One patient says to the other, “they won’t believe I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

The other frowns, points to a third at the table. The third patient closes his eyes and nods slowly, then looks to the fourth.

“You can have my Ativan if you want,” the fourth says quietly.

The third closes his eyes again, still nodding.

“Is it true,” the one asks, “there’s eight hours between smoke breaks?”

“We get three minutes at the end of lunch,” the fourth offers in mock consolation.

“Bullshit,” spits the one, “three?”

“If we’re good,” amends the other.

“You’re fucking with me,” the one says in disbelief.

“Swear to God,” the other says.

The one says nothing, jaw slowly dropping, looks to the third, who stares hard back.

“These places make people insane,” the third patient jabs the table with a finger, “whether they were crazy when they got here or not. I didn’t think about killing myself until I got here.”

“Window’s open,” the fourth reminds the third.

“Fuck,” he grunts, not turning to look.

“You’re good,” the fourth assures, “she’s listening to William fuss.”

“About what?” the third asks, amused.

“Yesterday morning,” the fourth says, glancing back at the window, at William, “he said his meds were giving him bad dreams. Sleep meds, I mean.”

“What’s he taking?” the third patient inquires.

“A fuckload of seroquel,” answers the other.

“We take trazadone,” the fourth volunteers, gesturing at the other.

“I ain’t taking that shit,” the third declares, turns to the one patient, “you take anything to sleep?”

“Nothing I can get here,” the one says quietly with a glance at the window.

“I know that’s right,” the third grumbles back.

The one patient gestures toward the common room and asks, “what’s ol’ boy in there doing with the checkers?”

“Who,” asks the fourth, “Deion?”

“I guess.”

“Cleaning them.”

“With what?”

The fourth patient grins.

“Toothpaste.”

“Well,” says the one, “he’s got that board frosted like a fuckin’ cake.”

“He’s really nice,” the fourth says.

“He really shouldn’t even be here,” the third chimes back in.

“No,” the fourth says bitterly, “he shouldn’t. He said his brother calls them every day and they’re always rude to him.”

The one patient makes something like a gun with two fingers and a thumb, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” the fourth shakes her head, “he’s here for stabilization.”

“He talk to you?” the other asks.

The fourth nods, smirking proudly.

“I just said ‘good morning’ to him” the other chuckles, “and he said ‘morningSORRY‘ and ran off.”

“He’s really nice,” the fourth says again, “he’s just scared.”

“Shit,” the other says, “I don’t blame him.”

“He’s going home today,” the fourth says.

“Hell yeah,” the other says in modest celebration.

“His sons are in the parking lot.”

The other snorts and smiles;

“Right now?”

The fourth stifles a laugh and nods.

“When are they gonna turn him loose?” asks the one, lost.

“When them motherfuckers,” the other says, a thumb indicating the staff, “get good and ready. Don’t everybody look at the same time, but Raven’s crying again.”

“Aw hell,” the third says, starting to turn in his seat, stopping, standing instead.

“Go talk to her,” the fourth urges, “before they see her. I’ve got your seat.”

“God bless ya, baby doll,” the third says in an exaggerated drawl, tips an imaginary hat, and departs.

“Y’all talking about that little girl coloring?” the one asks.

“Yeah,” the fourth says, voice and eyes softening.

“Fuck’s she doing here?” the one asks, watching the third patient take a seat across from Raven.

“She just turned eighteen like, a couple weeks ago,” the fourth says, turns to the other, “right?”

“You wouldn’t think it, to talk to her,” the other patient says, nodding confirmation.

“How come?” the one patient asks.

“She told me,” the other says shrugging, “the last time she saw her doctors, they told her she’s got the mind of a fourteen year old and that’s about the best she can hope for.”

“Fuck,” the one patient croaks quietly, “..Tina?”

“Spice,” the other says.

“Oh,” the one says with a pitying look back to Raven, drying tears off her cheeks with her sleeves, pointing to the art she’s handed to the third patient for inspection, “fuck that.”

“Her friends talked her into it,” explains the fourth.

“Bull – shit,” the other says.

“What?” the fourth patient asks, confused.

The other patient glances at the fourth, then Raven, the fourth again.

“The kids weren’t her friends, they fucking locked her in a walk-in shower. The kind with the door, you know? Screaming at her, wouldn’t let her out until she hit it.”

“Wha-a-at,” the one says in a doubtful monotone, “one hit wouldn’t do that, bro.”

“Uh – bullshit,” the other says again, “there’s a dude who hit that shit once and went straight into late-stage Parkinson’s.”

“I heard about that,” the fourth says, far-off.

“That ain’t what happened to her,” the other continues, “she got hooked, ran off, blahblahblah, enough of that shit fried her. Or it fried enough of her. She said she never touched anything else but weed, one time.”

“God damn,” the one patient breathes.

“Go look at her art,” the other instructs the one, “she ain’t coloring, she’s drawing. She’s got a gift. That shit kept me up last night.”

“Raven,” the one patient asks, standing, “is that what you said?”

“Like the bird,” the other smiles, apparently touched by this somehow.

“Her parents named her after the poem,” the fourth clarifies.

“Hey,” the other warns the one, “you ain’t gotta talk to her like a child. She don’t like that shit.”

“Heard,” the one says, and departs.

A long quiet.

“She didn’t tell me all that,” the fourth finally says, “that’s so bad.”

“Fucking hate kids, man,” the other says, rubbing the back of his neck, “wish I never was one.”