We snuck out the back.

Through the patio. But actually we couldn’t have snuck out — a siren would have gone off. So maybe we had permission. We must have had permission. Maybe a nurse was with us. But to me, the baby of the crew, we snuck out.

We left the confines of our locked unit and made our away across the vast campus of beautiful Massachusetts brick buildings. It was October and the leaves were as bright orange as a flickering flame.

The others seemed to know the way. Where are we going? Did we have coats? Was I cold? We arrived somewhere but I don’t remember how we got in. It felt scandalous, teens on the run, but it couldn’t have been. Most of us weren’t teens anyway; in fact I was the only one at the ripe age of 19.

The others were all 40+. Almost everyone had attempted or considered suicide. A handful were involuntarily committed. No one, other than me, had taken a taxi (did I call a local cab company? Did I pay by cash?) to the hospital and said “I’m not well. Please send me away.”

I recall being in a cafeteria. Or a cafe. No one else was there. I don’t believe I had money on me. No purse, no wallet. Was everything free?

They all got coffee. I’d never had coffee. Get coffee! they said. I was exhausted, always exhausted — like molasses, my system hampered by meds designed to quiet everything down.

It was peer pressure. Okay I’ll get coffee. Will I like it? Put sugar in it, they said. I put milk and dumped four packets of white sugar in the paper mug.

We headed back to our closed world. I sipped. It was good. I liked it. I was hooked, forever.