Acorn

The large shutter gate groaned to life, sliding open along its rails with a mechanical clatter that reminded Elizabeth . . . rather uncomfortably . . . of a roller coaster chain inching upward toward its first inevitable drop. That rhythmic, ratcheting sound echoed through the morning chill, loud against the silence of the long private road that lay behind her.

She rode past it on her bicycle and stopped once inside, her breath visible in the cold air. Her lungs burned faintly from the crispness of the morning, the air sharper than she’d anticipated. The gate behind her clanged against its buffer, marking its full extension, while the amber warning light above a second gate directly in front of her began to flash. The gate behind her kicked back into life and began to close, slowly and with the same rhythmic ratcheting sound that it had made whilst opening.

Elizabeth had halted on the steel grill that separated the two gates, one foot extended awkwardly down to steady herself. Her tiptoe barely reached the metal slats. She wobbled slightly and frowned. She had meant to adjust the bike seat weeks ago, but, as ever, there was neither time, nor the proper tool, nor . . . if she was honest with herself . . . the upper body strength to loosen the corroded bolt.

The gates were designed for armoured vehicles, not bicycles. She always felt dwarfed here, her slender frame perched atop a secondhand pushbike like a character misplaced in someone else’s scene. The rest of the staff arrived in cars . . . most of them oversized, all of them unnecessary. And yet, she remained the sole cyclist on the payroll, a fact that would’ve amused her if it weren’t quite so isolating.

She glanced down at the grill beneath her tires and immediately regretted it.

The steel mesh sat above a deep inspection trench, lined with high-powered floodlights and a network of surveillance equipment . . . cameras, infrared imaging. A few of the upward-facing lights flared directly into her eyes, staining her vision with pale, flickering afterimages. It had been designed to detect unauthorised contraband . . . or escape attempts. Beneath most vehicles, the lights and sensors could pick up unusual compartments, hidden passengers, subtle weight discrepancies. A built-in scale weighed each vehicle upon entry and again on departure. Any deviation, even slight, triggered a full search.

She sometimes wondered if the orderlies paid her weight any attention. Did they have a file somewhere tracking her seasonal fluctuations? Had someone, somewhere, raised an eyebrow when she’d come back after Christmas two kilograms heavier?

Ridiculous.

She dismissed the thought . . . but not entirely. A beat later, she slipped one hand off the handlebars, subtly pinched at the side of her hip through her coat, and quickly withdrew it again, hoping the overhead cameras hadn’t caught her.

The gate behind her slammed shut with finality. The one ahead began to open.

She didn’t wait for it to finish. As soon as there was clearance, she pushed off and rolled forward, gliding into the facility proper.

The gardens were the first thing she passed . . . still wet with morning dew and mist. The lawns, trimmed with almost neurotic precision, bordered a central fountain and a series of stone benches tucked beneath wrought-iron archways. It was a strange pocket of beauty nestled within what was otherwise a fortress.

The main building rose ahead like an unwelcome thought: grey concrete, black steel, and the kind of institutional brick that had been old the day it was laid. The windows were too small and barred with thick iron rods, like an architectural apology for what happened inside.

Fortunately, the landscaping team . . . perhaps in an act of rebellion . . . had done their best to counter the building’s oppressive presence with colour. Flower beds flanked each walkway. Tulips and foxgloves in the spring, wild roses in the summer. Elizabeth’s favourite was the patch of wildflowers nearest the staff entrance. In June, it exploded with bees and butterflies. It felt… defiant.

She veered off the main road and onto the gravel path that led to the car park. A few patients were out for their supervised morning walk, escorted by two orderlies in standard navy coats. Elizabeth nodded politely as she passed. The staff returned the gesture; the patients did not.

No one here wandered the grounds alone.

And no one left without being noticed.

***

Dr. Elizabeth Malone stepped into the lobby of the facility, the heavy door clicking shut behind her with a mechanical finality. The last remnants of the outside air clung to her coat, laced with the cold bite of early morning.

The space was a modest antechamber, unremarkable in design; a cluster of hard plastic chairs arranged in too-neat rows, a water cooler humming faintly beside a stack of disposable cones, and a narrow glass window crowned with blocky white text: SECURITY CHECKPOINT.

It was a room meant to keep things in. Or out. Perhaps both.

She made her way to the window.

“Morning, Doc.”

Ralph Carson, the facility’s day-shift security officer, leaned against the counter behind the reinforced glass, his ever-askew grin curling up one side of his weathered face. His uniform was slightly too large in the shoulders, and his greying hair had begun to thin at the crown . . . but his posture was as relaxed as ever, the weight of the job absorbed long ago.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” Elizabeth replied, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “I trust as always, everything with yourself is quite satisfactory?”

“Busy night,” he said, flipping through the overnight logbook. His tone was casual, but Elizabeth noted the slight hitch in his rhythm.

“More than usual?” she asked.

He scratched his chin, pausing before speaking. “We had a fresh one brought in. Early morning. Cops found him standing out on the overpass. No ID. No shoes.”

Elizabeth blinked, her brows lifting slightly. “Alone?”

Carson nodded. “Didn’t speak. Didn’t resist. Just… stood there. Like he’d been waiting.”

That wasn’t typical.

Admissions, especially the urgent ones, usually came via psychiatric referrals from some state court room or frantic family interventions. It was rare . . . unsettling, even for someone to be retrieved off of the street and simply dropped here . . . like a pizza delivery.

“This would constitute a deviation from Sunny Meadow’s intake protocols,” Elizabeth said, her tone precise. “What circumstances permitted this admission?”

“Turns out,” Carson said, thumbing back a page, “he was already one of ours. Slipped out somehow. Hell if I know how he did it… place is a bloody fortress. Must be a relative of Houdini.” He snorted. “One of the bad ones, too, if you get my drift. Cops brought him in before he could do anything messy.”

Elizabeth’s brow tightened. “Mr. Carson, I believe the term you’re searching for is ‘socially unstable.’ The word ‘bad’ is reductive and subjective. Morality is often merely a matter of perspective and observation. A soldier is a hero to one nation and a murderer to another.”

Carson’s face screwed up as though tasting something bitter. “All those people he killed and ate… they be the ones that didn’t benefit from his actions then?”

His face transformed into a smug smile, waiting for Elizabeth to react.

Elizabeth shot Carson a look, opened her mouth to reply . . . then stopped herself, Ralph wasn’t worth it. She closed it again and turned away, her sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum as she headed to the full-height security turnstile beside his booth.

“So, you think there’s anyone that does benefit from his actions?” Carson called after her. “You know… calling him a hero and all that?”

Elizabeth stopped.

A thought flickered through her mind, spinning into shape like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

“Mr. Carson, an intriguing question. This is indeed generally my field of inquisition,” she said, her voice smooth, analytical. “I’ll be sure to extend to you a connotation to your question, in regards to this… patient forthwith.”

She was intrigued now. A frill of excitement swam through her veins. What kind of results might a mind like this yield? If she was honest with herself, her work had begun to plateau. Her data, while solid, had lost its spark . . . no new variables, no disruption to the curve.

And yet, this . . . this was something different.

Her research had already proven that human thought could influence the physical world. Belief changed reality. But the findings had become static. Predictable.

She needed a new lens. A fresh variable.

Maybe a mind like this was the key.

Ralph’s smirk slid down his face like hot wax. “Don’t you be going anywhere near this one, Doc. Your clearance level is only for the privately instituted patients. This one belongs to the State. Skipped the chair ‘cause his nuts and bolts are rattling.”

He could see she wasn’t listening.

“Doc…” he called after her.

Elizabeth stepped toward the turnstile, one of the full-body industrial models, designed to reach from floor to ceiling. Unlike a standard door, it permitted only one person to pass at a time, locking after every entry and exit. A tool of precision, not convenience.

Beside the turnstile was a black emblem, slightly larger than a playing card. A simple silhouette . . . an acorn stamped in matte vinyl, subtle yet unmistakable. The shape was stark against the sterile wall: no colour, no gloss, just a flat icon like the stick-figure signage found on public restrooms. Another, smaller version of the emblem sat beside the key card reader, designed, no doubt, to orient staff quickly as they passed between wings. Elizabeth noted it as she approached and knew what it represented; Acorn Wing.

She held her card to the scanner. A soft beep. A green light. A panel slid open to reveal the keypad. She entered her four-digit PIN. The turnstile clunked in response, its gears unlocking with audible finality.

Without a word, Elizabeth stepped forward. The gate rotated once . . . one perfect half-turn . . . then sealed behind her.

She was gone.

Carson leaned back in his chair and shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Crazy bitch.”