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you want as much as I do.
    Slowly, cautiously, I turn on the faucet. Its dripping stream sounds like a drumbeat on the metal sink. It’s so loud, I almost jumpout of my skin. But the tech right beside me doesn’t stir. She’s worn out from school and working extra shifts.
    Careful!
frets the voice in my head.
If she wakes up now—if she sees you—!
    So what? What can she possibly do? There’s nothing anybody could do to me that’s worse than what’s been done already. And if she does something worse, I’ll deal with that, too.
    I wash the pale, viscous puddle down the drain and refill the feeding pump with water. Then I rinse out my chip bag and hide it away. Finally, I hook my nose tube back to the feeding pump.
    My heart is pounding as I crawl back into bed. I lie there and listen to the feeding pump grind as it fills my stomach with water. I should be able to relax now, but worries nag at me and keep me on edge. I need to talk to Mom in the morning about correspondence school. I need to figure out some way to take online classes.
    Because if they’re really going to keep me here until I’ve gained weight, then I’m never getting out of this place.

5
    It’s finally happening. After almost two weeks of enforced bed rest at the children’s hospital, they’re sending me to an eating disorder treatment center.
    Another hospital. A mental hospital! And nothing is wrong with me!
    Two EMTs are hauling my stretcher down the halls. I’m strapped down around my middle again. I can’t believe Mom is letting this happen. I can’t believe they can do this to me.
    You’ll spend six months in a hospital
, says the voice in my head.
You’ll spend six months in a hospital with a tube up your nose.
    Without meaning to, I raise my hand to my face. That damn tube is still there, snaking down inside my throat. Its free end has been taped to my cheek, and the tape feels stiff and itchy. I have to force myself not to pull it loose.
    I’m a prickly bundle of nerves, and my stomach feels like it’s stuffed with razor blades, but I have myself under control. If I yell and scream, I might feel better, but I’ll sound like I belong in a mental hospital. If I’m polite, I might shame my kidnappers a little, but the transport will be easier for them. So I’ve decided on silence. I stare up at the ceiling tiles and adjust the expression on my face: as stiff and blank as a stone statue.
    With a jerk and a heave, the techs lift my stretcher into an ambulance. Mom climbs in the back with me, and we start off. The only view I have is out the tiny back window, where the street unrolls behind us. I hate riding backward. It’s making me sick.
    The young EMT is telling Mom his life story, but I know he’s really telling it to me. Apparently, he’s worked overtime for so long now that I’m the closest thing to a date he’s had in weeks.
    I pretend I’ve gone deaf and keep my eyes fixed on the cars nosing up to our back bumper. This guy isn’t going to get the satisfaction of thinking I’m listening.
    An eating disorder treatment center. Anorexics. Oh, God! What will they think of me? I did my best, but they weighed me right before the ambulance came. They wouldn’t let me see my number, but I know it was more than it was when the transport plane brought me in.
    What’s my number? I don’t know my number!
    You’re obese
, says the voice in my head.
You’re huge!
    The ambulance slows down, then stops. We’re there. But we’re not there. We’re at Patient Intake. They won’t even let us see the place, much less talk to anybody, till Mom’s signed dozens of forms.
    Minutes tick by while a big woman with big hair puts form after form on the desk in front of Mom. Mom skims each one before she signs it. It’s like she’s buying a new house. Or buying the whole center. Or selling me!
    A tech