The fluorescent lights in the Claymoore day room hummed quietly, casting a pale glow over the mismatched armchairs and battered board games. Lisa Rowe lounged across a faded sofa, boots kicked up on the armrest, a sly grin tugging at her lips as she surveyed the room with restless eyes. She was the storm at the center of Claymoore—rebellious, unpredictable, and magnetic, drawing everyone in whether they liked it or not.

Polly Clark sat cross-legged on the carpet nearby, her hands busy folding a paper crane from a torn magazine page. The scars on her cheeks caught the light, but her eyes were bright, childlike, and full of wonder as she glanced up at Lisa. The other girls were scattered around—Georgina muttering about Oz, Janet scribbling in a food diary, Susanna lost in a book—but it was Lisa’s laughter that filled the space, wild and sharp.

“Hey, Torch,” Lisa called, using her favorite nickname for Polly, “bet you can’t make that thing fly.” She flicked a paperclip at Polly, who giggled and ducked, the sound bubbling up like music in the sterile room. Lisa’s rolled her eyes and stretched, arms behind her head.