I retraced the last twenty-four hours. Normally the type of mental exercise I fell back on when I couldn’t sleep, but that was because average day-to-day events are so boring and menial that you couldn’t possibly go over them and stay awake. It’s actually a great trick. You lay back and stare up at the ceiling. “Well, this morning, I woke up, then I put on my socks, then I think I brushed my teeth—” By that point, your brain checks out, ushering you into unconsciousness.

Like I said, great.

As far I could remember, yesterday had been one of those days.

Well, it had been at first. It had started, before my eyes were even open, with the green musk of a soaked sunflower stem. So that wasn’t new.

Then there had been a knock on the door, signaling the arrival of a "certified professional". In this case, a short man who looked me over through small lensed glasses perched near the end of a sloping, hooked nose. He’d made a few quick scribbles on a pad, before rolling a cart into the room. He’d handed me a couple plastic cups, two or three colored pills in each one. Wouldn't want to take them all at once and choke, I guess.

The drug administrator had rolled the cart out of the room, clicking the door shut behind him, and for what felt like an eternity I’d laid back against those white sheets—which wrapped a white mattress, on a white bed frame, standing on a white tile floor, surrounded by walls blanketed in grainy-white wallpaper, with a white plastic vase on my left soaking a solitary sunflower whose petals were...yellow—and waited for the drugs to kick in.

Sometimes the effects weren’t all that noticeable in the short term. One of the pills—I could never figure out which one—seemed to make me feel stoic and indifferent. More agreeable and suggestive. At least for most of the day.

The pills that were supposed to fight the Rithium withdrawal symptoms actually worked, but occasionally they had some severe side effects. It was maddeningly unpredictable. Some days, I would be perfectly comfortable, no pain or difficulties at all. Others, I would black out, only to find myself on the floor, convulsing, bars of pain gliding across my body like electric shocks.

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When I was deemed fit for it, most of the daily activities involved mandatory physical exercises, as well as participating in phony, pretentious lectures held in the wooded garden area.

The best sense I could make of it was that the general public saw Rithium as a psychologically addictive escape from reality. So to keep public approval of these government-funded facilities high, every aspect of their functionality had to play nice with that perception.

That was why they had us out on the grass, doing calisthenics and yard work. Getting us “back in touch” with ourselves, and nature, whatever that means. That is, it doesn’t really mean anything, but it looks good on the news. A nice, open shot of some Senator strolling through the garden, past young men doing yoga on the grass, shaking hands with the head manager.

It was all a charade, and not just because they had doped us up every morning and night. I grew up on a farmhouse in Montana, surrounded by hilly country—a flat, farming valley in the middle of a sort of mountain slope cul de sac. That had been “real”, for as much as that word means anything. Getting up at four in the morning to milk goats, feed and water the animals, cleaning out pens, rotating sprinklers. Going on hikes in the mountains. That had all been real. It had been my way of life.

As for the specially deposited grass and the transplanted trees, enclosed by smooth, high walls the color of polished bone—well, there wasn’t anything real about it.

But it wasn’t for my benefit. Or anyone else in rehab. It was for the public.

For roughly six years now, Rithium had been condemned by the Catholic Church and the United States government, as well as soccer moms everywhere. It was an epidemic that needed to be stomped out.

We weren’t just criminals, though, being punished. In the eyes of the people, we were “victims”. We just needed help. The type of help that Aberdale provided. This way, they can feel superior, patting themselves on the back. Aren’t they good to help those who are less fortunate.

Honestly, I can’t speak to whether I’m a victim or not. I’m certainly a criminal.

Here’s what I do know.

Rithium is illegal. It is addictive. You have to be in touch with dangerous people in order to even access it.

And it is one hundred percent worth it.

A thought that echoes in my brain at the same time I find myself being escorted into a building with a bag over my head, so maybe I’m not the best judge.