Speaking in Tongues

she couldn’t imagine treating patients here. It wastotally depressing. No one could have gotten better here.
    She found a door leading outside and pushed it. It was locked tight. The same with two others. She looked outside for a car, didn’t see one in the lot. At least she was alone. Dr. Peters must have left.
    Keep going, Crazy Megan insists.
    But—
    Keep. Going.
    She did.
    The place was huge, wing after wing, dozens of corridors, gloomy wards, private rooms, two-bed rooms. But all the doors leading outside were sealed tight and all the windows were barred. Every damn one of them. Two large interior doorways had been bricked off sloppily with cinder blocks and Sakrete—maybe because they led to less restricted wings. Dozens of the large concrete blocks that hadn’t been needed lay scattered on the floor. She picked up one and slammed it into a barred window. It didn’t even bend the metal rods.
    For several hours she made a circuit of the hospital, moving quietly. She was careful; in the dim light she could make out footprints, hundreds of them. She couldn’t tell if they’d been left by Dr. Peters alone or by him and someone else but she was all too aware that she might not be alone.
    By the time she’d made it back to her cell she hadn’t found a single door or window that looked promising. Shit. No way out.
    Okay, Crazy Megan offers, chipper as ever. At least find something you can use to nail his ass with.
    What do you mean?
    A weapon, bitch. What do you think?
    Megan remembered seeing a kitchen and returned there.
    She started going through drawers and cupboards. But there wasn’t anything she could use. There were no metal knives or forks, not even dinner knives, only hundreds of packages of plastic utensils. No glasses or ceramic cups. Everything was paper or Styrofoam.
    She pulled open a door. It was a pantry full of food. She started to close the door but stopped, looked inside again.
    There was enough food for a family to live on for a year. Cheerios, condensed milk, Diet Pepsi, Doritos, Lay’s potato chips, tuna, Hostess cupcakes, Cup-A-Soup, Chef Boyardee . . .
    What’s funny here?
    Jesus. Crazy Megan catches on first.
    Megan’s hand rose to her mouth as she too understood and she started to cry.
    Jesus, Crazy Megan repeats.
    These were exactly the same brands that Megan liked. This was what her mother’s cupboards were stocked with. Here too were her shampoo, conditioner and soap.
    Even the type of tampon that Megan used.
    He’d been in her house, he knew what she liked.
    He’d bought this all for her!
    Don’t lose it, babes, don’t . . .
    But Megan ignored her crazy side and gave in to the crying.
    Thinking: If a family of four could live on this for a year, just think how long it would last her by herself.
    •   •   •
    Twenty minutes later Megan rose from the floor, wiped her face and continued her search. It didn’t take her long to find the source of the footprints.
    In a far wing of the hospital were two rooms that had been “homified,” as Bett would say when she’d dress up a cold-looking house to make it warmer and more comfortable. One room was an office, filled with thousands of books and files and papers. An armchair and lamp and desk. The other room was a bedroom. It smelled stale, turned her stomach. She looked inside. The bed was unmade and the sheets were stained. Off-white splotches.
    Guys’re so disgusting, Crazy Megan offers.
    Megan agreed; who could argue with that?
    This meant that someone else probably lived here—someone young (she supposed older guys jerked off too but tried to imagine, say, her father doing it and couldn’t).
    Way gross thought. From C.M.
    Then she saw the closet.
    Oh, please! She mentally crossed her fingers as she pulled the door open.
    Yes! It was filled with clothes. She pulled on some jeans, which were tight around her hips and too long. She rolled the cuffs up. She found a work shirt—which was tight, too, but that didn’t matter. She felt a hundred percent better. There were no shoes but she found a pair of thick black socks. For some reason, covering her feet gave her more confidence than covering the rest of her body.
    She looked through the closet for a knife or gun but found nothing. She returned to the other room. Rummaged through the desk. Nothing to use as aweapon, except a Bic pen. She took it anyway. Then she looked through the rest of the room, focusing at first on the bookshelves.
    Some books were