River hadn’t had a drink in eleven days. He missed home, but in a way, he’d also missed the hospital. He hated sobriety, and the rawness that came along with it. Sobriety meant being present, and he’d never been very good at that. The hospital was relatively small, the only psychiatric unit in the province. Like any hospital, it was cold and impersonal, filled with troubled people who couldn’t make it in the world on their own. River met with a psychiatrist once a day, and his progress was tracked in a chart along with everybody else’s. He felt like a project. He felt like a boy whose only purpose in life was to be fixed by others.

It was exhausting, being betrayed so many times by people you loved the most. Everybody grew tired of River at some point or another. It wasn’t his time. Most days, it was hard to believe this. In the hospital, he did the same things every day. It was comforting to know that each day would be predictable. It was probably a lot safer than making his own decisions. At breakfast, he sat alone at a corner table and munched on a muffin, which tasted bland. River was never a fan of muffins.

“Excuse me, is it okay if I sit here?”

River had grown tired of being alone. At this point in life, he’d expect nothing else.

“Sure.”

A chair squeaked. Breakfast was nearly over, and then he’d have to go back to real life. Eating alone made a lot more sense than trying to make friends. Friends never lasted, anyway.

“I’m Wren.”

She’d been so quiet, River had forgotten she was there. She was brown and beautiful, glancing at him from the other end of the small breakfast table. “How long have you been here?” She wore yellow, which looked good on her. River couldn’t stare. He always fell in love at first sight, and it never ended well.

“It’s my third day.” He wasn’t hungry, and hadn’t been in days. Every morning, after being given his medications, he was sent to the breakfast line with the rest of the patients. “But I’ve been here before.” He’d arrived at the hospital in the middle of the afternoon two days before. It wasn’t a long drive, but he was groggy and fatigued, and slept for most of it. Check in was always the same - River missed the things he’d been forced to leave behind.

Wren ate quietly, tapping her fingers on the table next to the plate. River wondered why she’d come. Everybody had their stories, and so few people were willing to share. Tossing the rest of his plain muffin onto the white paper plate, he tried not to stare. There were lines and lines of tables in the dining area. Something had drawn her to his. “My name’s River, by the way.”

Technically, River wasn’t his real name. This wasn’t important. “I like that.” Wren was soft-spoken. River was an open book. “What’s it like here? I just got here yesterday. I don’t really know what to expect.” It was nothing like home. Being in the hospital made River feel calm and safe.

“It’s okay.” River’s latest diagnosis had sent him reeling, and it had taken far too long to catch his breath. “Mostly we just sit around and talk about our feelings.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.” Wren sighed, and then smiled - sending a jolt through River’s body. He was erratic, sure, but there were benefits to this. It didn’t feel like it sometimes. “Can I sit with you?”

Yes, please.

“I guess so.”

When breakfast finished, it was always time for individual therapy sessions. River had always been extraordinarily uncomfortable opening up to people: especially those who were paid to judge him. The only way to escape this place was to cooperate. Wren cleared her plate quietly, and then washed her hands repeatedly in the dining hall’s small sink. The lines were long and orderly, and seemed to take forever to move.

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“Why did you sit at my table?”

Wren stood in the line beside him, muttering to herself. River could always tell which patients were self-admitted and which weren’t. She continued to mutter, two or three or four seconds more, before looking up. Her eyes were dark and soft; something about them was familiar. “You looked kind.” River didn’t see how this made much sense. He was impersonal and unfriendly. “Also,” Wren smiled, and it lit up her whole face. “I like your pink hair.”

The psychiatrist was an older woman, who spoke with a tone of voice that reminded River of his mother. She shut the door with a loud click, sending a long glance at him as she took her seat. “Good morning, Lael.”

God, he hadn’t heard that name in years. “I’d prefer it if you called me by my middle name, actually.” Names had memories, and identities. River couldn’t bear to hear a name his mother had used to demean him.

He’d never met this psychiatrist before. Ten years ago, most of the hospital’s current staff had been different. According to the nameplate on the desk of the woman, her name was Doctor Bethany Goulding. He hadn’t spoken to her yesterday, and still wasn’t quite sure why. She gave him a long look, and then glanced over his paperwork. As the hospital lined patients up by surname, River was always last.

The psychiatrist smiled, suddenly kind. “Let me try this again. Good morning, River. What are you hoping to get out of your hospital stay?”

A safe haven.

He’d found it difficult to self-regulate since arriving. This was nothing new. Without the reassurance of other people, he was all but useless. “I don’t know.” River didn’t want to die. But he didn’t want to hate himself, either. All his life, it had seemed like it was either one or the other.

“Start smoking weed,” Salem said, on the drive up. “Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better.”

He wondered what Wren was doing. It was embarrassing how quickly a mood could swing. It was embarrassing how little time it took to mould an entire personality around somebody else. Well-adjusted adults had a sense of themselves. Well-adjusted adults could live their lives without the need to imitate somebody else.

“Okay.” Goulding held a clipboard, as had every other shrink River had ever seen. “How about we start with setting simple, daily goals. Something you’d like to accomplish each day of your stay.” It sounded a lot like circle talk. Each afternoon, every patient would gather in a circle in an open room, taking turns discussing their hopes and goals for the duration of their stay. It was about the little things, they all said. Celebrating the little victories is just as important as celebrating the big ones.

“I want to make friends.”

Humans needed companionship. River once discussed love and friendship with a friend, and he’d been astonished to learn that he thought so differently than everyone else. Everybody talked about love and sex going together, as if you couldn’t have one without the other. The world was filled with sex: and River never understood it. He craved intimacy in the form of small talk, cuddles, nature walks, secret-keeping. He’d never looked at a person and wondered what it would be like to sleep with them, and he’d never shared his friends’ interest in kissing. Growing up, this had all made him feel so alone - especially as a man, who was meant to be dominant and virile.

“You want to make friends.” Goulding wrote this down, scribbling loudly on her clipboard. “There’s a lot of people like you here, River. Making friends is certainly possible.” When he arrived here, he’d been forced to see a doctor for a review of his medical history. They all seemed concerned about him. Goulding seemed concerned, too. “Your medical records say you were rushed to the hospital with cardiac arrest five days ago.” He was fine. He’d survived a lot worse.

“Mhm.”

She had kind eyes. Kind, but pressing. She only cared about River because it was her job. “Do you know what caused that?” She was persistent. So was everybody else here.

He shrugged. “Shouldn’t you know that? You’re the doctor here.” River’s ex-girlfriends would call him a functioning alcoholic. This was a bit far-fetched. He hadn’t really functioned in years, and he probably wasn’t about to start now.