“It counts.”
“Counts as what?”
She pointed to the closet.
I opened it.
Inside was another page.
A grid.
Seven columns.
Her name at the top.
Rows labeled.
Talking.
Mess.
Delay.
Questioning.
Food.
Noise.
Leaving room.
Beside each row were black marks.
Dozens.
I stared.
“What happens when you get a mark?”
She whispered.
“Depends how many.”
My stomach tightened.
“Do you get hurt?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
That answer should have relieved me.
It did not.
“What happens?”
She pointed toward the second closed door.
“That.”
We walked back into the hallway.
She stopped.
Then whispered.
“I don’t like opening it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes.”
She reached up.
The doorknob turned.
The room had no windows.
I realized quickly that it had once been a pantry or storage room.
Maybe eight feet by six.
There was nothing inside except a thin foam mat.
A plastic bucket.
And a small battery lantern.
My body went cold.
“What is this?”
Brenna stared at the floor.
“The quiet room.”
I forced myself to keep my voice even.
“Who uses it?”
“Me.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Marks.”
“How long was the longest?”
She thought.
“Two sleeps.”
I stopped breathing.
“Two nights?”
She nodded.
“You slept in here?”
“Yes.”
“With the door closed?”
“Yes.”
“Locked?”
