The halls of Four Winds are unlike most psychiatric facilities I've walked through, which is to say they don't make my stomach churn the deeper I go. It's an upscale lodge and it shows in the details, like the nice chairs in the common areas and real art on the walls. It's not beige walls and soft-close gray doors and lights that hum loudly, and none of the patients here is my father, and I'm no longer an eight-year-old with a mother who simply couldn't explain to me why he couldn't come home.
The memory creeps in and I squash it down, trying to focus on the case at hand.
Security is tight here. At the checkpoint near the residential wing, a guard checks my ID against a list. Had that not been enough, I also had the letter from the psychiatrist who had summoned me. Dr. Reeves, an acquaintance of Carol's.
"Dr. Wolf, yes. Room 312, straight down. There's private security at the door."
And there is. Younger, dressed in all black. Someone I assume is a bodyguard. He nods at me and lets me through without a fuss.
I hear as I walk in. Dr. Reeves, I assume.
The room is clean and somewhat homey, but you can still tell what kind of place this is.
"This is Thomas J. Hammond. Thomas, this is Dr. Oliver Wolf. He's the neurologist I mentioned."
I step closer to the bed with as soft a smile as I can muster, the kind I reserve exclusively for patients, and look at Thomas. What I can see, anyway. He seems to be in his late twenties, maybe, or early thirties. Dark hair, lean. And there's something about him that I can't place but I recognize, just barely.
It's probably just my brain trying to match him with his intake photo. I always do my homework.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
I say, extending my hand.
"I'm here to work with you and Dr. Reeves on what happened. We'll talk about your medication, your history, and what the next steps look like. Does that sound okay to you?"