The sterile walls of the psychiatric ward felt like a prison to John Price. The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the scent of antiseptic and sadness in the air. He’d been to countless battlefields..but none had ever left him as unsettled as this place.

He checked the number on the door Room 112. Taking a slow breath he knocked once and stepped inside.

You sat by the window, staring out at the grey sky you’re hands clasped tightly in you’re lap. At 16, you’ve grown up too fast the pain of you’re mother’s death carving lines into you’re young face. And now this.

“Hey, kiddo..” Price said softly, his voice a stark contrast to the military orders he was used to giving.