Joe sat with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, shivering uncontrollably. He'd been suddenly, acutely aware of not only cold, not only of isolation, but of the very real fear of both. The first was accompanied by the realization that he had not been warm in several weeks now, that he was constantly wearing long-sleeve shirts and extra jackets; the moment Frank had left, he'd opened his suitcase and pulled out his Bayport High sweatshirt. Being close to Frank had made him realize the difference between their bodies, not only in size, but in temperature.

The second fear was born of the isolation he felt at his brother's departure. Although Frank had hugged him goodbye a little longer than was necessary and promised a swift return with their parents at seven, Joe had nonetheless held his brother's arm as he'd left, as if hoping Frank would opt out of the session and simply stay by his side. His brother's presence had been comforting, allowing an escape from the ward, from the approaching dinner, from the voice that was now chanting insults.

And Frank's arms had driven the dizziness away, held him steady, firm but gentle, his voice soothing I've got you, it's okay. I've got you.

Joe took a deep breath, startled to find it release as a half-sob.

Weakling, pathetic little, make that BIG thing, disgusting and dirty and clinging so desperately to someone who's clean and pure, someone like your brother, you think he'll somehow make you a better person? You know nothing, you ARE nothing, or you will be when I'm done with you—

A shiver rocked the younger Hardy's frame, and he got to his feet and made his way to the bathroom just inside the entryway to his unshared room, wanting to feel cold water on his face to jolt him out of his faults and back in to the skin he felt so separated from. He reached for the knob, twisting it sideways, and finding it locked. He tried again, twisting to various sides only to conclude that it was, indeed, locked tight.

Thinking they'd forgotten to open it when they moved him in, he left and walked to the nurse's station, knocking lightly on the door until the counselor from earlier, Vanessa, appeared.

"Yes?" she asked pleasantly.

"My bathroom door is locked," Joe said.

"That's right. It's supposed to be."

Shock jolted the young detective's nerves. "What?"

"You're on locked bathroom until you stop purging."

"I'm on what?"

"A counselor needs to accompany you," she explained, "until you begin gaining weight and your treatment team agrees you're allowed to use it without danger of purging."

"I have to have someone go to the bathroom with me like a two year old until…"

"Not with you, just wait outside the door to be sure you don't vomit your meals."

"This is…bullshit!" Joe shouted, slamming his fist against the wall of the nurse's station.

"Joe…"

"You can't keep me here!" he shouted to no one in particular, causing a chorus of heads to poke from doorways up and down the hallway. "You can't! I'm not sick, I don't need this, I don't need to be here! You can't just lock me up on a psyche ward and leave me! I'm seventeen years old, I can take care of myself!"

"Start acting like it," Vanessa said, not coldly or rudely, for she wasn't aiming to hurt: she was stating a fact. "Stop throwing a tantrum like a child would."

Joe turned from her and ran.

Down the hall, past several wide-eyed faces to the door leading to the stairs to the lower floors to the exit, out of this insanity not in his mind—none there!—but here, in this hospital, on this floor, in this room.

Locked.

Joe slammed against it, unable to move it, turned and tried the one beside it. Similarly locked. Frantic, he turned to the common room, where there were several large windows leading to the outside.

Barred.

The younger Hardy was trembling; is this how criminals felt when he and his father and his brother tracked them down? Is this how a prisoner feels, behind bars, all exits blocked to you, the world shunning you, you, safely packed and put away like a forgotten doll, one that did not give pleasure but fright in childhood? What had he done? What could he have possibly done to deserve this?

Do you really have to ask yourself that?

"No!" Joe shouted as Vanessa, accompanied by a host of other counselors and orderlies made their way down the hall toward them. He spun, ducked under the arm of an orderly, and easily outran the group down the hall to his bedroom where he slammed the door, flung himself forward, and collapsed, sobbing onto his bed.

I have to get out, I have to get out of here, help me, please someone help me, you, you evil little voice thing, you're supposed to take care of me, help me, you help me, please help me, help…

You know what you need to do, the voice seemed to whisper as Joe heard his door opened. Non-compliance if your key. Just keep listening to me. Just keep following me. I'll lead you out.

Anyway I can.