Chapter 1: Wouldn’t Take Nothin’ for My Journey Now

She wore her pearls every day and her teeth every other day.

Before the breakdowns, before the hospitals, before the beige jobs and group therapy, there were the teeth.

Odell Ambrose resembled the gold-plate-rubbed-off picture frames her grandma kept on top of her upright piano—the kind with two sides facing each other, held together by tiny hinges just strong enough not to come unhinged. Sometimes she could hear one side snap shut on the other—like memory was trading secrets with itself.

She’d lost her front teeth in a freak handbell accident during a Pentecost revival gone sideways—an incident no one ever fully explained. There were whispers: Sister Gracie’s jumpy elbow, a snake handler with rhythm issues, a tambourine with vengeance in its heart.

Thanks to a childhood of rural dental malpractice, Odell developed a lifelong fear of dentists. She skipped cleanings for decades, convinced pain was just part of the package—until the handbell incident forced her into a chair. Shocked it didn’t hurt. Not the cleaning, at least. The treatment plan, however, made her eyes water: crowns, extractions, years of slow, meticulous repair.

The night before her appointment, Odell didn’t sleep. She tried. She brushed her teeth with trembling hands, flossed like it might absolve her, and rinsed with mouthwash so strong it felt like a punishment. Then she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her thoughts to stop vibrating.

At 2:19 a.m., she startled upright. Not from a dream—but from a memory so sharp it cut its way in.

She was nine. Maybe ten. The dentist’s office smelled like bleach and breath mints and something older, like forgotten coffee. She remembered the sound of it before anything else—grinding, the squeak of gloves, the slow, metallic whine of something about to enter bone.

“Hold still,” the man had said.

No numbing gel. No shot. Just a steel hook and a voice that accused her of flinching too much.

Her mother sat outside, reading a Better Homes & Gardens she’d already stolen three recipes from. The walls were thin, but not thin enough to save her.

She cried.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “We’ve got men in uniform who don’t cry for worse.”

The drill bored into her molar like it had orders. No countdown. No mercy.

Odell bit her tongue trying not to scream. She still had the scar.

Later, her mother told her it was character-building.

“You don’t get medals for whining.”

Odell hadn’t set foot in a dentist’s office again until the handbell incident decades later forced her to.

Now, she sat in the dark, knees tucked to her chest, trying to breathe past the smell of phantom antiseptic.

“It’s not the same,” she whispered. “This one is nice. This one gives you time.”

But her body didn’t believe her. Her skin had already braced itself. Her jaw clenched like it was prepping for war.

At 5:06 a.m., she alphabetized her spices by mood. Cinnamon, for comfort. Cumin, for confusion. Red pepper flakes, for vengeance.

At 6:45, she ironed her shirt three times.

By 8:00, she had fully vacuumed the ceiling fan.

Then, and only then, did she get in the car.

Before sliding into Dr. Marla DeWitt’s dental chair for her first crown, Odell was anxious—had been for days.

“Just don’t do me like that old Navy dentist my mama took me to,” she said with a twinge of terror. “He didn’t believe in anesthetic. Said pain built character.”

Dr. DeWitt patted her arm. “We won’t be doing that here.”

Minimalist navy scrubs. Surgical loupes that made her eyes look more wise than large. A calm voice and clinical confidence—DeWitt didn’t decorate her sentences with sympathy. She just got to work.

“The crown will be strong. Long-lasting,” she said, raising a needle that looked like it had military clearance. “Little pinch now.”

Odell counted back from twenty as the anesthetic seeped into her gums and cheeks.

“Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen… one, minus-one, minus-two,” she murmured. “Why do you have to move my face like that? Does it help the shot settle?”

“No. That’s just to distract you.”

Odell sat up. “Wait. That’s just to distract me? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said the assistant calmly.

“So it’s just… theater.”

“Lean back,” DeWitt said. “Time for the fun part.”

She fitted the nitrous mask over Odell’s nose.

“Breathe normally.”

Odell did.

And then she wasn’t in the room anymore.

The ceiling tiles rippled like water. A Southern gospel quartet descended, hovering above the dental light—four men in matching suits with clipboards where hymnals should’ve been.

Crown him with many crowns,

The molar on his throne;

Hark how the bitewing anthem drowns

All aches to him unknown…

They began to twist. One held a drill streaked with something red. Another wore an apron marked U.S. NAVY DENTAL CORPS. The baritone’s face shifted into the sadist who’d drilled her molar when she was nine, told her to “hold still,” and called her tears unpatriotic.

Then her mother appeared—just a flicker, standing outside the shed with a lighter in her hand.

“I hope it hurts,” she said.

Her jaw throbbed. And when the light returned to white, she was back in the chair.

Imogene drove her home.

Imogene—Dr. Imogene Rumble—was the only living legend and the only board-certified internist in town. Her name alone had been the topic of hushed conversation for decades. Imogene, whispered like a saint or a scandal depending on the porch. And Rumble—well, that practically invited commentary.

“She got a name like a hurricane and a face like she already knows what you’re hiding,” said one of the bait shop boys, who once went in for a tick bite and left with a full reading list and a deep sense of inadequacy. “Dr. Rumble reads poetry, treats the tick fever, and tells you you’re a damn fool—all in one breath, and somehow makes you think she’s being kind about it.”

Imogene was the kind of physician who could crochet half a baby afghan while diagnosing your cholesterol problem and your spiritual one. She’d gone off to Atlanta to become a doctor and came back with diplomas, high honors, and no tolerance for foolishness. She read The Lancet for fun, quoted Milton like Scripture, and could dismantle a bad argument with the same precision she used on warts. Imogene’s memory was a courtroom transcript and her “look” that cut through any kind of nonsense—real or imaged.

She was fifteen years older than Odell and had been her reluctant summer chemistry tutor even though Odell’s mind was more interested in balancing Either/Or rather than equations. When Odell was in college and stuck between chapters of Leviticus and her own unraveling, it was Imogene who sent a letter—typed, not handwritten—telling her to eat something green and remember her purpose. “The Bible can take your questions,” she wrote. “But your body still needs potassium.”

“You should’ve eaten,” she said. “You always tank when your blood sugar’s low.”

“I saw a gospel quartet,” Odell replied.

“Normal.”

“They were singing about dental work. And one of them was the Navy dentist.”

“Less normal.”

I’m not evaluating you,” Imogene said.

“You are.”

“I’m observing. Quietly. In case I need it later.”

Odell smirked. “Squirreled away in your head because electronic medical records are of the devil and Epic is Satan’s spawn.”

“Exactly.”

Back home, Odell stepped inside and dropped her keys.

The air felt heavy. Staged. Like the furniture knew something she didn’t.

Imogene handed off the to-go broth and a tiny paper bag of post-crown instructions, gave her a once-over, and said, “No stress. No emails. No overthinking. I mean it.”

Odell nodded. The house was quiet. She’d already alphabetized the spices by emotional relevance and scrubbed the baseboards with an old toothbrush while humming “Nearer, My God, to Thee” on loop. Yesterday, she wrote a goodbye note that wasn’t addressed to anyone, then tore it up and flushed it, just in case she changed her mind.

The house was quiet. Dusty afternoon light slanted through the blinds. She clicked the AC down two degrees. The dream still clung to her—her mother’s voice, a room full of faceless people, the taste of copper and cheap wine.

She opened her laptop.

“Just to clear out the junk,” she told herself.

Inbox: 147 unread. Mostly spam. One subject line from her health insurer:

Claim Denied – Action Required

She ignored it.

You’ve been chosen.

Unlock your gift.

Are you ready to take your place?

She stared. The fonts looked traced by hand. She clicked one.

CONGRATULATIONS.

We’ve been watching you.

Your sacrifice has been seen.

She is waiting.

Come home. The table is ready.

She slammed the laptop shut.

“No,” she said aloud. “No, no, no.”

She stood too fast. The kitchen blurred.

She whispered, “Don’t start with me, God. Not today.”

She moved. Fast.

Threw a teacup. A lamp. Pulled books. Slammed drawers.

A framed picture of her as a child hit the floor. She didn’t look.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She just stormed through the room until it matched the noise in her head.

Then: stillness. Gasping.

She grabbed her coat and left the door unlocked.

The lake. Where her great-grandfather died in 1918.

She stepped in waist-deep, then climbed onto the rock. Soaked and silent.

Two hours later, Deputy Shane Coltrane spotted her.

“Odell?”

“I’m hiding,” she said softly.

“Hiding from what?”

“The Navy dentist, a gospel quartet with dental tools, and my Mama.”

Coltrane had taken a few mental health courses. He didn’t call it in. No sirens. No backup.

“Who can I call?” he asked.

“Imogene.”

She arrived as the EMTs pulled in.

“There are blueprints in the cobwebs,” Odell said. “God’s hiding the schematics in dust.”

Imogene squatted. “And what’s He building?”

“A zipline to heaven, but the weight limit’s offensive.”

“You think you’d make the cut?”

“Only if I lie about my spiritual BMI.”

Imogene placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you feel like anything’s after you?”

“It’s like my bones are holding their breath. And I told the mirror to hush, but it kept shouting.”

“Are you thinking about stepping out? Out of your life, I mean.”

“No,” Odell whispered. “But I thought about breaking something to see if I’d feel it. Then I realized—I already did.”

Imogene gave her a long look and nodded.

“She might be delusional,” she told Coltrane. “I’ve seen this before. It’s getting worse. If you don’t mind, I’ll take her.”

The road stretched ahead, dark and humming. No music. No radio. Just the dull whisper of tires on pavement and the occasional flick of the blinker—Imogene always used her turn signal, even when no one was around to see it.

Odell blinked hard. “Where are we going?”

“Atlanta,” Imogene said. “You’re gonna talk to a doctor. Let ’em do an evaluation.”

“What if they admit me?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“They’ll try to kill me. You know that, right?”

“No one drinks Ensure anymore. It’s Boost or bust. And everything’s bolted down.”

She reached over, squeezed Odell’s arm.

“If they admit you, it’s because you deserve to feel better than this.”

Odell stared at the road.

“I don’t want to be crazy.”

Imogene kept driving, then:

“Let’s go find out what kind of not-crazy you are.”

Maplewood Behavioral Health looked like a church camp that lost its charter. Inside, the receptionist asked for her name like it was a hotel check-in.

“I’m not staying,” Odell said.

“You said it was a conversation,” she whispered to Imogene. “You said we were just talking.”

“We are.”

“No,” Odell said, louder. “This is a handoff.”

Imogene didn’t answer. Just looked tired.

“I trusted you,” Odell said.

“And I’m still here. I’ll be here when you’re out. If you need me.”

Odell walked through the automatic doors without looking back.

They called it an “intake assessment,” like she was a package being logged at a warehouse.

The nurse led her to a small, windowless room with a vinyl chair and a table bolted to the floor. A small stack of papers waited. So did a woman in mauve scrubs with a tablet and a tired smile.

“Hi, I’m Trina. I’ll be doing your intake today.”

Odell nodded once.

“Spiritual beliefs?”

“Dangerous,” she said. “And occasionally misused.”

“Religious background?”

“Holiness-adjacent with Presbyterian undertones and an unfortunate tendency toward metaphor.”

Next came the questions that didn’t blink:

Are you experiencing suicidal thoughts?

“No. But I did ask God to smite me last week.”

Have you attempted self-harm?

“Define ‘attempted.’ Because I’ve definitely tried to injure my dignity.”

Do you believe others are out to harm you?

“Only my inbox. And Blue Cross Blue Shield.”

Hallucinations?

“I saw a gospel quartet in the dentist’s office. One turned into a Navy sadist. My mother was there. It might’ve been symbolic.”

Any hospitalizations?

“Yes. But I wasn’t ready then.”

Afraid now?

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“That I’ll lose myself to whatever this is. That they’ll fix me so well I won’t remember who I was. That I’ll come out manageable.”

Trina paused. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“I just don’t want to be rewritten.”

Trina closed the tablet. “Thank you, Dr. Ambrose.”

Odell slumped.

And then she began to hum.

Then sang, softly:

“I feel shitty… oh so shitty…

I am tired, depressed, and uptight…”

Her voice rose a little.

“And I pity… anyone who feels like this tonight!”

She smiled weakly. “That is exactly how I feel. Bernstein would be proud. Or at least a little concerned.”

Trina smiled. “Do you want someone to sit with you?”

“Not yet. I just need the room to agree with me for a while.”

Then she sat back.

Not praying. Not resisting.

Just waiting.

Like the first page of something holy,

or something broken.

She hadn’t decided yet.

She hadn’t set foot in a psychiatric ward since she was fifteen.

It was spring when her aunt took her—dogwood trees in bloom, bees like tiny sirens, the scent of crushed honeysuckle thick as guilt. They’d driven three hours to South Georgia Regional in a borrowed church van because the Buick wouldn’t make it, and Aunt Lenore didn’t trust Greyhound.

She remembered the waiting room: linoleum floors, metal chairs, a vending machine filled with stale faith and powdered donuts. The receptionist had a name tag that said Marj in aggressive cursive and asked, without looking up, “Here for visitation?”

Her mother was behind two locked doors and one smiling nurse. She wore a soft gray robe and hospital socks with the little rubber dots on the bottom. Her hair had been brushed. Her expression had not.

“Well,” her mother said, sitting down across from her. “If it isn’t the prodigal smart-ass.”

Odell sat stiff in the plastic chair. “Hey, Mama.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me like I’m a friend of your little boyfriend. Sit up straight.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re sulking. I can feel it all the way through your shoulders.”

“You look okay,” Odell offered.

“I don’t need you to say I look okay. I need you to say you believe I’m still here.”

Odell stared. “What’s wrong with you?”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose. “What’s wrong with me?”

She leaned in, voice low. “Baby girl, what’s wrong with you?”

Odell’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Her mother went on: “You grind your teeth at night. You talk in your sleep. You act like sarcasm’s a sacrament. You think everyone’s watching you, but you’re the one writing the script.”

Odell flushed.

“You hoard books and throw away affection. You memorize verses and forget how to sit still. And you still haven’t fixed that tooth in the back. I can see it when you lie.”

“I didn’t come here for this,” Odell snapped.

“Yes, you did. You came to ask if you’ll end up like me.”

Odell stood to leave. Her mother pulled something from her robe—a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

“Here. You don’t have to read it, but you probably will.”

Odell hesitated, then unfolded it. The paper was warm, soft at the creases. Her mother’s handwriting drifted uphill like it refused to be brought low.

She read it aloud. Slowly.

ODELL—

They moved the clocks but I stayed on God’s time.

Don’t let them fix your face. That’s where the warnings hide.

The nurse with the 6 on her neck lies when she smiles.

Your choir robe was made of caution tape. Everyone clapped anyway.

If the table speaks, don’t interrupt. It remembers more than we do.

You don’t belong to the Ambroses.

You belong to the breach.

HUM if they try to fix you.

That’s how the saints know you’re not one of theirs.

Odell looked up.

Her mother watched her. Calm. Not smiling.

“Jesus,” Odell whispered.

“No,” her mother said. “This one’s just from me.”

Odell’s throat was tight. “Is it a warning?”

“It’s a record.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you already know. But won’t admit yet.”

“I’m not like you.”

Her mother tilted her head. “Then why are your eyes shaking?”

Odell folded the note with care, as if it were sacred or cursed.

“You’ll see,” her mother said, almost gently. “The breach always finds its children.”

Now, years later, Odell sat in the vinyl chair at Maplewood and realized how clean everything was.

Maplewood didn’t smell like bleach or despair. It smelled like lemon cleaner and the optimism of regulated air. This wasn’t South Georgia Regional—the fortress of locked units and cracked trays where her mother had lived out two stints and a dozen suspicions. That place had buzzers, plastic utensils, and prayers that didn’t go past the fire doors.

Maplewood had throw pillows.

Motivational wall decals.

A fish tank.

You are more than what brought you here, the sign said in brushed gold script.

Odell wanted to spit.

What if healing didn’t happen in places that looked like punishment?

What if wellness wore soft socks and spoke in affirmations?

Worse—what if it worked?

What if pastel walls and gentle voices could sand down the splinters in her skull?

What if she came out of this place serene and small and full of herbal tea?

What if she hummed?

Her hand brushed her pocket where the note used to be.

She stared at the angelfish drifting behind Plexiglas and whispered, “Same.”

Trina reappeared in the doorway, tablet tucked under one arm.

“Okay,” she said softly. “We’re ready to take you to the unit.”

Odell stood too fast. “Wait. Is Imogene still here?”

Trina hesitated. “She left about fifteen minutes ago. Said to tell you she’ll call tomorrow.”

Odell’s mouth went dry.

“She left?”

“She said you knew she would.”

Odell nodded too slowly. “Right.”

But she hadn’t known—not really. She thought maybe Imogene would linger. Maybe wait in the parking lot until the shift changed. Maybe hide behind the bushes with a bottle of Gatorade and some backup grace.

But she was gone. Just like everyone else.

Trina gestured gently. “Come on.”

The hallway to the unit felt longer than physics should allow. Everything hummed—floors, lights, something in her jaw. The door buzzed and clicked. A badge beeped.

They stepped into Maplewood 3 South.

Muted lighting. Pale floors. Walls the color of regret pretending to be beige. A dry-erase board listed the day’s group sessions in cheerful lettering:

Mindful Mornings, Expressive Art, Coping Skills Café.

Odell tried not to laugh.

The nurse on duty, a woman named Greta with short gray curls and orthopedic Crocs, met them at the desk. She didn’t smile.

“Room 314,” she said. “She’s on safety status.”

“Wait—what does that mean?” Odell asked.

Greta turned. “It means no cords, no belt, no shoelaces, no door that locks. It means someone checks on you every fifteen minutes and you sleep on a mattress on the floor until the psych team clears you.”

“But I’m not—” Odell started. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were found in a lake,” Greta said, matter-of-fact. “At night. Fully clothed. Quoting scripture to tree stumps. That’s enough.”

Trina put a hand on Odell’s shoulder. “It’s just a precaution. It won’t be forever.”

Room 314 was down a short hall that smelled like hospital food and something sterile trying to hide mold. The room was empty except for a rubbery mattress, a blanket that looked like it had given up, and a bare pillow sealed in vinyl. A small cubby in the wall. No mirror. No clock. No pen.

“Take off your outer layers,” Greta said.

Odell blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Modified search,” Greta said. “We have to check for items. You can keep your underthings.”

“Is this legal?”

“Yes,” Greta replied, without looking up.

She handed Odell a folded gown and a pair of grippy socks the color of regret.

The search was quick and impersonal. Greta was efficient, clinical, and immune to small talk. When she stepped out, she said, “Try to get some rest. Lights dim at midnight.”

Odell sat on the mattress.

It was firm and low to the ground—like it wasn’t sure she deserved elevation.

Outside the door, voices still moved through the corridor.

Some patients were still awake.

One stood at the hallway window, arguing with her reflection in fluent German. Another was pacing barefoot in slow, perfect squares, whispering what sounded like hymns in reverse. A tall man in pajama pants leaned against the TV room entrance and shouted “Stop interrupting!” to the news anchor on mute.

Then someone approached.

A woman in her thirties, maybe forties, with tired eyes and a hoodie that said ALABAMA STATE CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP in cracked gold letters. Her hair was unbrushed, but her eyes were alert. Focused.

She crouched beside the doorway.

“You new?” she asked.

Odell nodded.

“Safety status?”

“Apparently.”

The woman grinned. “Yeah, they put me on that once because I tried to baptize the vending machine.”

Odell raised an eyebrow.

“In Dr Pepper,” the woman said. “I had a whole sermon planned, but security intervened.”

She extended a hand, then pulled it back. “Oh. Right. No touching. I’m Rhonda.”

“Odell.”

“Biblical,” Rhonda said. “Heavy. Don’t let it crush you.”

Odell blinked. “Thanks?”

Rhonda stood. “Try to sleep. The mattress sucks, but the dreams are generous.”

And then she walked off, humming something that might have once been a hymn. Or a warning.

The next morning, the eggs didn’t taste like eggs.

They were pale, rubbery triangles that had clearly lost a fight with both time and temperature. The toast was neither toasted nor bread, but something in between—chewy and uncertain. The orange juice came in a plastic cup that claimed to be “100% Vitamin C” but tasted like repentance.

Odell stared at the tray like it had personally betrayed her.

Rhonda slid into the seat across from her at the long, wipeable table.

“Blessed are the lukewarm,” she said, poking at her eggs, “for they shall be served first and flavored last.”

Odell raised an eyebrow. “That’s not scripture.”

“It is in here,” Rhonda said, tapping her temple. “Revised Rhonda Version.”

They ate in silence for a moment—Rhonda with intention, Odell with caution.

“You want the crash course?” Rhonda asked.

“The what?”

“Maplewood 3 South: Spiritual Edition.”

Odell smirked. “Sure.”

Rhonda cleared her throat like she was about to read from a holy text.

“On the first day, the staff created group therapy. And it was… deeply optional. On the second day, they separated the lucid from the loud, which mostly depends on who’s medicated. On the third day, they created coloring sheets.”

“I’ve seen those,” Odell said. “A lot of mandalas.”

“Day four is hygiene accountability. You’ll be told, gently but firmly, that your hair has entered the wilderness.”

“Excellent.”

“Day five,” Rhonda continued, “they made the hallway TV and saw that it was good. Except it only plays Wheel of Fortune, local news, and one televangelist who yells about debt reduction and the end times.”

Odell sipped her juice. “Sounds familiar.”

“Day six is pudding and medication adjustments. And day seven? Rest. And psychiatry.”

Odell set down her fork. “Are you… a theologian?”

Rhonda shrugged. “I used to work in church communications. So… technically, yes. Spiritually? Debatable.”

Odell didn’t respond right away.

“I’m not here to make friends,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Sure you are,” Rhonda said. “We all are. We just lie about it until we find the right person to sit beside.”

Odell stared at her tray.

“Do you make everything theological?”

“No,” Rhonda said. “Just the parts that hurt.”

After breakfast, Odell wandered until she found a corner no one had claimed—next to the locked art supply cabinet, across from the laundry cart, under a faded poster that read Today Is a Fresh Start! in bubble letters that looked like they’d survived something traumatic.

She sat on the floor. Cross-legged. Back against the wall. She tried to take stock. Tried to form a prayer. Tried to remember what “normal” had ever felt like.

Nothing came.

She was still there when a doctor appeared.

Young. Crisp white coat. Tablet. Eyeglasses that screamed I went to Columbia but I’m chill about it.

“Dr. Ambrose?”

She stood. “Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Harlan. I’m rounding on you this morning.”

He didn’t sit. Didn’t shake her hand. Just scrolled.

“So… you’ve been under a lot of stress?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Reports say you were found in a lake.”

“It was more of a rock. And it wasn’t exactly—”

“Difficulty sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Appetite?”

“Inconsistent.”

“Any history of hospitalization?”

“No.”

“Psychosis?”

“Define it.”

He didn’t. He tapped the tablet.

“I’m going to code this as Major Depressive Disorder, single episode, severe, with anxious distress.”

Odell blinked. “That’s… specific.”

“You’re exhausted. Cognitively slowed. Affect is flat.”

“I’ve been here less than twelve hours.”

“You were in a lake.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not typical behavior.”

“I was overwhelmed.”

“Exactly.”

Odell stepped forward. “But what if it’s not just depression? What if I’ve been—”

Dr. Harlan was already walking away.

“We’ll check in again tomorrow. Consider attending group if you’re up to it.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Odell found a phone mounted to the wall near the nurse’s station. It smelled like sanitizer and resignation.

She punched in the number.

“Odell,” Imogene answered. “You okay?”

“I got five minutes with the doctor.”

“Standard.”

“He diagnosed me with Major Depression.”

A pause.

“That… could be true.”

“It could also be lazy.”

Another pause.

“He barely looked at me.”

“They usually don’t.”

“I tried to ask questions.”

“Of course you did.”

“He left.”

“Of course he did.”

Odell leaned her forehead against the wall.

“I wanted an answer. I got a billing code.”

Imogene’s voice softened. “You got language. That’s a start. You can revise it later.”

“I don’t want to revise it,” Odell whispered. “I want someone to read it the first time.”

When the call was over, it was time for the dreaded group. Odell thought about pretending she was still on the phone, but she realized the staff might mark her down for having delusions. She only had five minutes left anyway, and group started in seven.

The chairs were arranged as though someone had almost summoned a séance but lost their nerve. There were twelve in total, most already filled. Odell hesitated at the doorway, then chose the spot closest to the exit.

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and feet. The whiteboard read:

GOAL: Identify One Coping Skill You’ve Used This Week!

A plastic clock ticked too loudly above it, like it was trying to hold everyone accountable.

Rhonda was already seated, cross-legged and barefoot in her chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She gave Odell a nod—not quite a smile, more like a benediction with eyebrows.

The facilitator walked in holding a clipboard and a reusable water bottle that said #THERAPYWORKS. Her name tag read:

BRENNA, LMSW

Underneath that, in Sharpie: “You are enough.”

“Good morning, everyone!” Brenna chirped, with the relentless brightness of someone who’s been trained not to flinch when a client throws a stress ball at her face. “Let’s go around and share names, check-in word, and a coping strategy we used—or thought about using—this week.”

One by one, they began.

“Tom. Tired. Coloring.”

“Ari. Anxious. Deep breathing.”

“Rhonda. Restless. Psalm 139, unabridged.”

Brenna raised her eyebrows. “Okay! We’ll count scripture meditation.”

When it was Odell’s turn, she hesitated.

“Odell. Unsettled. Humor. I think.”

“Great,” Brenna said. “Humor can be a powerful tool.”

Odell forced a nod, then added, “What if it’s the only tool?”

Brenna smiled but didn’t answer.

The group continued. Brenna guided them through a pre-printed worksheet called “Thoughts vs. Facts.” There were diagrams. Something about CBT triangles. A laminated feelings wheel.

Odell stared at it, unimpressed. “Are there feelings not on the wheel?”

Brenna blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if I feel translucent rage mixed with theological vertigo? Is that… mauve?”

A few patients snickered. Rhonda made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh she wasn’t supposed to let out.

Brenna gave her a professional smile. “Sometimes feelings are complex. That’s why we use grounding techniques.”

“What if you’re already grounded and still feel like you’re on fire?”

“Well,” Brenna said brightly, “then you focus on the part that isn’t burning.”

Odell stared at her. “That’s a terrible metaphor. That’s like telling someone in a house fire to hug the bathtub.”

“We’re all working to develop resilience,” Brenna replied, still smiling, still holding on to the boundaries of her laminated curriculum.

Odell bit her tongue. The room felt smaller now.

After forty-five minutes, Brenna collected the worksheets.

“Same time tomorrow,” she said. “And remember—this space is what you make it.”

Odell stood. “I was hoping it would be what it claimed to be.”

Brenna didn’t reply.

Rhonda followed her out.

“That,” Odell said, “was not group therapy. That was a staff meeting for people whose bodies didn’t get the memo.”

Rhonda snorted. “It gets better.”

“Really?”

“No,” Rhonda said. “But you’ll start laughing at it sooner.”

Odell made it all the way back to her room before the tremble hit.

Not a sob. Not yet. Just a twitch behind the eyes, a tightness in her ribs, a silent warning from some long-neglected fault line in her chest.

She sat down on the mattress slowly, as if it might betray her too.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Not even breath. Her throat locked up like it had signed a nondisclosure agreement.

She curled forward—knees pulled in, forehead to kneecaps, arms wound tight. The blanket scratched at her skin like it didn’t want to be complicit.

You’re not safe here either. Her mother’s voice, pulled from memory. Or prophecy. Or both.

Odell pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until stars bloomed. Her jaw clenched so tightly it clicked. She couldn’t afford tears. Not here. Not with Greta doing fifteen-minute checks and a clipboard waiting to turn her anguish into liability.

This place wanted stability. Not truth.

The truth was: she was undone and wanted to scream. To shatter a chair. To scratch her skin until it offered up an answer.

But instead she counted ceiling tiles.

She hummed—barely audible.

Not Bernstein this time.

Just a low, fractured note. Like something trying to stay tethered.

She whispered into her knees, “Get it together.”

Then: louder. Fiercer. A command.

“Get. It. Together.”

And that—right there—was the worst part.

Not the ache. Not the fury. Not even the grief.

The worst part was knowing she had to perform her own recovery just well enough to be released.

So she sat up. Brushed her hair with her fingers. Straightened her socks. Practiced the expression she’d use in group tomorrow: concerned, vulnerable, but not alarming.

And when the nurse opened the door to check on her, clipboard in hand, Odell smiled. Just enough to pass.