The thing about mental health in this country is that forty years after One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the cures are still nearly as damning as the ills. And Susan had been through too much in her life to put up with this kind of bullshit. She muddled her way through the month of state-mandated institutional therapy, dutifully took her pills, and counted the days until she could get her phone back and play Words with Friends again.
Susan had no place to go. She had a car and enough cash for a few weeks at the weekly rate motel. So that's where she stayed. She sat outside her room, smoking her menthol cigarettes and contemplating life. One day, about a week into her stay, Andy's father pulled into the gravel parking lot. He parked across the way and walked over.
"I heard about what happened."
"How could you have not?"
"Well, I'm glad you didn't die with the rest of those freaks."
"They weren't freaks."
"Ok, weirdos. Whatever."
"What do you want?"
"I just wanted to see if you were alright."
With that Andy's dad turned on his heel and walked back to his car. He needed to go by the package store anyway.