Runs with Scissors

Riley didn't speak as her parents stood. Her mother adjusted her purse strap with the same calculated efficiency she used to sign contracts. Her father gave a stiff nod to Dr. Carrow—silent, final.

Neither of them looked back.

The door closed with a soft click.

Like a lid sealing shut.

She swallowed the rising heat in her throat. That sound felt permanent. Like goodbye, but without the dignity.

Dr. Carrow turned to her. "We'll begin intake now."

She didn't move.

Didn't nod.

Didn't even blink.

What was the point?

A moment later, the door opened again. A girl entered—about her age, maybe a year or two older. Tall, lean, with sharp eyes that seemed to cut the room in half. Her dark brown hair was braided so tight it looked

painful, pulled back from a face that showed no emotion. Her uniform was starched and spotless—maroon polo tucked into stiff khaki pants, sleeves creased like paper. Her posture was textbook straight, like a soldier reporting for duty.

The badge clipped to her collar read:

TAYLA – LEVEL 4

"This is Tayla," Dr. Carrow said. "She'll walk you through orientation."

Tayla didn't offer a smile or a handshake. She barely spared Riley a glance.

"Let's go," she said, voice dry and disinterested. "You're already late for first block."

Riley stayed put. Her legs were lead.

"What's a Level 4?" she asked, voice low.

Tayla turned back with a sigh, clearly bored of the question. "There are six levels before graduation. Levels One through Three are

lower level. You're at One. No privileges. Level Four and up are upper level—junior staff. We supervise. Assist with rule compliance. Help manage new admits."

Riley raised an eyebrow. "Is that a reward?"

"It's freedom," Tayla answered bluntly. "You earn points. You move up. Or you don't. Doesn't matter to me."

Before Riley could respond, another woman stepped into the room.

Older, with hollow eyes and a face carved from apathy. Her beige scrubs were wrinkled, her shoes squeaked. Her name tag read:

MS. ELKINS – CHAPERONE

"Clothes," Elkins said, snapping on latex gloves. "Strip."

Riley blinked. "What?"

"You heard her," Tayla said, unmoved.

Riley stared at them. Both stood still, watching. Waiting.

This is it. Whatever rights I thought I had—gone.

She glanced at Tayla. "You're staying?"

Tayla didn't blink. "We're never alone with staff. Always groups of three or more. For everyone's protection."

That didn't make her feel better. Not even a little.

Elkins nodded once, confirming it.

Riley's hands trembled as she began unbuttoning the powder blue pantsuit her mother had picked out like it meant something. The fabric felt heavier coming off than it had going on—like it was the last piece of herself she had left. She folded it slowly. Neatly. Her fingers shook as she

set it down on the table.

Her skin buzzed with cold and shame. Her spine felt too exposed. Every inch of her wanted to curl inward and disappear.

Elkins stepped forward and began a pat-down. It was fast. Efficient. Completely devoid of emotion.

Like checking in baggage.

On the table next to her lay her new uniform: a maroon polo shirt. Khaki pants. White sports bra. Plain white underwear. Socks. Backless clogs. No color. No comfort. Just sameness.

While Elkins turned away to note something on her clipboard, Riley acted fast.

She slipped the folded twenty into the waistband of her khakis and tucked the cigarettes and lighter into the inner seam. The material was stiff enough to conceal it. Hopefully. Probably.

God, let it stay hidden.

She dressed quickly. The polo scratched at her neck. The pants chafed at the waistband. The sports bra flattened everything. Made her feel erased.

Elkins looked up, "Sneakers too."

She slipped off her sneakers and put on the brown, backless shoes.

"So if you try and run, you won't get far."

When she finished, Elkins stepped close and adjusted the collar. Her fingers were cold.

"Fit's fine," she said. "You're Family Three. Let's go."

Riley followed Tayla and Elkins down a long, narrow hallway. The walls were painted a yellowy beige. Every few feet, there was a camera. Every twenty feet, a keypad. There were no windows. No clocks.

"No talking in the halls," Tayla said. "Talking's only allowed during the half-hour leisure block. You can read, write, draw, or talk during leisure. That's it. Maybe talk-on-task in P.E. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut."

"Seriously?" Riley muttered.

Tayla didn't break stride. "You're only allowed to say five phrases outside of approved talk time: Please. Thank you. Excuse me. You're welcome. Sorry. Also—no touching. Ever. In the dorms, don't say the five phrases"

"No touching," Riley echoed. "Cute."

They stopped in front of a locked door. Tayla punched in a code without looking.

The door buzzed open.

Inside was another hallway, this one connecting five identical dorm rooms. Each room had three bunk beds—six girls total. The beds were military-tidy. White sheets, thin pillows. Bins beneath them for uniforms.

No posters. No decorations. No warmth.

"You'll stay in this room," Tayla said, pointing to the one on the end. "Everyone in Family Three is a lower level. Fours and up live

separately."

The air inside smelled of soap and something like melted plastic.

Riley stepped inside.

"Bathroom's there," Tayla added, nodding toward a curtain in the corner. "No doors. Girls count out loud when they go. Prevents self-harm or purging."

Riley's stomach twisted.

This isn't a hospital. It's a cage.

"You'll be assigned a buddy," Tayla went on. "You don't go anywhere without her. Meals, groups, line movement—you're responsible for each other. If you talk to staff, your buddy is there. She'll know all your secrets."

Riley turned to look at her.

"I didn't ask for a babysitter."

"You don't get to ask for anything," Tayla replied coolly. "The HOPE Buddy Program pairs each new girl with someone Level 3 to explain the rules. You get two weeks. Then you're on your own."

Riley's eyes scanned the room. Bunk beds lined the walls. She made her way to the one farthest from the door. Her name had already been scrawled in black marker on the plastic bin beneath it.

She sat slowly, her knees still weak.

Everything inside her felt heavy. Like grief, but worse.

Level One.

Zero points.

Zero trust.

But tucked inside the lining of her khakis were three cigarettes, a cheap pink lighter, and a folded twenty-dollar bill.

Her fire.

And no one here knew it yet.