MirrorWorld

“Seymour,” I say. He stops. I look back to Chubs. “They’ll behave. But why does she want to come in here?”

He shrugs. “Some kind of specialist. Feels comfortable around nut … you guys.”

“Close one,” I say.

Chubs smiles nervously. “I’ll go get her.”

When the orderly is out of earshot, Shotgun taps my shoulder. “You ever get in trouble for … you know?”

“Breaking his finger?”

“Crack!” Seymour says a little too loudly, acting out breaking a branch over his knee. Some of our fellow “nutjobs” — the word Chubs is forbidden from saying — look up but don’t move from their positions around the room.

I shake my head. “No one ever said anything. He’s been a perfect gentleman since.” I slide down from the couch. “I’m going to take a walk. Let me know if she wins the dinette set.”

The large space is pristine. The white floors glow with a near-magical shine. When I first arrived at the SafeHaven, one word, I wondered why they kept the floor so clean. My first theory was that they wanted to impress visiting relatives. While some people are here for doing violent things, others are committed by loved ones before they get the chance. But I realized the truth after the first fight. Just a drop of blood on the gleaming floor stands out like a stop sign in the snow. Between that, the fourteen cameras, and several sets of watching eyes, committing a violent act inside this space, while not impossible, is hard to cover up. Unless you’re good at it, which, apparently, I am. Broken fingers don’t bleed.

The large, barred windows draw me toward the light of day. The outer wall is covered with tall windows, allowing those of us trapped inside a view of what we’re missing. I appreciate the ample sunlight, but it’s really just a tease. I can’t smell the rain, or the fresh-cut lawn, or anything else other than the scent of mold-tinged air-conditioning. I’ve considered leaving. I think I could manage it. But if this is where the law and society say I need to be, who am I to argue? I certainly don’t have anywhere else to go.

At least the people here understand me … not that they understand much of anything. But they accept me as one of them, even though I know, at my core, that I don’t belong here. Of course, most everyone here, save for Seymour, thinks the world would be better with them flailing through it.

The view today is mostly primary and secondary colors. Blue sky. Green grass and trees. White clouds. Black pavement — they redid it a week ago. Couldn’t even smell that. Looking down at the parking lot, I see far fewer cars than usual. It looks like half the regular staff are missing. Also interesting is an orange car. That’s new, I think. I can’t tell the make or model, but it sticks out among the various shades of gray preferred by SafeHaven’s staff.

“See anything interesting?” The voice is feminine. Quiet. My visitor has arrived.

“Your car,” I say. “I like the color.” I turn around. My visitor is attractive. Blond hair, tied back tight. High eyebrows that imply a good nature. And a kind smile. But her outfit … “You look like a pumpkin.”

Her smile broadens as she looks down at herself. “I do, don’t I?” She lifts her arms and the sides come up, like Batman’s cape, only neon. It’s a poncho. A bright orange hunter’s poncho.

“They wouldn’t let me in if I wasn’t wearing it. At least it matches the car.” She lowers her arms, revealing Shotgun and Seymour standing behind her, one to a side. She senses their presence and flinches, stepping closer to me. A few eyes around the room glance up, and then turn back down.

“She’s a doctor,” Seymour says, his fingers twitching madly in front of his mouth. “No, a specialist!”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Shotgun says with a smirk and a confident nod.

“An expert!” Seymour says. He’s getting a little too excited.

“Can you give us some privacy?” I ask the pair.

“Ex-girlfriend it is!” Shotgun says, pumping an imaginary shotgun, “Chick, chick,” and firing it into the air. “Boom!”

As the duo retreats back to the couch-throne, the woman turns to me again, looking a little less sure of herself.

“That’s why we call him Shotgun Jones,” I explain.

“Right,” she says, straightening her pumpkin suit. Her smile disappears. The eyebrows descend. “Do you want to be here?”

“I want to smell the new pavement,” I tell her.

A mix of confusion and disappointment contorts her pretty face.

“You know I’m crazy, right?”

“With a capital C,” she says. “I’ve been told. But you’re not crazy.”

“You know my real name?”

“Lowercase c.”

“Oh. Then what am I?”

“I’ll let your doctor explain it to you. Later. Right now, I need a very plain yes or no answer. Do you want to leave this place? Or do you want to spend the rest of your life waiting to see who replaces Drew Carey on the Price Is Right?”

“He’s funny,” I say.

“Bob was better.”

“I don’t really remember Bob.”