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stare at Nell’s mirrored closet doors. I haven’t opened them since she left for Oakside. I always used to borrow her clothes without asking. After she died, the thought of wearing her clothes made my hands tremble.
    Because Nell’s door stays shut most of the time, her room’s cleaner than the rest of the house and definitely more organized. Her knickknacks remain on her dresser: a seashell she pocketed on our trip to San Diego when I was ten and she was twelve; a ratty drawstring purse she used all the time even though it was out of style; a makeup tray glittery with the sprinklings of eye shadow and blush; a tube of soft-pink lip gloss too light for her olive skin, but which she wore nearly every day.
    I lift the lid and upturn the box on her bed: the jeans and T-shirt she’d been wearing the night she was admitted (the blood gone, probably laundered by Oakside); a few pairs of underwear and bras; Oakside-issued scrubs in lightblue (though not the ones with the frayed hem that she was wearing when I saw her); and Babs, the cloth doll Aunt Becca gave her before I was even born. As I figured, no sign of Nell’s silver ring. I’m still disappointed, though.
    I scoop the contents back into the box and put it on her dresser, then lie on the bed and reach underneath the mattress. My fingertips find what they’re looking for, and I slowly ease my treasure from its hiding place.
    Like a ritual, I hold the journal in my lap for a second. I don’t know if I’m sending up a prayer, and if so, to whom, but it just feels like the respectful thing to do. I doubt she ever shared this with anyone.
    Well, almost anyone.
    The marbled cardboard cover stares up at me, and like I always do, I think about the first day I laid eyes on it almost six months ago. I still can’t understand Nell’s reasons for fleeing to Jerome, with its dust and thin air. When I went to see where they’d found her, the notebook had been left for me on the driver’s seat in my unlocked car. I nearly collapsed when I first saw her handwriting. I actually expected her to be there, alive, waiting for me under the nearby tree. Waiting there under the tree where the police found her hanging in a way no one should ever hang from anything. Like a mistake of nature.
    I ease the journal open as carefully as I can. The cheap binding is already beginning to release its grip on the thin pages. The book automatically opens to the middle, where someone pried a page from it. I trace my finger along the soft tear marks, willing the page back into place. Then I flip back to the place where I left off. I know all her entries practically by heart, but each time I read them, the pain feels fresh and alive.
    Nell David
    November 1
    Anger is the worst thing to feel in this place. And even though no one tells you it’s dangerous, you’d have to be . . . well . . . crazy not to know the trouble that anger can get you into here. They put angry people in restraints and dope them up with brightly colored pills. And there are tons of pills—Dixie cups overflowing with them, it seems. And they’re huge, those pills. I can’t believe you’re actually supposed to swallow them.
    There’s a guy. I call him LM. He seems really tall to me, but I saw his chart once—the orderlies leave them around like gum wrappers—and he’s only five foot ten. I guess he seems taller because he’s built like a cube. His stomach hangs over his pants, and his shirt is tight around his shoulders, too. He’s older than me. Maybe even in his thirties or forties. It’s hard to say. Everyone looks old around here. For some reason, the orderlies shave LM’s head every three days or so like clockwork. They won’t let even a half inch grow before they take a razor to it. I’d bet it’s because he pulls it out. He has deep grooves along the sides of his head. They look like trenches made by nails. But it’s his eyes that I notice the most about him. They’re bright and blue, and they’re