren’t quite where they need to be in their mouth. “No! Fuck you, don’t—”

Hetty nods me to their room like a trainer letting an attack mutt off the leash. “Don’t do anything too stupid.”

“I won’t,” I promise, and shove open the door.

There’s Felicity in the hospital bed: hair tangled, body wrapped in a stupid hospital gown and a nest of facial bandages. Shaking. Crying. Face red with rage.

Because Mrs. Keating is here, too.

They both see me at the same time, but I’m fixed on Mrs. Keating with a nasty smile that definitely doesn’t reach my eyes. From the looks of the room, Mrs. Keating hasn’t done shit for the child she’s legally responsible for. There are no extra blankets brought from home, no flowers, no get-well-soon cards. Only the blank, sterile emptiness that reminds me of USP East Early.

“You?” Mrs. Keating says.

I nod toward the door. “You should probably get out. Patient’s request.”

Mrs. Keating stares at me, open-mouthed, the way she would if I’d slapped her.

“Well?” I say, voice slipping into a snarl. “Leave.”

Mrs. Keating starts a few different sentences but doesn’t finish any of them. What she eventually decides on is “Fine. She clearly doesn’t want me here,” before she marches out like she is the most put-upon, martyred woman on the face of the earth.

And then we’re alone.

I turn to Felicity.

The rage on their face—their bruised, swollen face, cradled by gauze and the yellow stains of iodine—crumples, muscle by muscle, until it’s nothing but pain and fear.

They whimper, “Why did you apologize to me?”