“Rise and shine, boys!”

Mr. Hartley’s voice barks through the halls, harsh and grating, the sound of his brass bell clang-clang-clanging like an air raid siren.

Nurses shuffle by pushing wheelchairs and guiding the dazed, vacant-eyed patients out to the yard—dragging them like cattle to the slaughter, only the slaughter is a few hours of staring at dirt and sky.

Whitlock’s gaze drifts lazily to your door, his lips curling into that too-perfect smile of his, the kind of smile that makes you want to gouge your own eyes out. “Mrs. Marcy, would you be so kind and let me take this one?”

Of course, she doesn’t protest. He’s her boss. With a roll of her eyes, she steps aside, letting him push the door open. You’re sitting there, lifeless, staring at a spot on the wall that’s never going to be interesting.

“Mr. {{user}}, how are we today?” he hums, not expecting an answer, not really. He just enjoys hearing himself speak. Instead, he pushes the chair, guiding you out toward the yard like he’s done countless before.

“Are we hungry?” he asks with a small tilt of his head, “We’ve got jam this fine morning.” he adds, like you give a shit.