When I was a child, my father once gave me a puzzling scenario, asking, "If you were in the woods with a shotgun and two bullets, and you saw an animal being devoured, what would you do? Would you leave, shoot the predator, shoot the prey, or shoot both of them for a meal?" I remember thinking hard, the words hanging in the air, heavy and sharp, and I said, "I would shoot the predator." He smiled slowly, as if pleased I had answered, and asked, "Why? The predator is only doing what it must to survive, what instinct tells it is right."
I frowned, unsure, "Even so, it's still hurting someone," and my father laughed softly, almost kindly, though something in his eyes made me shiver, before asking, "And what would you do if you were me? Kill the prey and let the predator win?" I stared at him, confused, trying to make sense of the question, and whispered, "Would you?" He nodded slowly, "I'd kill both; the predator deserves to die for causing suffering, and the prey is already too damaged to recover, I'd be putting it out of its misery."
I blinked, struggling to understand, "But what if the prey wanted to live? What if it could push through and survive?" He looked me dead in the eye, unwavering, "No creature wants to keep suffering, but if its death saves others from the same fate, then its life still has meaning." I whispered almost to myself, "At what cost, Father? A life that could've been saved?" He simply said, "That's just how the world works, Harlow."
"She was always a good kid," the woman sobbed, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, "Smart, top of her class, even on track to Harvard." I listened quietly, holding my expression, knowing the file told a different story of overlooked warnings and fractures. "There, there, Ms. Scottfield. No need to cry," I said neutrally, "Your daughter is in good hands at Greenberow Mental Hospital. She'll get better."
I glanced at my watch; 11:00 a.m., barely the start of my shift, and already the familiar exhaustion pulled at me, heavy and unyielding. "Ms. Scottfield, I understand your concern," I said softer, "But keeping me here delays your daughter's evaluation, the sooner I see her, the sooner we can begin to help her." Her tears became frantic, trembling with fear and self-interest, "I don't know how to cope with this! What will the book club think? My perfect daughter locked in a mental ward?!"
I blinked slowly, realizing, "What are your concerns exactly?" She sniffled, shuddering, "What will the kids at her school think? The other moms? They'll cast me out! They'll think I'm a horrible mother." A cold pit opened in my stomach, and I thought, "So… you're more concerned about your image than your daughter's health?"
Her face twisted with flickers of guilt and fear, "I didn't say that! Of course I'm worried for her! But she'll be a social outcast!" I forced down my disgust and turned away, each step down the hallway heavier than the last, the fluorescent lights flickering and buzzing like a faint, nagging thought. I could feel the weight of all the other parents I'd dealt with, their excuses and shifting blame pressing down on me.
This job drains me, the one who helps others can't even help herself, mentally clocked out from hearing the same excuses over and over. There was a time I loved this job, helping kids, teens, seeing myself in them—lost, desperate, hollow—but offering even the tiniest spark of hope. Now I know how fragile that hope really is; one relapse, one scar, one funeral, and the parents always claim, "I know I did my job as a parent," when if they had, their child wouldn't be here again.
The dull beige walls, buzzing lights, and cold gray sky pressed down on me, all of it weighing heavy as I sighed and shuffled toward the vending machine, sliding in $4.75. "Now ain't this highway robbery," someone muttered beside me. I chuckled faintly, "Yeah, five bucks for a soda," bending to grab my Sprite, only to find the slot empty, my hand closing on nothing.
"Did you see my soda roll out?" I asked, looking around. Nobody was there. I tried again; the machine remained silent.
"Now ain't this highway robbery~" I froze, and Claire smiled at me, bright and easygoing, "You okay?" "Y-yeah. Just… déjà vu. Too many shifts lately," I replied.
She laughed softly; Claire had only been here a couple months, her black hair shining faintly under fluorescent lights, green eyes alert and lively, the kind of person who hadn't yet had her life drained out by this place. "So you're Harlow, right?" she asked. I cracked my soda, the hiss of carbonation filling the quiet, "That's me. You're Claire. Heard you're new."
She fidgeted with her nails, "Were they talking bad about me?" "No. Just said you're new, still able to laugh," I said. She grinned, "This place isn't so bad. At least we're helping kids, getting them away from parents who don't care."
"Blunt," I said, raising an eyebrow. "True though," she countered, her tone light but her eyes sharp, "Parents pile on pressure, then act surprised when their kids collapse. And then they toss them in here."
"Sure," I said carefully, "But here they learn to cope, they get help." Claire tilted her head thoughtfully, "Or they learn to think they're broken. Media paints this place like hell, kids start believing it too. And it's not their fault—it's their parents."
Before I could respond, Dr. Pateline—the director—rounded the corner, and my shoulders tensed instinctively. "Dr. Odetta—" "Harlow," I corrected automatically. "Dr. Odetta. My office. Now."
"Sorry, I have a patient," I replied evenly. "You don't for twenty minutes," she snapped. I glanced at my watch; 11:06, strange, it had read 11:20 a moment ago, my stomach sinking.
"I still need to review her file," I said smoothly. Pateline sighed, "Fine. But see me before your shift ends." I exhaled quietly, heading to my office, skimming her file: Holly Scottfield, 15, admitted after violent outburst toward her mother, complaints of paranoia, hearing and seeing things, convinced others were tormenting her, usually calm, straight-A student, complete breakdown, report vague and rushed.
Classic case of neglect; I chose my approach carefully, kindness first, blunt truth would shatter her further. The sky outside had grown darker, clouds pressing down like a weight, making the air feel heavy, the building itself exhaling unease. Finally, I found Room A-250; dim, isolated, a girl sat at a table, green eyes tired, hair messy, faint circles beneath them, fragile and wary.
"Hello, my name is—" "Dr. Odetta, but you prefer Harlow," she said, cutting me off with startling calmness. I paused, "…You've done your research." She smiled faintly, a ghost of humor in her tired expression.
"Then I'll ask—" "How I'm doing? That's what you're about to ask, right?" Her voice sounded like it had a slight edge to it "Well yes that's what I am-" "You're joking, right? I mean, you can't seriously be asking me how i'm doing"! Her voice cracked into a laugh, "Let's me see…" She say looking up as if she is pretendign to ponder "I've been on the verge of losing my mind—if I haven't already. I've been entirely to scared to open up about it but when i finally tried to open up, I was ignored, because I'm perfect, remember? Perfect people don't get to be tired, they don't get to fall under pressure!" Her gaze pierced me, relentless, searching.
"Oh, and time keeps repeating itself. I've had this conversation with you eight times, Dr. Odetta—sorry, Harlow. I've been in this room for twelve. Fucking. Hours!" Holly screamed, sweeping everything off the table, papers scattering, a pen clattering to the floor.
I calmly picked it up, arranging the pen and papers with deliberate slowness, my voice steady and neutral, "So I'm going to assume your day hasn't been going well." I have an inkling feeling that picking up this case might not have been the best idea.