HANNAHI don’t know how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? The sedatives made everything blur together.No. I can’t stay here.I got to my feet and headed for the door. My hand yanked the knob open.The hallway outside was quiet. Perfect. I was about to run when someone noticed me.“Ma’am,” a voice called.A caregiver was coming fast. Her shoes squeaked against the floor.“You can’t be out here,” she said, reaching for me.“Get off me,” I snapped, jerking my arm back.“You need to go back to your room.”“I’m not staying in that room,” I shot back. “I don’t belong here.”Before I could take another step, a man in a white coat turned the corner. A doctor. “Mrs. Mancini,” he said calmly. “Let’s go back inside. We can talk.”“What the hell is going on?” I demanded. “Why am I even here?”The doctor glanced at the caregiver, then back at me. His voice stayed calm, like he was speaking to a child. “Your husband arranged this. He believes you’ve been showing persecutory delusions. And… violent
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