The day room is where the residents of Brooksong Behavioral attend music therapy, because it's where the piano is located. They don't always use that instrument, but even when they don't, they still gather around it, which Sarah has recently begun to regard as weird. It's as if the piano is a sacred tree or carved idol or holy stone ring and they are the pagan worshippers who seek it out for its perceived power.

The idea has never bothered Sarah before. In fact, it's not something that had even really occurred to her. But for some reason, lately, it's started to grate on her. Just the idea of it; the routine, unquestioned, and senseless. When the announcement is made that it's time for music therapy, the patients in the day room enjoying their free time start to rise from their puzzles and sudoku and whatnot and move toward the piano. Sarah rolls her eyes and sighs. Like so many mentally-ill moths to the proverbial flame, the patients wander toward the blessed instrument, seemingly without conscious thought.

St. Steinway of the Ivory Keys. Sarah stifles a derisive snort. Touch the pedals and you shall be healed.

The patients pull their plastic chairs near to the thing (mostly acquiescing to Mandy's insistent whine that they only use the orange and blue chairs, because orange and blue are complementary colors. 'Leave the gray chairs on the other side of the room, out of sight!' Mandy instructs. There is a degree of imperiousness in her voice that Sarah dislikes very much). Sarah pulls a gray chair near to the piano in a decidedly deliberate manner and drops into it, keeping watch on Mandy in her peripheral vision. When the OCD patient makes no move to confront her, Sarah smirks, knowing Mandy is likely still wary of her after their aborted confrontation in group therapy the other day.

Good thing, too. Sarah isn't so sure she'd be able to pull back from another such dispute today, even considering her empathy for Luke's PTSD.

Their music therapist is running late and the other patients grow bored, chatting and milling about. One of them begins to tap on the piano's keys. Chopsticks. Of course. It makes Sarah's eye twitch. The girl spies an acoustic guitar on a stand in the corner. She supposes this is what the therapist plans on using for their session and has called ahead to have a staff member place it out to save time. Instruments usually stay in a locked storage closet near the nurses' station.

Rising from her chair, Sarah retrieves the guitar and sits back down to tinker with it. She's not incredibly proficient, but she'd learned the chords to With or Without You some time ago, and she starts strumming them now. Luke is sitting next to her and has been humming to himself, but as Sarah begins playing, the boy grows still and silent.

"So pretty, Sarah," he remarks after she has played a few moments. One corner of her mouth lifts at the compliment. "Sing," he urges.

And so, she does. Quietly. She can carry a tune but has never considered her voice one of her attributes. Not like painting. Or solving puzzles. But her voice seems to make Luke happy, and so she plays and sings in her gray plastic chair. If she's honest, she has to admit it makes her happy too. Or, at least, as close to happy as she can get just now. She stares at the frets, watching her own finger movements as she calls forth the lyrics, and there's a sort of purpose and peace in all of it.

Peace is not something she's felt much of lately. Or, ever.

"Nothing to win and nothing left to lose," she croons, "and you give yourself away, and you give yourself away." Her voice grows stronger as she sings. The other patients have quieted and are listening to her. The therapist arrives then.

"Oh, Sarah," he says, interrupting the impromptu performance. His name is Ashley, which is funny, because he does remind Sarah a bit of Leslie Howard, with his naturally sad eyes, thin build, and wavy brown hair. "I didn't know you played guitar."

She shrugs. "Only a couple of songs."

"Well, your voice is lovely," he continues, reaching out for the instrument. Sarah surrenders it without protest but Luke grunts discontentedly. "Perhaps you can use it to sing something less maudlin. How about if we do Don't Worry, Be Happy?"

It's not really a question. Rock star angst is frowned upon in music therapy and not even a band as respected as U2 can pass muster with Ashley if the music has any hint of yearning to it. Songs about grief, sadness, and anger are held in similar contempt. There is an approved list of songs, aggressively upbeat ones, and anything not on that list is practically given the Fahrenheit 451 treatment here.

Ashley throws the guitar strap around his neck and begins to play, weaving slowly among the occupied orange and blue (and gray) chairs, smiling as he sings. He's gauging the patients' enthusiasm at participating, Sarah is quite sure. She always feels judged in music therapy, like she's not peppy enough for Ashley's liking. Of course, she's not peppy at all, so perhaps he has a point. Today, she tries to picture him as Ashley Wilkes, the sad-eyed Southern gentleman at the barbecue at Twelve Oaks, but it's been a long time since she's seen Gone with the Wind, and she seems to be suffering from a lack of imagination since Dr. Prevarant changed her meds. Or, perhaps it's less that she's incapable of imagination and more that she vacillates between ennui and aggravation, leaving room for little else, particularly anything fanciful.

Today, it's ennui she exudes. She'd roll her eyes at the strolling therapist, but she can't work up enough interest for even that. At times, she feels as though she's been dulled on the inside, even as the outside world seems sharp, as if it's in some sort of hyper-focus. She's singing, so she can't be criticized for not participating, but her indifference is unmistakable. It seems the only thing capable of breaking through her walls of apathy these days is her own anger, and Ashley does nothing to incur her wrath. In fact, he attempts to draw her in; to breach her walls. He tries so hard, it's almost pathetic. She'd feel sorry for him, if she could be bothered to care that much.

She just isn't.

As he finishes the song, he pulls the guitar strap back over his head and holds the instrument by the neck, offering it to Sarah.

"What's the other song you know?" he asks hopefully. "You said you knew a couple. Maybe you could play for us and we can sing along."

"Hurt," she replies in a bored tone. Ashley freezes, the guitar just beyond Sarah's reach, and then slowly, he pulls it back.

"Maybe not," he says, his brows drooping. His sad eyes look sadder.

"We could do the Johnny Cash version," she suggests innocently. When Ashley shakes his head and makes a dubious sound, she tells him, "I also know I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry…"

She doesn't.

Her walls aren't meant to be breached.

"Or, how about Walking on Sunshine?" the therapist says quickly, turning way from Sarah. His voice pitches up cheerfully as he smiles at the group. The guitar strap goes back over his shoulder. "Everyone know that one?" And off he goes, vigorously plucking out the tune.

Later, when Sarah meets with Dr. Prevarant, he chastises her. She doesn't mind. It reminds her that he is not always so calm, so sedate. It reminds her that psychiatrist is merely an illusion he's created for her benefit, and that practiced as he is, she can sometimes still see behind his mask, almost as if it doesn't exist at all.

Especially on days like today, when things are so clear to her.

So sharp.

"Sarah," the doctor says as she enters his office, his tone distinctly disappointed.

"Dr. Prevarant," she replies crisply, overly annunciating each syllable.

"Take a seat."

She does, nodding politely at her physician. Her thoughts, though, are less courteous than her actions and she looks at him keenly. A slow smile spreads across her mouth.

Let the games begin.