The treatment building had twice as many rooms as its public description.
Most had once been something else.
A storage room held two beds and a narrow route between them. An annex office had become a place for relatives to sleep. In a former dining room, a woman washed cups while a treatment worker checked the people behind the curtains.
Lyra followed the administrator along the clear strip.
“Don’t stop here,” the woman said. “They need the corner.”
Lyra moved.
A patient watched her pass.
“Another inspection?”
