I press my thumb into my left wrist. That weird heat hasn't gone away.Great, I already have cooties from this place.
Chapter three
The door doesn't have scratch marks.
That's the first thing I notice about the admin building — everything here looks like it belongs in an actual building. Wood doors. Brass handles instead of bolts. There's even a nameplate: G. Wajnowski, Director.
Director. Not warden. Not supervisor. Director, like this is a program and not a cage.
Sven walked me across the compound to get here. Cold air, icy path, the short distance between Red House and the admin building that feels like crossing into another world.
Sven knocks once. Doesn't wait for an answer. Opens the door and steps aside, which puts me in the doorway alone, which is a choice. His choice. He's presenting me.
The man behind the desk is already looking at me.
Dark hair, cut close. Hard face, not yet angry. He's big the way Sven is big, but different. Sven's size is vertical, all height and reach. This man is built like a wall. Thick through the chest and shoulders, hands flat on the desk.
He's wearing a dark henley. No badge. No uniform. No visible weapon. A tablet and my file — the thick one, the red-tagged one — are on the desk in front of him.
"Sit," he says.
One chair. Metal. Not bolted, which is interesting. Either this room doesn't get the same kind of visitors or he's confident enough in his ability to handle whatever a chair might become.
The office itself is sparse. No photos. No personal effects. A filing cabinet. A shelf with binders labeled by color — red, orange, gold — and stacked neatly enough to be compulsive. The window behind him faces the trees, not the yard.
I sit.
"Alexandra Jones." He opens the file. Doesn't look at it — he already knows what's in it. The opening is performance. He wants me to see him open it. To know he has it. "Eighteen. Ward of the state. Seven placements in four years. Aggravated assault — three counts. Property destruction. One suspicious death."
He reads my rap sheet the way someone else might read a grocery list. No emphasis. No reaction. Just data.
"It's Alex," I say.
"I know what it is." He closes the file. Folds his hands on top of it. Looks at me with pale eyes that don't blink enough. "I'm Gavin. I run this facility. Anything that happens inside these fences is my responsibility, including you. You've met Sven, who runs your house. You will also meet three other staff members over the course of your first week — Cal, who oversees lab and cognitive work. Stone, who handles outdoor programming. And Lumi, who works with residents on transition."
He lists them like items on an itinerary. No descriptions. No reassurances. This is what's going to happen to you. That's all.
"Your evaluation file starts now," he says. "Everything you do, say, and refuse to say in this facility will be documented and submitted to the Review Panel at the end of your placement period. The Panel will determine whether you remain here, transfer to another program, or are reclassified."
"Reclassified as what?"
"That depends on what the evaluation reveals." He leans back. The chair doesn't creak. Everything about this man is precise.
Reclassified. Not transferred. Not released. Reclassified — like I'm not a person with a case. I'm a specimen with a pending label.
"I'm going to ask you some questions. You can answer them or not. Your refusal will also be documented."
"Sounds fair."
"It's not meant to be fair. It's meant to be thorough." He picks up the tablet. Taps it once. "Have you ever experienced a blackout? Loss of consciousness, memory gaps, dissociative episodes. Waking up somewhere you don't remember going. Time you can't reconstruct."
"One."
He doesn't react. Doesn't write anything. He already knew the answer — it's in the file three inches from his hand. But I gave it to him straight because I'm not stupid enough to deny something he can verify, and telling the truth on the easy questions buys me room to hold the line on the hard ones.
"Tell me about it," he says.
"It's in my file."
