Something has happened. You can always tell. You come to and find wreckage: a smashed lamp, a devastated human face that shivers on the verge of being recognizable.
Occasionally someone in uniform: a paramedic, a nurse. A hand extended with the pill. Or poised to insert the needle.
This time, I am in a room, sitting on a cold metal folding chair. The room is not familiar, but I am used to that.
I look for clues. An office-like setting, long and crowded with desks and computers, messy with papers. No windows.
I can barely make out the pale green of the walls, so many posters, clippings, and bulletins tacked up. Fluorescent lighting casting a pall. Men and women talking; to each other, not to me. Some wearing baggy suits, some in jeans. And more uniforms. My guess is that a smile would not be appropriate. Fear might be.
Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?
I want to go home. I want to go home. Am I in Philadelphia? There was the house on Walnut Lane. We played kickball in the streets.
No, this is Chicago. Precinct 21. We have called your son and daughter. You can decide at any time to terminate the interview and exercise these rights.
I wish to terminate. Yes.
Excerpted from TURN OF MIND © Copyright 2012 by Alice LaPlante. Reprinted with permission by Grove Press. All rights reserved.