“How are you today?”
Standing. Fidgets with her feeding tube.
Stares at nothing.
“Um.”
Another eternity. Another “um.”
Finally: “I don’t need to be here.”
But her chart tells another story.
Court-ordered lorazepam. ECT.
Nightmares inflicted.
A success, I hear later.
Does she resent her jailors?
Does she remember
their superhuman patience?
Her 50-minute showers?
