She seems surprised to see me return. I suppose that's fair considering the last words I'd said to her were a promise I'd leave, and that was a week ago. In the meantime, I gathered some resources and spent some time with her attorney, who I met while sitting in the prison's foyer—where I'd stayed all day, each day, in case of emergency and, if I must admit, in hopes that she'd ask for me—on my second day of absence.

Ms. Hamilton seems the perfect fit for Camila, and my heart relaxed a little once I got to know her. I'd been worried they'd assign a newbie or someone with an affective, yet subtle enough to pass, bias against the girl to ensure she'd be found guilty, but Ms. Hamilton is experienced, kind, and dedicated. She agrees to help me with her treatment where she can and to let me help her with the case. Above all, she really seems to care when I express my thoughts on Camila, even if I'm only just beginning to figure them out

In fact, among raised brows and questions of something deeper going on, she's the one who suggests my new theory. As soon as she said it, something in my mind seemed to click and I cursed myself for the overthinking that led me to overlook the rather simple explanation. My feelings had overridden my knowledge, and I'd forgotten my belief in Occam's razor—that the simplest and most obvious explanation is often the truth.

After a week without seeing Camila, my wishes to respect her want for space are swarmed by my own desperate need to see her; if I thought my mind's preoccupation was bad before, it's nothing compared to the week I spent away from her. Even my dreams are full of fantasies of her. Ms. Hamilton's words, however indirect she kept them, hit home, especially after I described the day Camila and I had spent in the courtyard and just how beautiful she'd looked; I know I have feelings for her, and I know, no matter how terribly wrong it is, if she opened herself to me, I wouldn't hesitate to take the chance with her.

I push a small packet of papers before her and ignore her sarcastic remark of "Wow, who woulda thought?" upon seeing me. She presses her palms against the papers but doesn't even glance down, instead frowning and tipping her head slightly at my silence. "I thought you said you were leaving."

"I did leave."

"But you came back?" She looks me over, and when her lips part as her eyes follow the slight dip of my neckline as allowed by the blazer I wear, I smirk slightly.

I nod, taking my seat and sliding her a pen which she takes and begins to tap against the table. "Where's your camera?" She gestures with her head to the end of the table, but I send a pointed look to the papers she's yet to look at.

"Today, I'd just like you to answer those questions. I don't think I'll need to film that, unless you have something you'd like to share?"

She looks to the side, then shakes her head. Finally looking down at the papers, she freezes for a second before I hear the chain on her leg rattle. She huffs quietly and frowns deeply.

"You lied to me."

A slight click sounds as the door handle tilts just slightly. I know somebody is waiting for one sign that they should burst in and interrupt.

"What?"

"You lied. I hate when people lie, Doc." Her words are strained as she speaks through her teeth, as though she doesn't want to say them. I hadn't lied, she'd simply mistaken my words as absolute, but I decide to stay silent, remembering what little information Dinah had given me during my time in the foyer.

"She bit her hand and broke the skin—do you know how hard that is to do?" She'd sighed. "They're talking about muzzling her."

The last thing I want to do is to rile her up until she behaves in a way the officers might deem aggressive enough to condemn her to a permanent spit hood.

At last, she clicks the pen and, although she can't quite bend her hand fully as it is still wrapped in a bandage, begins to scrape it across the paper, etching her name before using her other hand's pointer finger to read the instructions that follow.

I watch mindlessly as she makes her way through the questions, paying more attention to the movements of her fingers than her responses. I don't have the heart to stop her from doodling as she pauses every now and then to do so. At one point, she brings her hand to her mouth, toying with her lower lip. I must breathe a little too heavily because she looks up and smirks, which certainly doesn't help the increase in my body temperature.

When she looks back down, my need to distract myself grows too strong. "You didn't ask for me."

This time, her frown is not one of anger, but of pure confusion. Her voice is soft and quiet. "I did."

"But—"

"I asked for you every day, just not out loud." Her breath hitches. "I know what I said was wrong, but... you're the only one who listens."

"I—"

She makes a move to stand, but her restraints rattle loudly. The door opens a crack, and she casts a wide-eyed glance towards it before sinking back in her seat. She turns back to her papers, ensuring her voice is almost a whisper as she continues, "I just don't know what to do with it. Nobody has ever listened before, not without putting me down in the basement. You never do that—or, you didn't, until you lied to me." There's a pause, and then, "You were the nightlight." Then, in silence, she completes the questionnaire and slides it to me. As I look over the results, my heart aches.