People Don't Need Digging; Feeling Is the Truth

After locking me in a psychiatric ward for the third time, Martin Vance locked himself into the room next door. "I'm staying with you this time." He looked at me through the iron door, his shirt a rumpled mess, his voice low and hoarse. "Are you satisfied now?" I sat on the hospital bed, an IV port from the sedative still stuck in the back of my hand, and couldn't bring myself to smile. Seven years.