Louisa doesn’t come to Group. Louisa meets with Casper in the evenings. Louisa has phone calls at night; she presses herself against the wall in Rec, twirls the cord between her fingers, the toe of her glittery ballet flat petting the carpet delicately. Louisa can come and go as she pleases, she doesn’t need a Day Pass. Louisa whispers in the dark, “I need to tell you, you aren’t the same as us, you know? Look around. These sheets, this bed, our meds, the doctors. Everything here speaks money. Are you listening?”
Her bed creaks as she shifts, leans on her elbow to face me. In the half-light, her eyes are egg-shaped, shadowed underneath.
“You need to prepare yourself, is all I’m saying.”
But I let her words glide over me, smooth and warm. She turns away. Money, money. I don’t want to think about where it’s coming from or where it isn’t.
I just want her to go back to sleep, so I can eat the turkey sandwich I’ve hidden beneath my bed.
