Freedom of Sketch

Circle Valley

The ambulance gradually slows to a steady crawl as Nick applies the brakes. I glance out the back windows and notice a change in the landscape. Most of the snow is melted here. Someone has mowed the dead grass down to a smooth carpet. There's a steel fence and a lighted stone sign rising above dark, clipped hedges. We turn off to the right, then trace a half-circle around what appears to be a large parking lot. The ambulance finally inches to a halt underneath a brightly lit overhang supported by cement pillars.

"Mileage?" Ron asks Nick. He's holding a sturdy portable computer.

"21.7," Nick responds. He picks up his radio. "This is Truck 39; we are on location at Circle Valley Hospital."

Dispatch: "10-4, Truck 39."

My heartbeat quickens, adrenaline spiked. Nick climbs out of the cab and walks around to open up the back doors. Ron packs up his computer. "Okay, Shiloh. You ready?"

"I'll never be ready."

"That's too bad," Nick chuckles, skin glowing red in the glare of the ambulance's brake lights. He stomps his feet and breathes into his hands. Fog escapes from between his fingers. "It's freezing out here. Hurry up so we can get inside!"

Ron reaches over and unbuckles me. "Get up slowly," he instructs. "Sometimes people get a little dizzy after riding on a stretcher. Plus Nick drives like a maniac."

I laugh nervously and slide myself to the end of the stretcher. "It wasn't so bad."

The paramedics help me climb down to the ground. Nearby, a car door slams. Dr. Fox emerges from the shadows, his eyebrows pressed together. "How'd it go? Did you behave for these gentlemen?" he asks me.

"She was no problem at all," Ron says. "She even laughed at my horrible jokes."

"Good job, Shiloh." Dr. Fox pockets his keys.

Good girl, Shiloh. Roll over, Shiloh. Have a treat. Play dead. I suppress the urge to bark.

Ahead of us are two sets of sliding glass doors. After Dr. Fox opens the first set with a few quick taps to a keypad, we enter an airlock of sorts, then proceed through the next set of doors after the first are securely shut behind us. We stand before a straight hallway that stretches on farther than I can see. I wasn't quite expecting rows of cramped jail cells with their occupants rattling the bars or sleeping on beds of straw, but I'm still surprised at how benign and normal everything looks. The polished linoleum floors, faded pastel color scheme, and rectangular fluorescent lights could pass for the inside of a school, insurance office, or any other garden-variety public institution. It is the people inside who make the difference and set this place apart.

Two pleasant-faced individuals appear. Shiny badges hang from the collars of their starched scrubs. The man, who is roughly the size and shape of a refrigerator, introduces himself as Wade and gives me a hearty fist-bump. He looks like he should be working as a bouncer at a nightclub, not as a loon-wrangler in a funny farm. "It's gonna be a great night, Shiloh, a great night," he says determinedly. His buddy, a young girl about a third his size, bobs her head in agreement, her silky ponytail swinging. She tells me her name is Tori. Behind us, Dr. Fox and the paramedics complete a quick handoff. They're joking about something, but I can't hear over the sound of rustling papers. It's done. I belong to the System now.

Nick gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Take care of yourself," he says.

Ron smiles, but his eyes are sad. "Everything's going to be okay," he reassures.

If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that in the last few hours, I'd have enough money to bribe Dr. Fox to kick me out and forget I ever existed.

Dr. Fox pulls his badge from his coat pocket and swipes it through a black box mounted to the wall. The doors open, and Ron and Nick head into the crisp darkness toward their waiting ambulance, its engine still running.

Then, calm. A chilling wave of fear ripples over me. I'm in a mental institution.

Dr. Fox gently edges closer, as though he can sense my terror. "Shiloh," he says, "we appreciate your cooperation. I know this must be very difficult, but you're doing a good job. Wade and Tori are going to help you get settled while I organize your paperwork and put in some medication orders." He breaks away from us before I can tell him I won't take any meds, and makes his way down the corridor, taking long, energetic strides.

Tori touches my arm. "Hey," she says. "Let's get going. There's a lot to do and you're probably exhausted."

I nod, and walk in between her and Wade as they lead me farther into the facility. Everything is very clean-cut and uniform, the lighting is modest, and the only sounds are of our awkward footsteps echoing off of the long, smooth walls. We pass many doors, all of them constructed from high-gloss maple and set in blue steel door frames. I find comfort in the organized sameness.

We reach a short segment of hallway where the ceiling is higher and the walls turn into beige lacquered tile. Another corridor branches off on our left. We turn here, and my anxiety mounts at the sight of the nurse's station. A pair of women and a man sit behind the tall desk, pounding away at computers. They all look up at once when we approach, and greet me with warm smiles and words of welcome.