The ferry made its twice-daily run between the mainland and the island, and Frank Raskin sat in the back row with his hands in his pockets and a beer in his other hand. The beer was warm. The ferry was cold. The lake was gray. This was Wisconsin in November: gray water, gray sky, gray everything. The kind of gray that gets inside you and stays there.

The island was a concrete block surrounded by water and chain-link fence and the sound of wind. No trees. No grass. Just concrete and rust and the smell of diesel. It had been a coastal defense battery during the war. Now it was a psychiatric facility run by the Department of Veterans Affairs. Frank had been sent here three days ago after he punched a man at the auto plant for calling him a war criminal. The man hadn't been calling him a war criminal. The man had been calling him lazy. But Frank had heard war criminal and something in his head had snapped.

That was two weeks ago. This was three days ago. Now he was here.

A man in a VA uniform met them at the dock. His name was Kowalski. He was mid-level bureaucrat, probably forty-five, probably tired. He didn't look at Frank when they shook hands. He looked past him, at the building, at the fence, at the gray water.

"Room 12," Kowalski said. "Your room. You've got a roommate, but he's at work during the day. You'll meet him tonight."

Frank nodded. He carried his bag—duffel, canvas, stained—with one hand. He didn't know what was inside it. The VA must have packed it. His clothes, maybe. His ID. The things he owned that weren't too big to fit in a duffel.

Room 12 was exactly as large as a room should be: not large enough and not small enough. Two beds. Two nightstands. One window. The window looked out over the lake. The lake was gray. The sky was gray. Everything was gray.

"Your schedule," Kowalski said, handing Frank a printed sheet. "Group therapy at ten. Individual sessions at two. Recreation at four. Lights out at ten. Questions?"

"No."

"Good. Dinner is at six. Cafeteria. Line starts at five forty-five. Don't be late."

Frank sat on the bed. It was firm—too firm, like sleeping on a plank. He stared at the wall. The wall was painted a color that wasn't white and wasn't gray and wasn't anything. It was the color of a wall that someone had tried to make neutral and failed.

Kowalski left. Frank was alone.

He drank his beer. He looked at the lake. He thought about nothing.

The next morning, he walked the halls. They were long and narrow, painted the same color as the walls in his room. The patients he passed were ordinary people. A man in his fifties sat in a chair and stared at the floor. A woman in her thirties walked back and forth and talked to herself. A young guy—couldn't have been older than twenty-five—sat on the floor and picked at a scab on his knee.

Frank didn't talk to any of them. He just walked. He walked until his feet hurt. He walked until the halls started to look the same. He walked until he found the common room.

It was a small room with a TV that didn't work, a table with four chairs, and a window that looked out over the lake. Frank sat in a chair and stared at the lake.

A woman sat across from him. She was old—seventy, maybe older. Her hair was white and thin. Her hands were wrinkled and spotted. She was knitting something that looked like a scarf but wasn't—too short, too narrow.

"First day?" she said.

"Second."

"Second day is worse than the first. The first day you're still shocked. The second day you realize you're really here."

Frank nodded. "How long have you been here?"

"Three years."

"That long?"

"Time doesn't work the same here. You'll learn."

Frank looked at the lake. "What do they do with people like us?"

"People like you?"

"Veterans."

The woman stopped knitting. She looked at Frank with eyes that were clear and sharp and tired. "They test you. They ask you questions. You answer them. You lie. They know you're lying. They ask you again. You lie again. They ask you again. And eventually you start believing your own lies."

"That's crazy."

"That's therapy."

Frank drank his beer. It was warm. He drank it anyway.

On the fourth day, a doctor sat across from him. His name was Dr. Harrison. He was young—thirty-five, maybe forty. He had a notebook and a pen and a face that suggested he'd been born wearing a white coat.

"Frank," he said. "How are you?"

"Fine."

"Are you fine?"

"I'm fine. I said I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm—"

"Frank."

"I'm fine."

Dr. Harrison wrote something in his notebook. "Frank, can you tell me why you're here?"

"To find Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?"

Frank stopped. He stared at the doctor. "Sarah. My—someone I know."

"Sarah Raskin is your sister, Frank. She's been dead for six years."

Frank sat very still. "Then who's the missing patient?"

"There isn't one. There never was."

Frank looked at the doctor. He looked at the notebook. He looked at the pen. He looked at the white wall. He looked at the lake.

"How long?" he said.

"How long what?"

"How long do I stay here?"

Dr. Harrison didn't answer. The wind howled. Frank drank his beer.

OTMES-v2-E3F1B8-M3-200