Hanna was all twitches and frantic mania in the cell. He called out hoarsely, begging for someone to come see him, to tell him what the hell was going on. He was disoriented, still dizzy from the drugs that were wearing off quickly. His bare feet padded across the floor, circling the cell, desperate and frightened. It hurt to watch him that way.

I set to work undoing the locks on his door. At the sound, Hanna stopped mid-step, eyes set unblinking on the one-way window, unable to see me like I could see him. Once I opened the heavy door, he bolted towards me, but didn't try to get past me.

"Where the hell am I? Where's Harvey? There's been some kind of mistake, I don't understand-"

"Mr. Cross," I cut him off with a hand to his shoulder. "My name is Connor Hewney. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you."

Hanna stared up at me, confusion in his insanely blue eyes. "No…no, this doesn't…I don't need a doctor, I need Harvey! Why is this happening? Get me out of this jacket!"

He struggled with it, eyebrows creased with effort as he bit his lip. I tried to console him enough to listen to me, but he continued to pull away from me, to wriggle in the jacket. If his arms were as skinny as his legs, I feared he might actually succeed at freeing them.

"Mr. Cross, please, just hear me out for a moment! I can let you out of that jacket."

His eyes snapped back to me, but he didn't still his movements. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm the only one allowed near you right now except for big, angry guards. I'm only here to help you out. I can let you out of that jacket if it bothers you, but you have to promise not to try to get away or to hurt anyone, including yourself."

He seemed to consider it. He sized me up, studied my face, taking in his surroundings for maybe the first time with a clear head. He licked his lips.

"I'm…I'm in the crazy house, huh?"

I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably. "Well…I wouldn't call it that…"

"Call it whatever, that's where I am. Look, I'm not crazy, I swear…you have to let me out."

"I can't do that. They'll arrest you if you leave here. They think you're a graverobber, or worse, a murderer. You can't leave here until I give a diagnosis…and even so, you'll end up in another cell."

He was quiet for long moments, staring at his feet. Then he looked back at me, eyes weary and miserable. "You don't think that, do you? Do you really think I'd kill my best friend? Or dig up dead bodies? Fuck, how did everything end up this way?"

I sighed, moving to touch his shoulder again. "I don't think you're a murderer. I do think you're unwell, though. Something…something's very wrong here. You have to understand what all this looks like to an outside perspective, even if you do have a good reason for having a corpse in your house."

What reason there could be, I couldn't fathom. But I needed him to believe I was on his side.

Hanna's face dropped, thinking. He sniffed, looked around him again. I could just see the despair in his eyes, the realization that everything was falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it. I wanted to stop it for him, but what could I do? Even if I was enough of a fool to let him free, where could he go? He'd probably try to get into the morgue and retrieve the body. There was nowhere he could go. There was nothing I could do to save him now. The best thing I could offer would be myself; someone who genuinely wanted to help him, someone he could talk to, someone who could tell the world he was crazy even if he wasn't…though he had to be, and it hurt me to admit it, but there was no getting around the fact that something was wrong with him. Even so, I couldn't bear the thought of this young man in a prison. In a psych ward, at least he'd have more safety, more freedom. He could get out of a ward in a few years with no trouble. Prison would destroy him.

"I…I don't have anything left now."

I looked at him as he brought his face back up, his ice-blue eyes stabbing into mine. They were empty and broken. I felt my chest tighten. Tears pricked at my eyes. He must have noticed; there was a tiny glimmer of confusion in his gaze.

"You have me," I told him thickly, holding my emotion back with all the years of training and heartache I'd pushed through. "It may not be much, and you may not even want it, but I'm here, and I'm going to help you."

He blinked. For a moment, his eyes were the same desolate sea as before. Then they flooded, bursting over his eyelids as his lip trembled and his knees buckled. He cried on the padded floor, trapped in his jacket still, loud and hot and hard. I could see every vein and tendon in his neck and forehead. Professionalism could kiss my ass. I knelt down and gathered him into my arms, holding him against my chest with one arm as I undid the buckles with the other. Once he was free of the restraint, he flung his arms around my waist, sobbing, trying to form words, unsuccessfully, and he gave up. Just cried. I held him close, just like he'd begged the corpse to do all those short days ago.

I knew my coat would be covered in tears and snot and spittle, but I hadn't expected blood.