She knew all to well that seven-bedroom home in Brentwood, the three cars, and backyard pool and beach house. How it could swallow you up, transform you into a tiny speck in the carpet that no one saw, cared about, or listened to. Anna would suck you up with the vacuum on Thursdays and toss you out with the trash.

None of this scared her. Not the place anyways, or the bed checks, or the peeing with the stall door open, or even speaking in group. It was when the lights turned off, and she glanced about the room, her eyes attempting to adjust, spying various figures nestled under sheets and comforters, shifting about seeking the perfect position for slumber. A deep sigh escaping their lips, as another day of progress had been made, fifteen or so hours of pain and confusion now behind them, moments closer to that hidden epiphany, the second of truth when the answers would come flowing like a stream.

Spencer squeezed her eyelids together, waiting for the sensation to come, wondering if this night was her turn, when the light switched on, and the laugh came, bathing her in excitement and happiness, moments of childhood when news that Santa had finally arrived, or a Strawberry Shortcake bicycle announced a twelfth birthday. Honest, true joy, that could not be crafted from scratch, or emulated on demand…when it was true, you knew it, without a doubt, and no one else could take that memory from you.

Glancing up, Spencer saw the glass doors that led to the yard open again, the sunlight reflected off of it, a bright glimmer in a sea of hopelessness. It was visiting day. Her mother was supposedly on her way to visit. Apparently she had an hour to kill in between a facial and strip bingo.

She grasped at the blanket, yanking her legs up underneath it, watching patients roam aimlessly, their loved ones either embracing them or walking a few steps behind, wanting to provide space, unclear what this situation demanded.

In here was life, an almost microcosm of her previous existence in LA, the bullshit and lies as obvious as a fart in a car, the only questioned remaining as to whom had dealt it. Her therapists listened. Then talked. Then listened. Then handed her pills. Then left. Spencer would stare at the four multicolored pills that rested at the bottom of a tiny clear plastic cup. Some were chalky and plain white, while the other two were always coated red and blue. It was best to take them all at once, downing them like a shot of tequila, minus the stinging nostrils and inescapable grimace that followed.