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of all the quiet that I finally have to speak and so I say the first thing that pops in my mind. “Is it bullet-proof?” I ask Orange Nurse, who jerks her head around to finally look at me for the first time.
    â€œBullet-proof?” she gasps, her hand flying to her chest, her arm flinging the satchel as far away from her squeaking body as possible and holding straight out beside her in midair what she must be certain is a stored-away gun.
    I have alarmed Orange Nurse. She could not be more alarmed if I had yelled “Fire!” It is good. Orange Nurseneeds to be alarmed, something to break up her dry, tight face. I am pleased to see Orange Nurse alarmed. I am pleased to see that even way down in the depths of my depression, I can keep a corner, be it ever so small, wherein I can make a joke, no matter that it’s a joke only to myself.
    â€œOh, well, uh, bullet-proof, uh, sure . . . yes, yes, of course,” she says, her eyes pleading with the nurses inside the glass for some kind of reassurance, her head and shoulders wriggling and bouncing around like she is Howdy-Doody, that ridiculous TV puppet, and I, Buffalo Bob. Does that mean, then, that I can pull her strings, that all I need do is speak and she will jump? I hold steadfast to that thought in my mind all the time she’s handing over the admitting papers, and the thought gives me immense pleasure, overwhelming pleasure. For I, Sarah Elizabeth Miller, have helped myself for the first time here at Alexander T. Syms Memorial Hospital. I have spoken and someone has jumped. I pulled someone’s strings. Only a thousand moments behind the Great Green Door, and already I have been blessed. Thank you, Green Door, thank you most sincerely from the bottom of my heart, wherever that bottom goes to.
    â€œRoom 807,” the nurse inside the bullet-proof glass finally pronounces, as if a death sentence. No way might she know that I couldn’t be any more dead, and that if anything at all happens to me here, that thing would have to be more lifelike than what I am now. My Lord, the crazy house, if that ain’tlife for you, what is? And Orange Nurse, with her orange-gold hair and mint green uniform, adds living color. What more could anybody ask? A guided tour? Oh sure, yes, thank you kindly, Orange Nurse.
    â€œThat way, men’s ward,” she says, pointing left, as we turn right onto the women’s ward. “Women not allowed on men’s ward between eight P.M . and eight A.M . Men not allowed on women’s ward between eight P.M . and eight A.M .”
    So there, Sheriff Tate. Now how do you suppose anybody could do
it
here, even if they wanted to? And I don’t know why anyone would ever want to do it anyway. All that looking. Like a magnifying glass all over your body. Seeing everything.
    We stop at a door that is almost solid except for a small square glass, a glass solely for the purpose of peeping in, I suppose, for looking. “Lock-up ward,” she recites, “for people who get out of control.”
    I peep into the lock-up ward to see a woman with the prettiest dark blond wavy hair sitting on a cot, rocking back and forth, her arms folded, clutching her sides. She’s crying. I think. Anyway, I see tears, but I don’t hear anything. I feel like an intruder, an invader. She’s private. I shouldn’t be looking. I turn away. Is this what happens if you cry? You get put into the lock-up ward? If you cry, does that mean you’re “out of control?”
    â€œWhy is she in there?” I ask Orange Nurse, but we’re already at Room 807 and Orange Nurse says, “I’ll help you put your things away.” She drops Daddy’s satchel down on a bed. There’re four beds, one in each corner.
    And bars. On the window. Six of them. Bars. I, Sarah Elizabeth Miller, am behind bars. Locked up and behind bars. Although the bars make me numb, number, numbest, whatever, still there comes