A place.

A facility.

Somewhere my parents had been planning, on confidential intake forms, to send my sister, to send Gemma, to send the girl who called me every morning at nine to tell me about her cardigans, away, out of the family, out of sight.

I sat on that hospital floor across from the man I had screamed at ten seconds earlier, and I began, slowly and with mounting horror, to understand that I had spent five years hating him for the one genuinely heroic thing anyone in my family had ever done.

The word facility, the word home, the word Pinecrest, they are gentle words, institutional words, words designed to sound like care.