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resident assigned to our unit, as well as a couple of clinical psychologists. Our average length of stay here is one to two weeks, and then the patients are referred to more appropriate long-term treatment environments. Some go home, some to other institutions, and some to jail. We do our best to stabilize them and develop a treatment plan to be implemented in whatever environment is appropriate. Patients have no personal belongings here and no access to most items that could be used to harm themselves or others. Occasionally they get creative, as you just witnessed.”

      As Tom was speaking, Gin leaned over, smiled, and whispered to Kathryn, “This place kind of reminded me of home there for a minute. That girl Helen acted a lot like my sister Margie. I can vaguely remember her tossing a chair in my direction back when we were about eight. Not quite the same language, though!”

      “Well, Ms. Morrison,” Kathryn whispered, “you should be used to keeping on your toes and covering your backside, then! I suspect you will do well here. Maybe even pick up some new vocabulary that might come in handy elsewhere,” she winked back at Gin.

      As Tom was finishing his One-Minute Orientation, he added, “Right now most of our patients are in a group counseling session over there in the far corner of the activity area.” He pointed over to a group of about eleven patients and a mixture of staff who seemed to be having an animated discussion among themselves. “There are a couple of patients not in that group, though, that you all might find interesting. LaShon, the young black male sitting to your left by the wall with his head down, hasn’t said a word in the five days he’s been with us. He is only sixteen and was unfortunate enough to watch his father blow his mother all over their dining room wall with a shotgun before turning the gun on himself and decorating the opposite wall. A neighbor heard gunshots and called 911. When the officers arrived, they found LaShon sitting in the corner, looking pretty much like he is now. The absolute horror of that scene was more than he could cope with, and he’s been catatonic ever since. He shows no signs of emotion or even recognition of voices. Really sad.”

      “Well, what can you do for him, then?” queried Arthur, the token male student, who still seemed a bit unnerved from the previous incident with Helen. “How long will he stay like that?” he asked, hoping for a more positive response.

      “Hard to say,” Tom replied. “We don’t see this severe of a post-traumatic reaction all that often. Most of the ones I have seen generally snap out of it in a couple of weeks, IF they’re in a safe environment. At first, maybe just a flicker of recognition, then more as they begin to process what has happened to them and where they are. Cortisol-lowering meds can help to diminish the stress response. It’s very unpredictable, though. I’ve heard of people never coming out of it. Sometimes, the younger the patient, the more pronounced the reaction. Probably fewer life traumas at those ages and less coping ability.”

      Tom glanced to his right over to the other patient not presently in the group—a thin and rather scruffy-looking midthirtyish man, with his feet propped up in a chair, watching Wheel of Fortune. “That’s Frank—he’s a regular here…alcohol, drugs, sex, pimping, petty theft, and a whole arsenal of totally bizarre behavior, which frequently gets him a paid vacation in Hotel Happy Times. Usually he lands on the medical floor first for a bit of detox and drying out before he makes it up to us. I think this is about his fourth visit in the three years I’ve been here. Just a menace to society that nobody can figure out how to redirect. He’s very disruptive in groups, just a big cut-up, which is why we do one-on-one with him. This time we’re running some biochemical and neurotransmitter profiles. Last admission we did a brain speed analysis on him, which was just amazing. His brain is smokin’ fast, about like a coke addict, which I guess was no surprise, although he’d been in for a couple of weeks, which should have cleared most of that stuff out. Could have been residual, I guess, but for my money, I think he’s naturally like that, and much of his behavior is just misdirected attempts to maintain that level of brain activity. If he’s still around next week, when your training formally starts, maybe Kathryn will assign a couple of you to Frank—should make for some interesting class discussions! Anyway, before you go, let’s walk on over there and I’ll give you a taste of Mr. Scumby. Can you believe that name?” With that, Tom headed over to the TV, with a rather-impish smile on his face. “Hey, Frank, got some company for you!”

      “Hmmm,” Frank responded rather pensively while glancing over his shoulder at the approaching group. “Mother hen, her chicks, and one ugly duckling—no offense, pal,” he smirked, glancing in Arthur’s direction. “Can’t blame you, though, dude. Probably some good pussy in this group. Hey, who’s the redhead with the big tits? I’ll bet I could bang her right here in front of this wide-screen!”

      “You’d lose,” Gin snapped back, fairly certain that he was referring to her. “Better stick to Vanna, cowboy. I’m sure she’s more your type.”

      “Oou, this girl’s bedside manner rocks!” Frank continued with obvious sarcasm. “Maybe the old lady here can give you a few pointers on therapeutic responses. That tough talk probably gets your pussy wet, though, dudn’t it, baby?”

      Gin turned, stared Frank squarely in the eye, and hissed, “In your dreams, you pervert!” She would have said a lot more, but a sharp tug on her arm aborted her attack.

      “Ms. Morrison,” Kathryn whispered, “you’re out of control, and he’s manipulating you. Responding like this is just adding fuel to the fire. I can see this rotation will be quite a learning experience for you.” Then turning to Frank, Kathryn smiled and said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Scumby, for that delightful dialogue. It’s truly been a pleasure, and we hope to be seeing you again very soon. I’ll be taking my little chicks back to the henhouse now, so goodbye sir.”

      Before Frank could respond, Kathryn had herded her students away and toward the doors with not so much as a glance back in his direction. Not to be outdone, however, Frank yelled after them, “Better watch out girls…the fox is in the henhouse! And Red…the tough ones are always the most fun to fuck. Cute ass, too, by the way!”

      Gin tensed, and probably would have returned and knocked Frank’s scrawny body right out of the chair had Kathryn’s hand not remained firmly around her arm. “Don’t even think about it,” she cautioned intuitively. “Remember, class, your first psych lecture is at three this afternoon in the small conference room, number 102, I believe. Your clinical starts here in the morning from nine till noon. Wait for me outside the doors at 8:50. Arthur, would you buzz us out, please?” Releasing Gin’s arm, she added, almost inaudibly, “Sugah, we’re not in the ring here. Before we’re through, I WILL teach you to keep your cool!”

      Gin nodded and secretly hoped she was right.

      Three Weeks Later

      Ryan had been looking forward to today since his first lecture in comparative anatomy class. This morning in the CA lab, they would actually begin dissection of a fetal pig! Not that he fancied himself as a surgeon or anything like that, but Ryan did love exploring, and today he would actually be able to see what interesting world lay just behind the taut, shiny skin of that little pig. Most of his classmates had been dreading the experience for weeks, with thoughts of cutting up poor Porky Pig tantamount to dissecting Donald Duck, or, worse yet, even Mickey Mouse himself. Such revolting thoughts were clearly evident in the behavior of Sarah, the girl next to Ryan, who burst into tears as the little pig was placed in front of her, and shortly thereafter, deposited the remains of her breakfast all over his shiny little body. Staring in total disbelief at the unfolding event to his right, Ryan quickly wiped away the errant remains of what appeared to be an Egg McMuffin from his side of the lab table and promptly alerted Ben, the senior lab assistant, of Sarah’s unexpected delivery.

      “Hey Ben, Sarah just puked on her pig,” Ryan announced amid the muffled guffaws of several fellow dissectors.

      “Jesus, Sarah,” Ben muttered, quickly striding over to her now somewhat egg-encrusted pig, “it’s only a baby pig!”

      With the words scarcely out of his mouth, Ben realized he had made a fatal mistake in his choice of adjectives, as Sarah burst into tears once again, screaming, “A BABY! How can you expect me to cut up a pig’s cute little baby?”

      Ryan

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