“Isabel? Could you come to the nurses’ station with me?”
It’s the nameless nurse who works the early dawn hours.
Isabel follows her in. “What’s up?”
“We wanted to tell you—” the nurse eyes something on a clipboard as if double-checking her information “—you have been approved for grounds privileges.”
It’s about time.
“So, what does that mean exactly?” Isabel pictures the stone gates at the edge of the driveway.
The nurse puts the clipboard down, tilts her head down and looks over the rims of her glasses at Isabel. “Up until now you’ve only had access to the deck adjacent to the unit. From now on you may go anywhere on the compound but—” she emphasizes “but” as though Isabel is the birdman of Alcatraz “—but, you are required to check in here at the nurses’ station and update the dry erase board ev-er-y thir-ty minutes. Is that clear?”
“Yes, that’s clear,” Isabel answers with more than a trace of sarcasm. She is careful, though, not to push it too far for fear that her privileges will be taken away.
“To reiterate. You may go anywhere on the grounds but you must check back in here at the unit every thirty minutes. On the dry erase board you must account for your whereabouts. This also means that you no longer have to wait to be accompanied in to the dining hall—you may meet the group there and you may leave when you’re finished eating, if you choose to. But…”
Jesus.
“…your mealtime remains the same. You need to eat when the unit eats. This is a big facility and units have allotted times in which to use the dining area. Am I being clear?”
“Got it,” Isabel nods, already backing away. “Thanks.”
She goes immediately to the dry erase board and signs herself out, carefully writing the word walk in big letters with the k backward, mocking the nurse’s childish instructions.
Outside the air feels warm and sticky and, to Isabel, heavenly.
Freedom.
She follows the steep driveway that curled into her unit and pauses at the top of the hill.
Only an idiot would rush down and do it right away. They probably have cameras all over this place…at the driveway especially.
Mindful of her thirty-minute limitation she continues on past a low building resembling her own called Southgate. A few yards away she notes another identical structure. Medical Care Unit.
Three Breezes is a blend of ugly fifties-style units thumbing their noses at the centerpiece of the acreage: an enormous turn-of-the-century Tudor mansion that houses the administration and admissions office. The rambling estate fools newcomers into thinking that they will be housed in similar luxury: the boxy one-story units litter the land behind the manor, though, rendering them invisible to new arrivals.
“Okay, everyone, line up.” Isabel is woken out of her thoughts and follows the sound of the command. There, not fifteen yards away, filing out of yet another unattractive outbuilding, is a group of small children. “We can’t head over to lunch until everyone is in a straight line. Ramon? Get in line!”
Isabel ducks behind a huge oak tree and watches the children take their positions.
Jesus, they’re so little. They must only be about seven or eight. What on earth are they doing here?
“Okay, guys. Off we go.”
Isabel’s eyes fall to the end of the line. A little blond boy wearing glasses is studying the ground ahead of him.
“Come on, Peter, hurry up,” the nurse calls over her shoulder.
The boy named Peter is mumbling to himself.
The nurse stops the group to wait for him to catch up. “Peter! Wake up! Let’s go!”
After a moment Peter calls back, his tiny voice quite clear. “Could you please tell Ramon to stop stepping on the anthills?”
Isabel is astonished.
Anthills.
She watches with tears in her eyes as little Peter trails the group, carefully picking his way around the pavement.