I hate it here, Miranda writes to Clarke. She watches an orderly push a blank-eyed man in a wheelchair across the patio. They took everything when she got inside. No shoelaces, no pencils. Nothing she could use to hurt herself or someone else. They shaved her head, washed her down, and looked for lice and contraband in every cavity of her body. She shares a room with a girl who talks to herself during the day and screams all night. She is fascinating and frightening. Miranda is repulsed by her weakness.
Day two. She closes the notebook around the marker.