21. Miles
Chapter twenty-one
Miles
T he pharmaceutical haze lifted slightly, like fog burning off Puget Sound, leaving me hyperaware of mechanical sounds—the snap of latex gloves, the whisper of rubber wheels against polished floor.
Harrow stood beside my chair, no longer the concerned colleague who'd offered revolutionary therapy.
Her posture had shifted, shoulders squared like a general reviewing conquered territory.
"Dr. McCabe." She peeled off her gloves with surgical precision. "You've been studying my life's work for years. Every trauma protocol you learned in graduate school builds on foundations I established."
My tongue felt thick, words emerging in slow motion. "That's... wrong. The research spans decades, multiple institutions—"
"Multiple institutions I advised." Her smile was sharp. "I didn't steal legitimate research and corrupt it. I rebuilt the specialty in the image of my work."
The restraints bit into my wrists as I tried to process her words. She wasn't a researcher gone rogue—she was an architect of systematic trauma exploitation, dressed up as healing science.
"Why?" The question scraped my throat raw.
"Because trauma is the most valuable psychological state. Survivors will pay anything, submit to anything, believe anything if you promise them relief." She consulted her tablet. "And therapists like you are ideal recruits."
Two technicians entered with a gurney. One began disconnecting my monitors while the other prepared restraints designed for transport.
"We're relocating to a more secure environment," Harrow said. "Hospital administration becomes anxious about extended protocols. Too many concerned family members asking questions." She instructed the technicians, "Hold him Level Two—keep him responsive for the interview."
They transferred me with mechanical precision. The gurney's padding smelled of industrial disinfectant and aging vinyl.
"Help." I tried to make my voice carry as we rolled through corridors lined with legitimate medical equipment. "Someone help me."
The words emerged slurred and indistinct. A nurse glanced our way, concern flickering across her face before a technician explained something about research protocols and patient confidentiality. She nodded with professional understanding.
We passed physicians discussing treatment plans, residents clutching foam coffee cups, and cleaning staff mopping floors. None of them knew. Their institution protected Harrow's work, and federal oversight legitimized it.
"Your colleagues see a pioneering researcher conducting breakthrough trauma therapy," Harrow said, reading my expression. "They see everything except what's actually happening."
I struggled, but managed to get my questions out in a language Harrow understood. "Where, exactly, is this happening? Most of these protocols—they don't exist in any journal or registry. What facility would sign off on this?"
"Protocols like mine aren't bound to the same paperwork you worship. IRBs are for show. The real work happens under federal exemptions—classified designations, sealed contracts, facilities where oversight doesn't reach."
The elevator doors sealed us into a vertical coffin. Digital numbers descended past ground level, past the basement parking garage, into sublevels that might as well have housed a morgue.
"Sublevel 2," the technician announced. "Medical isolation."
Gone were the warm colors and institutional artwork designed to comfort patients and families. Fluorescent strips painted everything in surgical white, and the air tasted of recycled nothing. Corridors stretched in straight lines, broken by doors marked only with numbers.
Room 237. Room 241. Room 245.
How many others had been wheeled down this hallway? How many trauma survivors had disappeared into numbered rooms while families received updates about promising therapeutic progress?
They transferred me into a space designed to mimic a therapy office, but it was wrong in ways that made my skin crawl. Two chairs sat at the optimal therapeutic distance, and neutral artwork decorated sterile walls. A box of tissues was within easy reach.
Harrow settled into the therapist's larger chair while technicians secured me in the client's position. "Perfect," she purred. "Now, Dr. McCabe, we begin the actual protocol."
The fog in my brain thickened as additional drugs entered my bloodstream through the IV port. Underneath it, I began to understand.
It wasn't random sadism. It was a systematic application of therapeutic knowledge turned inside out, designed to break rather than heal.
Harrow consulted her notes. "Let's start with your professional inadequacies, shall we?"
The drugs dulled the impact of her voice. The words triggered a conditioned calm, designed to mimic the outcome of a therapy session.
"Tell me about your grounding techniques." She leaned forward. "The ones you use when clients are overwhelmed."
My mouth moved without permission, professional knowledge spilling like water through a broken dam. "Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can feel, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste."
"Excellent. Let's try that now." Her pen scratched against paper. "Five things you can see."
I blinked, vision swimming from the chemicals, and reported back what surrounded me. "The restraints on my wrists. Your clinical notepad. The tissue box positioned just out of reach. The camera mounted in the corner. The IV drip feeding sedatives into my bloodstream."
"Good. Four things you can hear."
"My heart beating too fast. The ventilation system recycling stale air. Your voice asking questions I shouldn't answer. The silence where my family's voices should be."
I'd lost all control. Sacred pieces of me spilled out of my mouth.
"Three things you can feel."
"Terror. Sedatives clouding my thoughts. The chair restraints cutting into my skin when I try to move."
"Two things you can smell."
"Industrial disinfectant. Your perfume—something expensive."
"One thing you can taste."
"Blood where I've bitten my tongue trying not to answer your questions."
Harrow smiled. "Beautiful work, Dr. McCabe. Do you feel grounded now?"
My skin crawled. She'd taken my most fundamental therapeutic tool and turned it into an instrument of psychological torture.
"That's not how it's supposed to work," I whispered.
"Isn't it? You've just demonstrated clear awareness of your current situation. Complete presence in this moment. Your technique worked precisely as designed."
"Let's explore your breathing exercises next." Her voice remained warm. "Show me how you help clients regulate their nervous systems."
"I don't want to—"
"Dr. McCabe, resistance indicates you have unprocessed trauma around the issue of your professional competence. Let's examine that together." She was making my reluctance sound pathological.
"In through your nose for four counts," she continued. "Hold for four counts. Out through your mouth for six counts."
My body responded before my mind could resist. Years of practice made the breathing pattern automatic.
"Perfect autonomic regulation," Harrow observed. "Though I notice increased distress rather than decreased. Tell me, Dr. McCabe, how often do your breathing exercises fail to provide the expected relief?"
The question twisted like a knife in my gut. How often had I guided clients through breathing exercises while they remained visibly agitated? How many sessions had I offered techniques that provided only temporary relief?
"Your silence speaks volumes," she continued. "Therapeutic failure is difficult to acknowledge, particularly for practitioners who've built their identity around helping others."
"That's not—I do help people—"
"Do you? Let's examine your recent cases." She consulted her tablet. "Mrs. Kim, trauma survivor, eight months of treatment. Still experiences panic attacks severe enough to interfere with employment. Would you call that therapeutic success?"
My mouth went dry. "Progress isn't always linear—"
"Of course not. Particularly when the therapeutic education is fundamentally flawed."
I tried to remember my training, but the drugs made everything slippery. "Exposure helps... helps process... the neural pathways..."
"The neural pathways strengthen through repetition," she corrected. "Each time you guide a client through traumatic recall, you reinforce the fear response in their brain. You're not healing trauma—you're deepening it."
I blinked hard. I'd spent years asking clients to revisit their worst experiences, believing I was helping them heal. What if I'd been making everything worse?
"Your confusion is understandable. You entered this profession with noble intentions, but your training misguided you."
"But some people get better—"
"Some people heal despite therapy, not because of it." She leaned forward with false compassion. "Dr. McCabe, you've been practicing therapeutic malpractice while believing you were providing cutting-edge care."
"I—they… they do heal."
"Your techniques didn't save Iris Delacroix, did they?"
I tensed. "Iris was making progress—"
"Iris killed herself rather than continuing to live with memories your therapy couldn't help her process." Harrow's voice remained gentle. "She trusted you with her trauma, and your inadequate methods left her more damaged than when she started."
"No." I managed to force out the word, but it was barely a whisper.
"Yes, Dr. McCabe. Your therapeutic failure drove a vulnerable woman to suicide. And she's not the only one." Papers rustled.
My vision blurred. Professional memories flooded back—clients who'd missed appointments, conversations that felt stuck, techniques that provided only temporary relief. What if she was right? What if I'd been harming people while believing I was healing them?