Riley didn't remember getting in the truck.
One minute, she was surrendering in a gas station parking lot—hands raised, chaos closing in—and the next, she was in the back seat of Logan's Silverado, headlights knifing through the dark.
No one spoke.
Logan gripped the wheel like it might snap in half. Savannah stared straight ahead, arms crossed over her chest like a barricade. They didn't look at Riley. They didn't ask questions. And she didn't offer answers. What was there to say? That she was tired of running? That she hadn't meant for things to go so far?
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching trees flick past like ghosts.
They pulled up to the house just after midnight. It stood tall and tidy—two stories, wraparound porch, neat hedges trimmed like they were afraid of being out of place. Everything was in order. Everything had its place.
Riley had never felt more out of place.
Her mother was already waiting at the curb, posture sharp as a blade. She didn't wave. Just popped the trunk, opened the back door of the Lexus, and said, "Get in."
Riley hesitated—just for a second—before slipping into the back seat.
Her father was already there in the front, stiff and silent. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. He didn't turn around. Not even a glance.
There was nothing for her in the car. No bag. No clothes. No explanation.
Just silence.
Just exile.
They drove through the night, mile after mile of empty highway. Riley tried to keep her breathing quiet, steady, invisible. Every so often she looked out the window just to remind herself the world was still moving.
Around 3 a.m., her mother pulled off the interstate and parked outside a weather-beaten motel, the kind with buzzing lights and peeling paint. The "Vacancy" sign flickered like it was too tired to stay lit.
Her father checked in.
Riley and her mother stood by the vending machines under a yellow streetlamp, both pretending not to exist.
The room smelled like mildew and sour AC. Two queen beds, scratchy sheets, carpet stained with a thousand unspoken stories. Riley dropped her body onto the farthest bed like it owed her something. Her mother took the chair by the window. Her father lay on top of the covers with his shoes still on, remote in hand but the TV off.
They didn't talk. Not about what was happening. Not about where she was going. Not about why.
They didn't say a single thing.
At some point, her mother went to shower, and her father stepped out for ice.
Riley moved quickly, her heart thudding like footsteps in an empty hallway.
She crept to the nightstand where her mother's purse sat open. Her fingers were fast and practiced—old habits born of need. Lipstick. Pens. Receipts. And then—cash. Folded. Neat. Tucked away like it wouldn't be missed.
She slipped a twenty from the middle of the stack and hid it in her bra. Just in case.
She also moved the three crumpled cigarettes and a pink lighter she'd been hiding in her sock. Tucked them against her ribs, right over her heart.
She didn't plan to smoke them. Not yet.
But they were hers.
And in a world that had stopped letting her choose anything, that meant everything.
They all pretended to sleep. Riley watched the motel ceiling until the texture blurred. Her bones ached, but not from anything physical. Just… a hollowing out. Like something important had been scooped from inside her, and now she was floating just above herself, looking down.
The next morning, they stopped at a diner off the highway. Plastic booths, cracked leather seats, waitresses who looked like they'd been surviving since the '70s.
Her mother ordered oatmeal. Her father got toast and eggs. Riley stared at the menu like it was written in a different language.
She didn't want food. She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw her way out of the skin she was sitting in.
But her stomach had other ideas.
She ordered pancakes, her voice barely audible.
They ate like strangers. No eye contact. No questions. No chance to change anything.
At one point, her mother looked up and said, "After this, we'll stop and get you something proper to wear."
Riley blinked, confused. "For what?"
"For your intake."
She laughed, dry and bitter. "You mean for them to strip off and throw in a bin?"
Her mother didn't answer. Just took a sip of coffee and dabbed her mouth with a napkin like they were at some polite brunch.
They stopped at a Wal-Mart.
Riley followed her mother down rows of cheap fabric and stale air, dragging her feet like she was walking to her own execution. Her mom moved with purpose—businesslike, detached.
She held up a powder blue pantsuit. "This should fit."
It looked like something a youth pastor would wear to court. Riley stared.
"I'm not running for office," she muttered.
"You're not running at all," her mom replied, voice clipped.
They didn't use the dressing room. Riley changed in the backseat of the Lexus, peeling off her torn hoodie and jeans, replacing them with a costume meant to say: "Look, she's fixed."
But she wasn't.
The pants were too long. The seams scratched her skin. The jacket was tight across her shoulders, like it knew she didn't belong.
Still, her mother looked satisfied.
So she said nothing.
They drove the final stretch in silence. No music. No conversation. No comfort.
The trees grew thicker. The road narrowed. Cell service dropped.
And then, they were there.
The gates shut behind them with a mechanical groan.
Her mother parked in front of a squat brick building—plain, cold, and silent. There was no sign. No windows. No welcoming gesture.
Just a keypad on a steel door.
A woman in scrubs opened it. She didn't introduce herself. She didn't smile.
"Right this way."
Inside, the walls were a flat, institutional white. No pictures. No quotes. No distractions. Just sterile silence and the hum of flickering overhead lights.
They passed a cafeteria where girls sat at evenly spaced tables, eating without speaking. Their faces were blank. Their hands moved in perfect rhythm. And when a bell rang overhead, they stood up and filed into a line—silent, rigid, obedient.
There were no boys. No laughter. No sound.
Just rows of girls and a set of rules no one had to say out loud.
Riley pulled her jacket closed. She felt exposed. Unwelcome. Watched.
Then he appeared.
Dr. Elijah Carrow. Head of the facility. Clipboard tucked under one arm. The kind of calm that felt rehearsed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell," he greeted warmly. "And Riley. We've been expecting you."
She didn't shake his hand.
He guided them down a hallway to a plain, windowless room with a table and three chairs. A camera blinked in the corner.
"I'd prefer to speak with Riley alone," Dr. Carrow said. "Patients are more honest without parents in the room."
"We'll stay," her mother answered quickly.
He smiled, unbothered. "Very well."
Riley sat between them.
Then the questioning began.
"How often do you drink?"
"I don't."
"Drugs?"
"No."
"Sex?"
She stared at him. "Not answering that."
He nodded, made a note.
"Any history of depression? Self-harm? Paranoia? Delusions?"
She leaned back in her chair. "Is this a checklist or a fishing expedition?"
Her mother gave her a look. Her father said nothing.
Dr. Carrow folded his hands.
"Riley, under Florida's extended guardianship provision for mentally compromised dependents, your parents have signed temporary psychiatric authority over to this facility."
"What does that mean?" Riley asked, stomach twisting.
"It means we'll be making decisions on your behalf—clinical, medical, and behavioral—until you've been deemed mentally competent and emotionally stable."
"I'm eighteen."
"Yes," he said calmly. "But the law allows for exceptions in cases where the individual is judged to be a threat to themselves or incapable of self-management. Based on your parents' report and my assessment today, that threshold has been met."
Her voice cracked. "You're saying I'm not allowed to make my own decisions?"
"I'm saying you've temporarily lost the right to do so," he replied. "For your safety."
Her mother reached for the pen and signed without hesitation. Her father followed.
Riley just sat there.
Frozen.
Watching her adulthood be handed off like a set of car keys.
"What rights do I have?" she asked quietly.
Dr. Carrow gave her a measured look.
"You have the right to comply."