own project, but he remained agitated, pacing and talking incessantly, narrating Kimberly’s every move.

“Look—My God. She’s not going to—yes, she is—My God, she did it. My God—she painted the curtain!”

I went after Kimberly, but she skittered out of my arms as I promised Hank again and again that the paint was water soluble. Meantime, Sal, a heavyset twenty-seven-year-old diagnosed with bipolar disorder, had had enough of Hank’s nerves and began mimicking him in annoying falsetto.

“Oh God oh God! Oh no!” he wailed. “She’s going to, no she isn’t, yes she is, no she isn’t, oh my God, yes she is—OhmyGOD, the curtains!” Sal pulled Amanda DeMarco’s arm to get her attention. Amanda, working on her self-portrait, ignored him.

Amanda, twenty-two, had worked on this painting for weeks. She’d painted herself with long, flowing chestnut-colored tresses, arm in arm with a smiling older woman who resembled her mother. In reality, Amanda had pulled out most of her hair and eyelashes; there were no flowing tresses, not anymore. All that remained on her head were a few hard-to-reach clumps. And her real mom was ice cold and much removed. But the world in Amanda’s picture was perfect, ideal, and completely false. Amanda’s bubble.

Or it was until that morning. Even with the help of Gus, the orderly on duty, I couldn’t calm everyone. The group was out of control, skittish. Hank got fed up with Sal for mocking him and shoved Sal. Before Gus or I could intervene, Sal stumbled against Amanda, knocking her brush into her perfect world, leaving a stripe of cadmium across her mother’s throat. I ran in, fending off pandemonium, separating Sal from Amanda, Hank from Sal. Amanda frantically wiped at her painting with an acetone-drenched rag, effectively erasing her mother’s head and neck, wailing inconsolably as I soothed her with useless phrases.

All this time, Sydney Ellis stood at his easel, at attention. He didn’t paint, didn’t touch a brush, didn’t blink when Kimberly Gilbert painted circles on his pants. Sydney was a new patient, a schizophrenic still adjusting to his medications. Last session, he’d walked in circles around the room, too agitated to stay still. Sydney needed a calm, nonthreatening environment to ease himself into treatment. Art therapy was supposed to provide it. Who knew how poor Sydney was affected that day by our chaotic little group? progress was not linear, I reminded myself. people took back-steps, sidesteps, and sometimes they stumbled. Still, I was angry with myself. I was responsible for the group’s focus or loss of it. I scolded myself, analyzing how I might have taken control and protected them, reviewing could-haves and should-haves. Finally, escorts arrived; the session ended. As everyone left, I noticed that Amanda had pulled out the remainder of her eyelashes. I was exhausted, felt defeated. And it wasn’t even noon.

When I had a minute, I called Detective Stiles. He was out; I left the message that I’d returned his call.

My next session was with Evie Kraus, at the Institute as a guest of the Commonwealth; a few years ago, she’d filleted her lover with a kitchen knife and hadn’t spoken a word since then. Evie’s doctors, hopeful that she’d begin to speak, had reduced her regimen of medications. So far, she remained silent, but she’d begun to draw prolifically. Hunched over a sketch pad, working her tongue, she concentrated on her picture so completely that, despite her formidable size and multiple serpent tattoos, she seemed more like a girl Molly’s age than a twenty-eight-year-old psychotic killer. Evie’s drawings always showed what was literally in front of her. The chairs in the corner. A potted plant, a pair of slippers. The view of the train tracks out the window. I wondered if her mind ever traveled outside these walls to other times or places. Her drawings hadn’t let on.

Her session went peacefully. I began to relax. Then, near the end of the session, a new, overeager orderly barged in to take her back to Section 5. Maybe Evie thought he wasn’t going to let her finish her drawing. Maybe his energy level startled her. Whatever her reason, though, she moved quickly. Six feet tall and 190 pounds, she bounced up and grabbed a chair and swung it at the orderly’s head. He ducked, avoiding the blow, then grabbed the chair legs. I came up behind her and, while the two of them danced around the chair, tried to hold on to her, telling her in a calm, soothing voice to put down the