Jodi was prescribed an anti-anxiety drug. She took the little white pill every morning with her glass of two percent milk. She took them even though they made her feel funny inside. It was as if someone had trapped her not-to-be-trusted, broken heart in a beige room without windows or even a door. Everything was the same—like Dr. Mitchell’s office.

Her world had lost its edges, its color.

There were no more nightmares. And her mother’s surprised face, her lifeless eyes, she saw no more.