What about the boys? Were any of them violent?

I rubbed my stomach.

"Someone's hungry, I see," chirped a voice.

I glanced up to see Mrs. Talbot coming through what I guessed was the kitchen door, milk pitcher in hand. She smiled at me.

"Come in, Chloe. Let me introduce you."

Before breakfast, Miss Van Dop gave us all pills, then watched as we took them. It was creepy. No one said a word, just held out their hands, gulped their pill down with water, and returned to their conversations.

When I stared at mine, Miss Van Dop said the doctor would explain everything later, but for now, I should just take it. So I did.

After we'd eaten, we trooped upstairs to dress. Rae was in the lead, followed by Liz and Tori. Then me.

"Rachelle?" Tori called.

Rae's shoulders tightened and she didn't turn. "Yes, Victoria?"

Tori climbed two more steps, closing the gap between them. "You did get the laundry done, right? It's your turn, and I want to wear that new shirt my mom bought me."

Rae slowly turned. "Mrs. T. said I could do laundry today, since we had to take off while —" her gaze lit on me, and she offered a tiny, almost apologetic smile " —Chloe got settled."

"So you didn't do the laundry."

"That's what I said."

"But I want —"

"Your shirt. Got that part. So wear it. It's brand-new."

"Yeah, and other people probably tried it on. That's gross."

Rae threw up her hands and disappeared down the hall. Tori shot a scowl over her shoulder, as if this were my fault. As she turned, something flashed between us, and I stumbled back a step, grabbing the railing.

Her scowl twisted. "Geez, I'm not going to hit you."

Over her shoulder, a hand appeared, pale fingers wriggling like worms.

"Chloe?" Liz said.

"I —I—I—" I peeled my gaze from the disembodied hand. "I t-tripped."

"Listen —girl—" A man's voice whispered in my ear.

Liz came down the two steps between us and laid her fingers on my arm. "Are you okay? You're all white."

"I j-j-just thought I h-h-heard something."

"Why is she talking like that?" Tori asked Liz.

"It's called a stutter." Liz squeezed my arm. "It's okay. My brother stutters, too."

"Your brother is five, Liz. Lots of little kids do it. Not teenagers." Tori peered down at me. "Are you slow?"

"What?"

"You know, do you ride the looong bus —" she pulled her hands apart, then brought them together again "—or the short one."

Liz flushed. "Tori, that's not —"

"Well, she talks like a little kid, and she looks like one so . . ."

"I have a speech impediment," I said, enunciating carefully, as if she were the slow one. "I'm working to overcome it."

"You're doing great," Liz chirped. "You said that whole sentence without stuttering."

"Girls?" Mrs. Talbot peered around the hall doorway below. "You know you aren't supposed to fool around on the stairs. Someone could get hurt. Class is in ten minutes. Chloe, we're still waiting for notes from your teachers, so you won't be in class today. When you're dressed, we'll discuss your schedule."

Lyle House liked schedules the way a boot camp likes discipline.

We rose at 7:30. Ate, showered, dressed, and were in class by 9:00, where we did independent work assigned by our regular teachers, supervised by the tutor, Ms. Wang. Break at 10:30 for a snack —nutritious, of course. Back to class. Break for lunch at noon. Back to class from 1:00 until 4:30 with a twenty-minute break at 2:30. At some point during classes —the timing would vary—we'd have our individual hour-long therapy session with Dr. Gill; my first would be after lunch today. From 4:30 until 6:00, we had free time . . . kind of. In addition to classes and therapy, we had chores. A lot of chores from the looks of the list. These had to be done during our free time before and after dinner. Plus we had to squeeze in thirty minutes of physical activity every day. Then after a snack, it was off to bed at 9:00, lights-out at 10:00.

Nutritious snacks? Therapy sessions? Chore lists? Mandatory exercises? Nine o'clock bedtime?

Boot camp was starting to look good.

I didn't belong here. I really didn't.

After our talk, a phone call sent Mrs. Talbot scurrying off, calling back promises to return with my job list. Oh joy.

I sat in the living room trying to think, but the unrelenting cheerfulness was like a bright light shining in my eyes, making it hard to concentrate. A few days of yellow paint and daisies and I'd turn into a happy zombie, like Liz.

I felt a pang of shame. Liz had made me feel welcome and been quick to defend me against her friend. If being cheerful was a mental illness, it wasn't such a bad one to have —certainly better than seeing burned-up people.

I rubbed the back of my neck and closed my eyes.

Lyle House wasn't so bad, really. Better than padded rooms and endless hallways filled with real zombies, shambling mental patients so doped up they couldn't be bothered to get dressed, much less bathe. Maybe it was the illusion of home that bothered me. Maybe, in some ways, I'd be happier with ugly couches and white walls and bars on the windows, so there'd be no false promises. Yet just because I couldn't see any bars didn't mean it was as open as it seemed. It couldn't be.

I walked to the front window. Closed, despite the sunny day. There was a hole where there'd probably been a latch for opening it. I looked out. Lots of trees, a quiet street, more older houses on big lots. No electric fences. No sign on the lawn proclaiming LYLE HOUSE FOR CRAZY KIDS. All very ordinary, but I suspected if I grabbed a chair and smashed the window, an alarm would sound.

So where was the alarm?

I stepped into the hall, glanced at the front door, and saw it, blinking away. No attempt to hide it. A reminder, I guess. This might look like your house, but don't try walking out the front door.

What about the back?

I went into the dining room and looked out the window into a large yard with as many trees as the front. There was a shed, lawn chairs, and gardens. The soccer ball on one wooden chair and the basketball hoop over a cement pad suggested we were allowed out —probably for that "thirty minutes of physical activity." Was it monitored? 1 couldn't see any cameras, but there were enough windows for the nurses to keep an eye on anyone in the yard. And the six-foot-high fence was a good deterrent.

"Looking for a way out?"

I spun to see Miss Van Dop. Her eyes glittered with what looked like amusement, but her face was solemn.

"N-no. I w-was just looking around. Oh, and while I was getting dressed, I noticed I don't have my necklace. I think I might have left it in the hospital, and I want to make sure I get it back. It's kind of special."

"I'll let your father know, but he'll have to hold it for you while you're here. We don't like our girls wearing jewelry. Now, as for looking around . . ."

In other words, nice try on the distraction, but it hadn't worked. She pulled out a dining room chair and motioned for me to sit. I did.

"I'm sure you saw the security system at the front door," she said.

"I — I wasn't—"

'Trying to escape. I know." The smile touched her lips. "Most of our residents aren't the sort of teenagers who run away from home, unless it's to make a statement. They're bright enough to know that whatever is out there is worse than what's in here. And what's in here isn't so bad. Not Disney World, but not prison either. The only escape attempts we've ever had are from kids trying to sneak out to meet friends. Hardly serious, but parents expect better security from us; and, while we pride ourselves on providing a homelike environment, I think it's important to point out the limits early."