I have no choice. This time, he waits for me to take it, watching closely. It’s not suspicion—he looks pleased. I can’t hide the pill under my tongue or spit it out. I swallow it, squeezing my eyes shut the moment it’s down. I hold the glass of water with a shaky hand.

“Anton let you off easy, you know,” the Guardian says, taking the glass from me. Confused, I look at him and ask him what he means.

“I told him what you said to me earlier,” he says. “Told him you needed impulse control therapy to set you straight, but he declined. Guess he was playing favorites.”

And I am suddenly so tired of the Guardian—his constant possessiveness, his threats. I can’t stop myself when I reply, “It’s not really any of your business, since you’re not the analyst.”

Guardian Bose flinches, and then he takes an angry step forward like he’s mad I saw his reaction. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he says. “Who do you think you are?”

And maybe it’s the poem, or the grief, or maybe I’m just sick of being pushed around, but I sit up straighter and stare back at him. “I know I’m not yours,” I say, “so back off.”

His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, I think he’s going to punch me like the violent men in his movies. Fear streaks through me, but I don’t back down. Instead, the Guardian lifts his hands, taking a step back.

“You’re turning into a real bitch, you know that, Mena?” he asks. He tells me to have a nice rest before walking out and slamming my door.

The moment he’s gone, I double over, shocked at how close I came to violence. Both proud and frightened of my bravery. It was stupid, standing up like that. But at the same time, I feel powerful.

I am powerful. I smile at the agency of it. I look around my room, thinking about what else I can control. But the idea of the sedative in my system freaks me out. I grab the vitamins and run to the bathroom.

Nothing comes up, though, and the chalky taste of the sedative rests on my tongue. It’s too late. At least it’s not the yellow vitamin. I flush those pills down the toilet and go back to my room.

I sit on my bed and reach under the mattress, where I had stowed the book of poetry, to pull it out. I turn to “Girls with Sharp Sticks.” I read it again and again until my eyes start to feel heavy—the effect of the sedative. Before I get too tired, I hide the book under my mattress again, the same place Lennon Rose hid hers. And then I lie back and think about her. Hoping she’s happy, learning exciting subjects. Evolving.

My eyelids flutter closed, but I fight to keep them open a little longer. I think about the girl who must have written those poems, wondering where she is now. Wondering who she is.

And I fall asleep imagining she’s me.

• • •

I’m sedated, my entire body heavy with sleep, when my door opens well after lights out. I turn my head, fighting to open my eyes to see who it is. There’s a sudden jolt of shock when I find Guardian Bose standing there in silhouette.

Dread curls in my stomach as I try to sit up. My head is stuffed with cotton; my arms are rubbery. I fall back in the bed. Guardian Bose steps into my room, his lack of boundaries terrifying.

I feel defenseless and I pull up on my sheets, trying to cover my body, but I’m tangled in the fabric. My bare leg is exposed on top of the blanket.

The Guardian comes to stand next to my bed. He doesn’t say anything right away. I might as well be naked for the way he’s examining me. And I shake my head, trying to clear the sleep that wants to pull me back under.

“How are you feeling, Mena?” he asks. His eyes travel the length of my body.

“Go away,” I tell him, my voice slurred with fatigue. But I’m feeling a crushing fear of my vulnerability.

There’s a small laugh, low and guttural, from Guardian Bose’s throat. And then to my horror, he reaches to run the backs of his fingers along my thigh. I try to roll away from him, but he grips my leg then, holding me in place. Squeezing hard enough to make me cry out in pain. He licks his teeth.

“Don’t ever talk back to me again, Philomena,” he whispers, leaning toward me. “Or next time, I’ll fucking kill you.”

He lets go of me then, and I curl up on my side, starting to sob. My skin stings where he grabbed me, and the idea that he might not be done is a terrifying possibility.

“Leave me alone,” I whimper, trying to gather the blanket over me again. The Guardian lowers his hand to my cheek, holding it there until I turn out of his touch.

“Remember what I said,” he says, and then he walks out of my room, quietly closing the door behind him.

I’m left to sob into my pillow, dipping in and out of consciousness. Too weak to get up. Too weak to fight. He violated me, openly and with malice.

Any power I felt earlier is gone. And maybe that was his point. The Guardian proves daily that he can act without repercussions. Overzealous, they explain.

We’re going to change the rules, I think desperately.

The idea offers me a small bit of comfort. A hope I cling to as I’m submerged again, sucked under by medication. By trauma. Sleep crashes over me in a heavy wave.

But I’m plagued with nightmares. Violent, horrific, suffocating nightmares.

I dream that I’m in a cold room with Dr. Groger and Anton standing above me. I’m lying on a table, unable to move, unable to speak.

“You’re so beautiful,” Anton whispers admiringly. “We couldn’t just let you go.”

Inside I’m screaming for him to leave me alone, but instead, he leans down and puts his forehead against my temple, like he’s overwhelmed by his love.

“Welcome home, Philomena.”

• • •

I wake, sitting straight up and then immediately regretting it. My head is pounding with a headache. It takes a moment for me to remember why, and then the events come back to me. The sedative. The Guardian putting his hand on my leg—he threatened my life. He made me weak, helpless, and then he exploited that to punish me. He just didn’t think I’d remember it, because of the vitamins.

He’s a monster. He’s a danger to all the girls.

With that being said, I’m not sure how to get us out of here. If we show distress, Anton will bring us in for impulse control therapy.

But the question is . . . what does that do? What is impulse control therapy?

I wonder if Valentine remembers from her last session. She might have some insight. I quickly get out of bed and ease open my door, peering into the hallway. I feel a flash of anger when I look at the Guardian’s door, but I can’t focus on that now.

I have to find evidence to prove what’s going on here.

I dart over to Valentine’s door, knocking softly before slipping inside. She sits up, blinking against the morning light, surprised to see me. “Mena,” she says. “What are you doing? Don’t break the rules.”

“What happens in impulse control therapy?” I ask her. “You just had it done. What did Anton do to you?”

Valentine waits a moment, and then brushes her hair back from her face. “I can’t remember,” she says, disappointed. “I hadn’t been thinking clearly, then. I didn’t play the game right, and they caught me. After impulse control, they upped the vitamin dose. Before I could remember not to take them, I’d gone two days. And once I stopped, the memories were completely erased.”