Runs with Scissors

As group therapy ended, chairs scraped back from the circle in perfect, robotic unison. No one offered Amanda a tissue. No one said a word. She sat hunched over, her freckles blotchy, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Riley could still hear the jagged edges of the last girl's feedback: "My experience of you is that you use crying to avoid accountability."

Amanda hadn't said a thing after that. She just sat there, sobbing into her sweatshirt like she was trying to disappear inside it.

Riley stood slowly, the cold from the linoleum chair still clinging to her legs. Her chest was tight. What she'd just watched—it didn't feel like therapy. It felt like a pack of wolves waiting for one of their own to bleed.

She turned to Amy, who stood in silence, eyes forward. No contact. No eye roll. No sigh of disbelief. Just complete program compliance. Riley knew better than to expect sympathy.

They moved toward the door, filing into the hallway. Riley fell into her assigned place—line number thirty. Each girl had one. The staffer stood nearby, pen and clipboard in hand.

"Headcount!"

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

...

"Twenty-nine."

"Thirty," Riley said softly.

Click. Clipboard closed. "Next block."

They marched down the hallway in silent formation. The walls were beige, cracked in the corners, and smelled faintly of disinfectant and old sneakers. Riley leaned ever so slightly toward Amy.

"What's next?"

Amy didn't look at her. "Fitness."

"I don't even have shoes," Riley whispered.

"You do," Amy said. "Everyone does. You'll get them from the gear room."

Sure enough, they reached a locked room where staff let them in one at a time. Inside were shelves lined with labeled sneakers. Each girl grabbed her pair and stepped out to the bench to change.

Riley found hers easily: "RL #30" in sharpie. She sat beside Amy, shoulders tense, and fastened the velcro straps.

She spoke without looking. "Can we write letters?"

Amy paused. "No."

Riley blinked. "Why not? That's not even a phone call."

"Because they think we might say something that manipulates our parents. Letters aren't controlled enough."

"But we can email?"

Amy nodded. "Once a week. On Sundays. But you write it on a form. Staff reviews it, edits it, and decides if it gets sent."

Riley stared at the floor. "So if I said I wanted to leave—or that I hated it here—they could just delete it?"

"Yeah."

"That's insane."

Amy didn't respond.

Riley pressed further. "Do they tell our parents what we say in group?"

"Marina does. Family liaison. She listens and reports back."

The words pressed down like a weight on Riley's chest. She had no outlet. No voice.

The girls were ushered into the courtyard. Riley glanced up at the blinding sky, squinting. A man in a navy polo with a whistle stepped in front of them.

Amy spoke one last time, calm and certain. "Follow the rules. Earn your points. You get what you put in."

Riley didn't reply. The sun was too bright. The whistle looked too sharp. And her sneakers, too tight.

But she fell into line.

For now.