Nowadays, I look like your average neighborhood dweller, and I walk past the building often on my way home or walking my weird little dog. I remember the click of those bolts into place as the last of the doors clicked behind me, and I realized that the locks weren’t to keep strangers out. One floor up, there’s Unit A, and two floors, more locked doors, and you’re at Unit B. I suppose if you went up the stairs, just any old person, you’d find that the door wouldn’t open, and you’d figure the place was closed. Once you’re let through that first door, there’s another one, also locked, and then another one, locked. It’s locked, and it’s made of three layers of unbreakable glass. It’s hardly changed: a brick square of a building, unassuming, a few steps up from the street, a glass door that looks like any old glass door. If you walk about half a block down my street, you’ll see it-the locked treatment center for kids where I lived in the late 1980s.
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