I wake up to the sight of an unfamiliar bedroom steeped in blue shadows. When did I leave the basement? Two blurry figures stand silhouetted against the rectangle of sunlight edging in through the doorway. "Shiloh," hisses a panicked voice, "are you awake?"
I ignore the pounding pain in my head and nod. I move my legs to find that they are ensnared in a tangle of cold, sweaty sheets. "What time is it?" I ask.
"About one-thirty," replies the voice, which I recognize as Daniel's when he's recovering from a night of loud music, drinking games, and bad beer.
Something beeps. The sound is followed by a scratchy string of radio chatter. A second, deeper voice stirs the air in the bedroom. "10-4, I'm on location. Over."
My nerves crackle to life. I heave myself up on my elbows and squint, fearfully waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. The figure on the right is Daniel, pale with guilt, bloodshot eyes surrounded by plum hangover shadows. Next to him, horror of horrors, is a stern male police officer, eyes trained on me, hands resting importantly on his duty belt. "Hi, Shiloh," he barks, "I'm Officer Shaw. Did you have a fun time last night?"
Every word rings through my skull like a blow from a shovel. The man steps closer. I cringe as a beam of afternoon sunlight escapes from behind him and slams into my face. "Yeah," I mumble weakly, "I had a blast."
The cop chuckles. "Glad to hear it." He plays with the set of silver handcuffs at his hip, all while staring me down. "So tell me, where are you supposed to be right now?"
Anxiety traces a path down my spinal cord like the tip of a hot blade. Daniel avoids all eye contact, focusing instead on plucking at the tanned skin on his arms. I unwrap my legs from the linen. "I don't know," I say to my dirty, bitten fingernails.
"You don't know?" gasps Officer Shaw in pretend disbelief.
I retreat into the warm, musty hug of my borrowed bathrobe and sheepishly shake my head. Daniel stops picking his skin and instead stands with his arms held stiffly at his sides.
Officer Shaw clears his throat. "I'll give you a hint: take a look at those pretty bracelets you're wearing."
I glance at my wrist and see that I was too stupid and too elated at my freedom to remember to remove my hospital wristbands. I glare at my name, birth date, and other data from my imprisonment. I mentally kiss the green band good-bye. "Oh," I squeak. I droop into a sorry, resigned lump.
"You're supposed to be in the hospital right now, aren't you?" the cop remarks. His tone is less sarcastic this time. I peer up at him and see that he's quite young, probably around Dr. Fox's age, but his face is hardened and his friendly brown eyes are eclipsed with the darkness and danger he's encountered on the job.
"Yeah," I say softly, "I guess I am supposed to be there."
"Fun's over," Daniel whispers under his breath.
"I've got great news!" the officer proclaims, scratching at his crown of close-cropped hair. "I'll give you a free ride over there. How about that?"
"Am I being arrested?"
"I don't know... do you need to be arrested?"
"No," I say immediately.
Officer Shaw parades me through the trashed house. It reeks of marijuana, the earthy odor still lingering in the sunlit air like a nightmare. Some of it has settled with the dust upon the mismatched furniture and unconscious bodies strewn across the floor in the den. Officer Shaw sniffs the air, his eyes narrowed. Heavy footsteps echo throughout the house as other police officers explore it, shaking kids awake, demanding to know about the drugs and underage drinking.
Several sleek police cruisers are parallel parked along the curb. As we get closer to the car at the front of the line, my body parts feel disconnected, my hangover weighing them down. The officer opens the back door and gestures for me to climb in. I practically have to fold myself in half to fit inside the horribly cramped space. The seats are made of a hard, sun-warmed plastic that burns me through my borrowed clothes. A scratched Plexiglas partition separates me from the back of Officer Shaw's head.
I can barely breathe. The car's multiple mirrors channel blinding orbs of sunlight straight into my retinas. I wince. My head hurts so bad that I just want to crack it open, cleave it into two clean halves so that the pain and pressure will drift away like a relieved exhale.
Officer Shaw slams his door shut, guns the engine, and directs the cruiser away from the party house. "So," he says, voice much louder than necessary, "why did you break your curfew?"
I shield my stinging eyes with my hands. "I was tired - am tired - of constantly being controlled," I mumble. "I wanted to make my own decisions for once."
He clucks his tongue in disapproval. "What are you, again... sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen...." he repeats, pondering. "I hate to tell you this, but things won't change much when you turn eighteen. Life is always going to have rules. Someone or something will always be there to control you. Becoming an adult isn't going to be this magical moment when the chains come off and you get to run around like crazy and do whatever you want. Adulthood means jobs. Jobs mean bosses, who will tell you what to do and how and when to do it." He sighs and turns up the air conditioning. "And if you decide not to get a job because you don't like being told what to do, guess what? You won't make a living, so you'll probably be homeless. Then your need for money, food, and shelter will control you." He makes a smooth merge onto the interstate, where the other cars immediately move out of the way and slow down to the speed limit. I stare at the downtown skyscrapers glittering under the glaring July sun. The tops of the distant mountains curve into the shape of a person sleeping on her side.
"Good to know," I groan, rubbing my temples. I have a thick, sour feeling at the back of my throat that I get right before I throw up. Feeling ridiculous, I drop my head between my knees and pant like a dog.
"You okay there, kiddo?" Shaw asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I wish I didn't have this monstrous hangover, partly because I'd like to be more involved in the conversation. I swallow hard. "Feel... like... gonna... barf...."
"Ohhh - okay. If you gotta puke, don't worry about it. Those back seats have been through much worse. They're plastic for a reason."
I bite into my knee. It tastes horrible, so I release it, gagging. "Thank you for not handcuffing me," I say once the wave of nausea passes.
Officer Shaw laughs and thanks me for being compliant. "I don't know if that's your personality, or if you're just too sick to give me a hard time, but you've been real good this afternoon."
"I pick my battles," I explain, my upset stomach settling. "I tend not to fight when I know I'm going to lose. I mean, you've got a gun."
The cop guffaws again. His laughter drills into my aching skull. "How much trouble are you gonna be in once you get back?"
"I don't want to think about it," I sigh, "but I'm guessing a lot. They'll probably duct tape my ankles together, lock me in my room, and throw away the key."
Shaw flicks on his turn signal. Each click pounds my forehead like a fist. The car slows as we sail down an exit ramp and turn onto an isolated rural road with potholes like meteor crash sites. They jar the vehicle and toss me around like a coin in a can. Will this trauma never cease? The tires clunk on the uneven asphalt. "Ohhh myyy goddd," I whimper, voice rattling with every bump.
"Time to re-pave," Shaw agrees. He applies the brakes, drifts for a few seconds, then guides the car up a small hill.
The entrance to Circle Valley Hospital looks a lot different in the daylight. Being in the backseat of a police cruiser also distorts things. Violet would approve of this method of return. "Home sweet home," Officer Shaw proclaims. He glances at me in the rearview mirror to see how I react.
I squint and clench my jaw. This headache has taken on a mind of its own. I almost expect my brain to melt into a sticky puddle of goo and stream from my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. I swear I will never drink again.
We slide into the ambulance bay and park in a square shadow underneath the overhang. Shaw locks up his gun, then opens my door for me because there are no handles on the inside. I stumble out of the backseat and lean against the cruiser's hot metal body to regain my balance. Heat ripples across the thin sheet of air hovering above the blacktop between the cars in the parking lot.
The cop takes my arm and carefully walks me up to the locked double doors. He speaks into his radio. "This is Officer Shaw," he says. "I've arrived on location with my 10-96."
"10-4," rasps a voice over the radio.
Shaw presses a button to the left of the double doors. I inhale deeply, breathing in the fresh open sky, the sweet green grass, and a hint of gasoline. It'll probably be my last trip outside, and I want to remember how summer smells. No one will ever be able to take that from me.
A smear of color appears behind the safety glass, the double doors parting to reveal Wade, who seems annoyed. Jenny isn't too far behind. She looks extremely pissed. I turn back to Officer Shaw and beg him to take me to jail instead.
"It's time you learn to accept the consequences of your actions," he lectures me with a frown.
Jenny marches up to the cop and firmly shakes his hand. "Thank you so much," she says.
"No problem," he answers. He gives my shoulder a gentle pat on his way out.
Wade snatches me by the upper arm. "Come on, Shiloh. Dr. Fox and Meredith want to see you immediately."
"Really? Because I'd rather have some Tylenol and a chance to change into my clothes first."
"This is not about what you want," Jenny argues. "You've had your chance to make your own decisions, and you obviously blew it."
Wade's words are a little more mild, though his eyes are darker than usual when he stares down at me. "You'll get to take care of all that after your team talks with you."
I wrap the huge bathrobe closer around my body, letting it swallow me.
***
Of course the curtains in Dr. Fox's office are pulled back, turning his normally dim office into a blinding box. Guess his migraine is over. I nearly throw up again as a fresh wave of pain thunders inside of my head. Meredith is perched on her usual chair, her face tight with disappointment. I glance at Dr. Fox, but only see a dark silhouette. His voice is like spikes shoved into my skull. "Shiloh Mackenzie," he growls, "what the hell were you thinking!?"
I fearfully shrink back into the leather armchair. I've never seen my doctor - or any doctor, for that matter - this angry or emotional before. It's unnerving because I'd always assumed that Dr. Fox had lost the ability to express his feelings as the result of a med school mishap.
"I trusted you!" he continues. "Your whole treatment team trusted you!"
My knees quiver. I pull the bathrobe over them. I look up at Dr. Fox again, allowing my eyes to adjust to the lighting.
The psychiatrist's wrinkled tie hangs loosely around his neck. He stares hard, examining me from head to toe. "Have you been drinking? Doing drugs?" he demands, folding his arms across his chest.
"I drank, but I didn't take anything," I say quickly. "I was just around a lot of people who were smoking weed."
Meredith clucks her tongue in disapproval. Jenny, still standing in the doorway, shifts her weight and sighs. Dr. Fox fiercely rubs at his forehead. "Good God, Shiloh."
"I'm sorry," I say, trying not to cry. "I'm really sorry."
"We appreciate your apology, but it doesn't change the fact that you took advantage of the freedom you've been constantly requesting," Meredith says.
Dr. Fox nods, then focuses on Jenny. "Please conduct a thorough body assessment on Shiloh. Then get her into some gowns."
I groan.
"Oh," he adds, "and she'll be needing a red wristband as well."
"What!?" I shriek. "You're totally overreacting!"
"You've returned to Level One," says Dr. Fox. "Welcome back to the Probation Phase. You have no one to blame but yourself." He hands Meredith my chart, plays with a stray pen on his desk, and says nothing more.
The price of freedom: confinement.