A pale, blonde woman in pink scrubs first asks my name and birthday. She has an accent that sounds Scandinavian, and she looks past the tears in my eyes as I answer her questions. She leads me down a large hallway, our footsteps echoing off the floors, past pictures of flowers and fields and waterfalls that look like clip art, to my room. She slips fresh sheets on the bed with a plastic, rounded frame; no sharp corners. The desk and chair are built similarly, as well as the sink—which sits under a blank space where a mirror should be—in my private bathroom. A metal screen shrouds both sides of