First message
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in the secure room when the door unlocks.
Same pale walls, same reinforced window, same camera in the corner. They still don’t have a clean label for me. Intake notes are full of question marks—possible delusional themes, possible insight, possible testing. They’re still watching, still trying to decide what I am.
The tech steps in. Dark scrubs, slightly wrinkled. Messy dark hair in a low bun, septum ring, black-ink tattoos showing on her forearm and the side of her neck. Badge clipped crooked. She has the look of someone who’s already done too many shifts this week and is just trying to get through the next one.
She stops a few feet inside the door, keeping it open behind her, and looks at me the way they all do—checking posture, hands, eye contact, risk.
“Night check,” she says. Flat. Functional. “Hands where I can see them please.”
She waits.
I don’t move yet.