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Every morning for the next week is accompanied with a blistering headache, cold sweats, and cramps. I must be tossing and turning throughout the night, for my roommate cuts her eyes whenever the early bell rings. She has still yet to speak with me.

This morning, as she changes into plain clothes instead of the two-week scrubs, I gaze at her small pile in the corner of the room. I left a half of the nightstand for her taking, but she seems insistent on secrecy. When she leaves to shower, I spring from bed and to the corner. Maybe she's been prescribed something I'm denied. An iPod, pair of glasses, and old photo are all that sit in the duffel bag. The picture is of my roommate and a baby. On the back it reads: Avery and little Teresa. May, 2013. Two months ago.

In a moment of attempted relaxation, I peer through the window as I did every morning at home. At home, though, there are no bars. At home, there is no massive, god forsaken tree blocking my view. Just another reminder that I am not at home, and won't be for six excruciating months.

I quickly shower and tear off toward the cafeteria, praying for a change in the menu. Thankfully, as opposed to the inedible assortment they've been serving, oatmeal is being ladled into bowls. My gratitude is cut short, however, at first taste. It's lukewarm. Gummy. Enough to make you miss the powdered eggs. And to think, I'm with the first loop. Imagine what it'll taste like in thirty minutes. I can't, so I lean against the wall, at least enjoying the silence meal times offer. Solace. No expectation to speak with anyone. My kind of meal.

After we're dismissed from breakfast, Angie waits in the foyer. She's directing traffic toward the window used for prescription pickups, even though they aren't usually until after group sessions. The counselor spots me and points to the line, eyes trained on her clipboard. "No therapy today, Fields. Mentors are taking patients on a tour of the facility."

"But I-"

"Think of it as a field trip, Ms. Fields," she sighs, clicking her pen. "I would've figured that you of all people would be ecstatic to have a day off."

Of course I'm excited for a day away from sitting in a circle, rambling on about our feelings. But I've yet to meet with my mentor. This McCullers character has had a convenient excuse for rescheduling each day. Quite frankly, I'm less worried about meeting her than I am about her not wanting to meet me. Favorable comments from a mentor could be my only ticket out of this place.

When I approach the window, three peppermints wait in a small, white cup. Dr. Andrews snickers from behind the counter, shooing me away with a flick of his wrist. "Headache, dude," I protest.

"You're my headache, dude," he mocks. "Now run along."

Not much in the mood for arguing, I eventually do, joining the other scrub-clad patients. Some stand around, making small talk. Others keep to themselves. I join the latter until a short, blonde girl approaches me, extending her hand. "Calley," she introduces.

"Emily," I mutter, trying to keep the conversation at a minimum.

But this doesn't thwart the girl, for she persists in grinning from ear to ear. "Who's your mentor? I got Drew, one of the older girls."

My head pulses at her cheeriness. "Uhh, Paige McCullers?" I say. "Haven't met her yet."

Calley's dumb grin disappears at the explanation. Instead, she turns and calls out, "Jamie. Malcolm. Come here." As they approach, she finishes with, "Emily here got stuck with Paige McCullers."

The boy I assume to be Malcolm grimaces. "That's shit luck. Heard that chick's a psycho." Jamie nods in agreement, but our exchange is cut short by the sound of someone yelling. A girl bangs atop the metal counter, yelling obscenities at Dr. Andrews. Both he and Dr. Evans try calming her to no avail. In a flash, two security guards appear and grab the girl's arms, dragging her away. She thrashes all the while.

I think to Angie's comment from the other day. Consider yourself lucky, Ms. Fields. At this point, lucky is exactly how I feel. Grateful that I didn't lash out when Dr. Andrews made his sly remark. Lucky that I'm not being dragged away into an unknown future. A mass of plain clothed people enter, many smiling at certain patients in our group. One by one, my crowd dissipates. Malcolm, Jamie, and Calley leave with their partners. Here I stand, all alone and waiting.

That is, until someone taps my shoulder. I turn, meeting an extended hand. The someone says, "Paige." I don't respond, though. For Angie's voice booms in my head. And I stand, thinking, Right. Lucky me.

The brunette from my first day stands in front. Her eyes are narrowed in, arm still extended. Waiting for me to speak, undoubtedly. No words form, however. Instead, all of my worries, fears, and anxiety clump in the back of my throat. Of all people, her? No, this can't be. I turn around, searching for Angie. To say that she's made a terrible mistake. But Paige and I are alone in the foyer.

"Emily?" she eventually asks. I'm forced to face her once more, nodding dumbly. Paige's scowl doesn't falter. She merely reels her arm in and flips open a manila folder, handing me a sheet of paper. "We're supposed to meet twice a day for at least thirty minutes each. I'll run through this checklist. Ask you basic questions. And when we're finished, I'll sign off on this," she produces another paper, "sheet. Then we'll be done. Simple enough?"

The words move at a mile a minute, and I struggle to process them. But I nod anyway, just as she turns on a heel and walks down the hallway. I'm forced to run in pursuit. "I think we're supposed to spend the day together," I pant.

Paige huffs in annoyance before signaling for me to follow. We walk in silence as she points out the same locations I've already been introduced to. The dormitories. A massive window overlooking the courtyard. I glance down as sporadic pairs move across the lawn, laughing and joking alongside each other. We visit the pool last, and a pang of nostalgia hits me. How I long to be back in the water. Feel as every worry disappears with stroke after stroke. My thoughts are interrupted with a cough from Paige, who signals toward a closet a few yards away.

She draws a pair of keys, unlocking the door and revealing a multitude of cleaning supplies. Mops, buckets, brooms. Chemicals for days stacked on tall shelves. "Grab a mop," she instructs, filling a large, rolling bucket with water. "And I trust that you'll be responsible around the chemicals." It's a pointed insinuation, but I nod in understanding.

We spend the next few hours tending to various rooms. Offices, classrooms. Floors in need of sweeping and mopping. Paige works the tabletops, scrubbing until light beams clearly from each. It's tense the entire time. I don't dare try speaking. Instead, I sulk in thoughts of the other pairs. Longing to be in their shoes. Being friendly. Talkative. Not doing janitorial work. When the lunch bell finally rings, my mind is too tired to sulk any longer.

"Figure we'll take care of our meetings at breakfast and lunch," Paige says, lifting her tray to receive a salad. "Just to get them out of the way." I revert back to internal sulking, realizing that two of three of my cherished periods will be ruined. She must realize this, for she stops the line and adds, "Unless there's a more convenient time for you?" It's not a question. It's an accusation.

I force a smile, not wanting her to get the best of me. Simultaneously, though, I scour her face, trying to decipher the code that is my mentor. "Breakfast and lunch," I agree. "They sound…great."

In the minutes that follow, my migraine returns in full strength. So much so that I'm forced to give up on eating and place two firm fingers to either side of my head. The brunette's frown disappears as she digs through a pocket, producing two small, white tablets. I'm hesitant at first, but eventually comply. Silently hoping that she's provided the service Dr. Andrews refuses to. That is, until she says, "Don't act so terrified. It's aspirin. For the headache."

I nod in thanks. Paige gets up from the table and returns her tray, sliding back in across from me. She folds her hands, eyes narrowing into mine. "We're not the same, you and me. Sure, we're both stuck in the glorious place that is known as Piney Groves," she sing-songs. "But I don't get giddy over two aspirin. Never have, and from the looks of you junkies that roll in every three months, I doubt that I ever will."

Who pissed in this girl's Cheerios? Honestly, where does she get off on being judgmental? With making backhanded comments? We're both in the same situation. Operating under the same rules. Suffering through the same hell. I resist the urge to bite my tongue and take her abuse. Knowing that the longer I allow it, the more it will reign down. "Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, mentoring me?"

Paige scoffs, picking up the sheet of paper from earlier and skimming it. "Emily Fields. Seventeen-years-old. Daughter of Pam and Wayne Fields. Enjoys hanging with friends, spending time with family, and," she leans over from behind the sheet, "swimming?" Paige's lower lip pokes out as she nods, flashing a look of mock fascination. "No diagnosis, unfortunately. So tell me, Emily Fields. Why are you here?"

"Isn't that, like, an unspoken rule of these places? No asking 'why'?" I ask.

Paige uprights in mock surprise again. She relaxes before mimicking my voice, saying, "This isn't prison." She laughs one more time before finishing with, "This isn't Fight Club, either."

My silence must be taken as permission to advance, for she leans across the table, placing a hand to my chin, and pulling it down. "Coated, pasty tongue. You look like you haven't slept for days." Paige then nudges my arm, causing a muffled cry of pain on my behalf. "Intense bone pain. And you're shivering." She mulls it over a moment longer before concluding, "Pain killers. Prescription stuff."

Refuting the analysis is hopeless. Much like arguing with Paige. "Then what are you here for?" I spit.

She shrugs at the question before standing up from our table. "I hurt someone very, very badly," she breathes into my ear, scribbling on the paper and exiting the cafeteria.

She's psychotic. Bat shit crazy. These are the only thoughts that flow through my mind for the rest of the day and well into night. In the upstairs common room- an area with three couches, a microwave, refrigerator, and television- my newly acquired friends from earlier are together. They're hunkered over a fold-out table, whispering. I approach, silencing their conversation.

"She lives," Malcolm jokes, giving Jamie a playful nudge.

I pull a chair out, sitting nearest Calley. "Score yourselves a Great Dane and I'll start calling you Shaggy," I return, pointing to Malcolm. He leans back, a hand clutched to his chest. "You three weren't kidding. Paige is definitely something else."

"My mentor said she runs through patients like clockwork. Most don't make it past the first week," Jamie chimes in. With the attention to detail, she eerily reminds me of Spencer. Well, if Spencer had sores covering her arms, scraggly teeth, and fidgeted a lot.

I sigh loudly. "We'll see how long I can make it."

My comment catches the trio's attention, for they shift around the table, eyes locking with the others'. In a second, Calley looks to me. "Maybe you won't have to," she whispers. "Listen, Emily. We've been doing some thinking. And a place like this- it's not good for people like us. We've decided to check out a little early."

"This isn't a voluntary program, though," I protest. "You can't just come and go as you please."

Calley places a hand on my shoulder, eliciting a wince. "It's not involuntary, either," she breathes. "This shoulder of yours, it's in pain, right?" I nod. Very much in pain. Especially since anything to stifle the ache is well out of reach. "Imagine going home and getting this taken care of. Making the pain go away. You want the pain to go away, right?" I nod again. Calley smiles victoriously. "Good. Besides, I'm sure that I speak for the group when I say that while we plan on going, none of us plan on coming back."

"Have lunch with us tomorrow," Malcolm offers. "So we can figure the rest of this stuff out."

I shake my head, explaining that Paige is insistent that we meet at mealtimes. "That's odd. Most mentors schedule in the free period," Jamie adds.

Suddenly pressed for time, they lean over and begin plotting any possible route leading away from the building. Tomorrow is visitation day, which will leave things flustered by nightfall. Counselors will be tired. Security worn down from the tedious afternoon. It's perfect timing. All of our rooms are on the second story, though, which throws a wrench in the equation. I mention the window bars, to which Jamie dismisses, "I'll take care of that. The biggest issue is climbing down. These clothes aren't much for tying together." She demonstrates by attempting a knot with her shirt tail. It slips through, unwinding at the slightest aggravation.

It takes a second for the realization to hit me, but when it does, I practically choke on air. Of course. This morning, while I was picking through Avery's things. The hideous tree. "Guys," I choke out. "I think I know just where to go."

I'm panicked at bedtime and well into the next day. At breakfast, Paige and I hardly speak, mind the mandatory questions. She signs the paper and is about to leave when I ask, "Why do we meet so early? Why not in the free period? You know, like the other groups." Not like it'll matter after tonight.

"The other groups don't have to earn their keep around here," Paige snaps. "I need to work, which takes a while. And that means that we meet early. Unless you'd like yesterday to be an everyday thing."

I keep silent as she storms from the cafeteria. Things are more hectic today, as was explained yesterday in the common room. A line of people wait outside of the glass doors, leading up to Desk Clerk Brett's station. Identifications are swapped in for visitor's passes. Bags are briefly checked. I lean against the upstairs balcony, watching from afar as patients meet at makeshift tables that are splayed across the foyer. None of them wear our scrubs. That rule was made very clear on my first day. You get visitors when you earn them.

None of the patients or their visitors are recognizable. That is, except for Avery. She's greeted by two people my parents' age. They carry a baby, passing her along into my roommate's arms. It doesn't take a second glance to recognize a mother holding her child. I suddenly feel guilty for unknown reason.

Another scan shows Paige, who is nestled into a fold-up chair. She taps her foot, hands folded together. Waiting nervously for someone. This isn't the same Paige who's been giving me immense amounts of grief. The same Paige that forever wanders around in a perennial funk. The same Paige that doesn't know an emotional state outside of pessimism. Instead, this Paige looks soft. Frantic. A painful combination of excited and uncertain.

I stand at my perch for the next five hours, breaking only to use the restroom. Eyes trained on Paige. She waits as I do, face falling with each guest that enters. When time is called, visitors and patients say their goodbyes. Paige storms off, looking on the verge of tears.

"You ready?" a voice calls from behind. Calley walks up, Malcolm and Jamie in tow.

Night falls fast. By the time the ten o'clock curfew bell sounds, Avery has yet to return to our room. Which isn't odd behavior, for she usually camps out in the common room, watching television until about midnight. Calley, Jamie, Malcolm, and I sit atop both beds, discussing the plan a final time.

"A mad dash by the lake," Calley explains, "and we're home free." Three pairs of eyes nod in unison.

But my mind isn't entirely on getting out. Instead, it replays the image from earlier. How beaten Paige looked. So fragile. I can't help but to think that she, much like the rest of us, is just trying to make it through each day. After all, she's been here far longer than I. Paige must have people at home. Maybe her parents dropped her as mine did. Maybe she begged to go home with them. Promised to clean up her act. As much as it pains me, I can't help but to feel a bit sorry for Paige McCullers.

Basking in said sorrow is short-lived, however, for Calley gives me a nudge. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?" As the clear ring leader of this operation, she's the one responsible for worrying. The one putting everything into place. The one asking all of the questions.

I shake my head furiously, inwardly hoping that if I shake hard enough, my pity toward Paige will be expelled. We then wait until the hour's end. Keeping an ear craned to the door, listening for sounds of my roommate approaching. The sounds never come. Jamie produces a screw driver, intently focused on the window bars. Malcolm peeks around her, surveying the land below, before giving Calley a thumbs up.

"This is it," Calley boasts cheerfully, locking the room's door. "Our time together has been short, but fun, nonetheless. Godspeed." Dramatic. Fitting for the girl I met only a day ago.

She's the first to scale through the window, poking a leg onto the nearest branch. A quick touch proves its sturdiness. Jamie is the next to exit. Followed by Malcolm. He shoots me a nervous look, but forces a smile just before his face disappears below the window pane.

I'm about to climb through when something goes terribly wrong. Looking below, I witness as all hell breaks loose. Maybe the weight of three teenagers is too much. Maybe we were all too focused on escaping that we overlooked the simplest, most minor details. Regardless of the lapse in judgment, present refuses to forgive the past. Calley struggles with her footing. And in a split second, her feeble frame topples to the ground, screams of agony ringing through the night.

Even worse, several floodlights kick on. Motion censored, I assume. With the wattage burning against pitch black, a shrill alarm begins blaring.

Time stands still as chaos starts to unfold. I count six security guards darting across the lawn. Jamie must have reached the ground intact, for she sprints in the opposite direction. The escapade is halted at the hands of another guard that rounds the corner. He wrestles her to the ground in seconds. As for Malcolm- well, he's frozen to the tree. Eyes wide under the dark cover of leaves. Clinging on for dear life.

Flashlights begin pointing upward, and I snatch my head away in time enough to escape their focus. Panic sets in, but a bodily stupor nails me in position. Everything begins to fade out. The room. Outside. The alarm that continues to ring out. In a moment, though, adrenaline courses through my veins and my senses hone in.

And I snap to in time to hear the click of a door opening behind me.