Night duty is the worst part of this job. It's quiet enough. It's silent, really, except for the growling rumble of the ventilation system and the occasional homesick sob. It's not the silence so much as the darkness; the security lights are so dim that everything is fuzzy and monochromatic. It's eerie. They're eerie, especially when they're sleeping. There's the green one, and the one with the strange ears, and the little one who sleeps with a grubby stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in her prehensile tail. Even the ones who could pass for human are terrifying in that faint gray light. I don't want to think about what they're dreaming. When I walk the halls for bed check, I always take my flashlight with me.

I was sitting in the little puddle of yellow light from my desk lamp, trying to grade thirty-six papers on The Benefits of the Mutant Control Act of 2007, when the crying started. It wasn't the usual muffled sniffle, and it wasn't one of the little girls. It was Emily Sullivan, wailing noisily. She'd been carrying on all day. In five minutes she'd have everybody awake, all fussing over her and commiserating as though Public Service were a death sentence. Dammit.

I didn't bother to knock.

The floor was covered with hair. Emily was huddled in her roommate's arms, howling like a wounded animal. "What on earth is going on in here?"

"N-nothing, Mrs. Finch," Sarah said. "She's going to go to sleep now... Just let me get her a cup of water. She'll be all right. She'll be quiet."

"There's nothing you should do for her, Miss Taylor. Just clean up this mess and go back to sleep." Sarah nodded silently, and Emily swallowed another howl and looked up at me. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was streaked with snot. I wanted to slap her, but I'm not allowed. "As for you, Miss Sullivan, you're going downstairs. Now."

All the way down three flights of stairs she sniffled and dragged her feet. At least she was quiet. When she realized where we were going, she shrank back against the wall of the stairwell, backing away from the door.

"No," she whispered. "I don't want to. I'll be quiet. Please."

I stood there for a moment and looked at her, hard -- the dripping face, the ruined hair, the shabby government-property nightshirt, and the wide, fearful eyes. In the cold hard light of the stairwell, there was no way to tell she wasn't a human being. Poor kid. I felt a sudden urge to comfort her, to put my arm around those trembling shoulders and...

So that's what it's like. Not a voice in my head, the way I'd always expected. Just a sudden senseless thought without logic and experience -- just someone else's will, disguised as a moment of weakness.

I made my voice as steady and sharp as I could. My knees were shaking. I fumbled for the button that hung from my keys. "If you touch my mind again, Miss Sullivan, I will sound this alarm. And you won't go to the quiet room. You'll go to prison for the rest of your life. If you're very, very fortunate. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't... I mean, I ... "She looked down, her head bowed."Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."

As her eyes left mine, the passing impulse faded. I put a hand on her shoulder, then, but it wasn't to comfort her. She winced. Good. "Let's go."

The door to the quiet room is a heavy one, with formidable locks. It's featureless, except for a sticky-tape spot in the middle. It used to have an engraved-plastic sign that said "Disciplinary Confinement," which was removed in a frenzy of euphemism and media-friendliness about two years ago. Even without the sign it's intimidating. It's supposed to be. I unlocked it and stood aside. "Go on."

She looked into the cold, bare cell, and wiped her eyes with her hand. "How long?"

"That depends on you, Miss Sullivan." I didn't believe that any more than she did.

"How long?"

"Two weeks."

Under the tears and the snot she went pale, and she nodded.

I shut the door, hard -- no. I slammed it, harder than I should have. As I locked it, I heard her start to cry again. At least she wasn't the tragic heroine of the girls' dormitory, bemoaning her cruel fate to an audience of credulous children. At least no one was going to have to listen. At least no one would hear her.

Not her voice, anyway. I hoped that would be enough.