Friday: Sent to room without dinner.

Sunday: Confiscated phone so I couldn’t call Mom.

Wednesday: Patricia told me Mom wouldn’t believe me anyway.

And at the very bottom of the page, one final line, in the same neat hand:

If they do it again, I just have to wait outside until someone sees me.

I stood frozen in that quiet hospital room, holding a wet piece of paper, and I understood two things at once, and both of them broke something in me.