The white, government-authorized transport van fishtailed onto a narrow dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

A weathered wooden sign hung over the road:

PINEHURST YOUTH DEVELOPMENT CENTER. PRIVATE PROPERTY.

The van rumbled past decaying farm buildings and dense woods that made Tommy’s chest tighten. Here he was again—out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever went right.

The doctors had all agreed this was best for him. Pinehurst, they said, was for “troubled teens who don’t belong.” What a crock. Places like this were snake oil. Nothing could save him.

The van stopped in front of a modest two-story house with white siding and a wraparound porch. Billy, the driver, glanced back at Tommy, who sat rigid, staring into nothing.

“Last stop,” Billy said.

Tommy didn’t move.

Billy slid open the door and sighed. Before he could speak again, a young woman stepped out onto the porch, clipboard in hand. She shot Billy a sharp look, then turned her attention to Tommy.

“Tommy Jarvis?” she asked gently. “I’m Pam Roberts. I’m glad you’re here.”

Tommy stared straight ahead.

“If you’d like to grab your things, I can take you inside,” she said.

After a long moment, Tommy stood, climbed out of the van, and retrieved his army-green duffel bag. Pam led him inside just as the van pulled away.

The house was quiet. No alarms. No shouting. Just birds outside the window.

Pam tried small talk, but Tommy stayed silent as she guided him through cozy rooms painted in warm colors. It didn’t feel like a cage. That unsettled him almost as much as the silence.

They stopped at a small office. A casually dressed man stood and smiled.

“Hi, Tommy. I’m Dr. Matthew Letter. Have a seat.”

Tommy sat, staring at the floor.

Dr. Letter explained Pinehurst—no guards, no locks, an honor system. Preparing for a new life.

Tommy barely listened.

“Pam, would you show Tommy to his room?” the doctor said.

Upstairs, Pam pointed to the first door on the left. “That’s yours.”

Tommy entered a small but clean room and dropped his bag onto the bed. At least it was private.

He unzipped the duffel and pulled out a photograph of his mother. His throat tightened. Her blond hair was why Pam had caught his attention.

If I’d stayed…

“Die… Die… Die…”

Tommy shoved the picture away, breathing hard. His hand brushed against something smooth. A pocketknife.

He flipped it open, studying the blade and his pale reflection within it. His father had given it to him. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have it—but he wasn’t going anywhere unprotected.

He closed the knife and slid it beneath the mattress.

He took out of a stack of freshly-cleaned and folded collared shirts and opened the closet door.