Her head pounds. She cracks an eye and looks around at burred white walls.
This is not her room.
Here at Oz, we take security very seriously, had been printed neatly in her brochure.
The room is layered with stiff, cushioning. Pale, calming light shines down on her. Her finger has been bandaged. There is no dirt under her nails. She is dressed in fresh pajamas. She reaches up for glasses that are not there, then stands on tiptoe to press her nose to the door’s tiny window.
No answer. What time is it? What day?
“Is anyone there?”