CHAPTER THREE
At precisely nine twenty-five Thursday morning, I parked in the small lot at the Bar Harbor Recovery Center. It was a short distance south of the town center in what must once have been someone’s house, though clearly the original building had been expanded quite a bit. Something caught my attention right away: the thick, black bars covering the windows on the ground floor. I had a bit of a flashback to my attack in New York, but I put it aside. I knew this clinic dispensed meds, and I figured that’s why the bars were there. They seemed a little extreme, but they were part of the package, and I’d better get used to that.
Inside the front door was a hallway that led past several rooms. Motivational posters covered most of the wall space. One in particular caught my eye. An i
