“The day I understand what's going on in her psychotic little brain they'll have to lock me in a psych ward.”

“We go off the meds and elect Richard Nixon, the Nurse Ratched of the American political psych ward.”

“Over half the admits to psych wards are things like cheerleaders who swallow two bottles of Mydol over a high-school breakup or gray lonely asexual depressing people rendered inconsolableby the death of a pet. The cathartictrauma of actually going in somewhere officially Psych-, some understanding nods, some bare indication somebody gives half a damn – they rally, back out they go.”

“Fate is trying to kill me. I miss my dog. What's a doctor going to say? You're not ill, you're mad as a muffin? They'll either lock me up or tell me to get a grip and no one will believe the truth anyway.”

“In wretched little lives like that, someone must intervene. Or at least mark their sad comings and goings. Mark and if possible permanently record so they'll be remembered. For a better day, later on, when people will understand.”

“what if they make me stay? To keep me safe?”“I wouldn’t, if I were them.”“What do you mean?”“Any minute now . . .”Two seconds later, the sound of an alarm filled my ears.“What did you do?” I said over the noise as he backed up toward the bathroom door.“The girl who gave you the note?”“Yes . . .”“I caught her staring at my lighter.”I blinked. “You gave a child, in a psych ward, a lighter.”