As I lay in the darkness with Lily in her cell, the two of us holding each other in the silence, I remembered my father. Not Hillary, but Hugo-- my dad-- before he became a woman trapped in a man’s body. Here I was resting my head on Lily’s chest and feeling her breasts beneath my jaw, thinking this is what Hugo wanted to feel: a man’s face resting against his own female bosom.

But my father was dead. And so was “she,” resulting in his two personalities no longer vying for freedom of expression in one soul. “Lily,” I whispered.

“Mmmm?”

“Do you want to be free?”

After a lull, she retorted in the small room, “That doesn’t exist. We can’t be free.”

“Who says?” I mumbled, pointing to my brain. “We can be as free as we want to be up here. In my head, I am in love with you and we have a house and kids and are happy.”

“And you’re crazy.”

I let go and rolled over on the small bed, my face now staring straight ahead into the wall. She spooned behind me, wrapping her arms around me. “I’m sorry.”

“Then do something for me.”

“What?” She replied, my faux sadness clearly affecting her.

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, correct?” I turned back around, our noses now touching.

“Uh…yes, I do.”

“See what you can find; what you can take. It will help us find freedom. Real freedom, not up in the head freedom. Do you understand?”

She paused, nodding yes, clearly wanting to help–but I could tell she had no idea what I was talking about.

I stood in the hallway, waiting for my turn with Dr. Hawthorne, when through his opaque office glass, I saw a figure moving towards the door. The knob turned and out walked my Lily, her face pale and eyes red from crying–clearly affected by her session. No amount of therapy would ever help this gentle and ill fawn, but right now that didn’t matter. I needed her.

We nodded hello as Dr. Hawthorne ushered me into his office. That was our code. If she nodded first, it was a go.

I knew then this would be the moment of truth, sitting on his large couch and reaching in between the pillows to see what Lily was able to steal from the doctor’s office. What instrument would I be able to hide in my billowing shirt: a doctor’s pen? A stethoscope? Regardless what it was, perhaps it would provide me with the hope of somehow helping me escape from this hell hole.

As Dr. Hawthorne and I began our session, I calmly crossed my legs and dropped my hands to the side, my left hand inconspicuously placed across the pillow crack–ready to dive in and feel the treasure that Lily had left for me.

“How are you today, Steven?” Asked the Doctor, looking at my file.

I turned, knowing if I kept my body slightly towards him, he wouldn’t be able to see my left hand exploring the couch crevice. My fingers scurried through the pillows, feeling gathered dust and torn threads, when suddenly I felt something long and metallic.

Dr. Hawthorne droned on about the status of my treatment and his concern from me and the death of Hillary. Blah, blah, blah. My fingers continued to feel the object’s unique shape along the couch lining. Was it a corkscrew? A pair of pliers? Whatever it was, it was certainly nothing that seemed appropriate to come from a doctor’s examining room.

I waited until my session was almost over when I knew Dr. Hawthorne would turn to his appointment book for scheduling. I would literally have no more than 4 seconds or so to hide the object beneath my shirt as he turned his back to me.

I waited and waited, until with my left hand firmly gripped on the mysterious object, I saw my moment as the good doctor rose to his desk. With lightening speed, I yanked the silver object beneath my shirt, my eyes only having a millisecond to witness what it was that Lily had stolen for me. No, it wasn’t a corkscrew, though it looked like one. And it wasn’t a pair of pliers, but it did have a tongue to it.

I still didn’t know what it was! However, I refused to let my own curiosity sabotage my plan. I would just have to wait until I returned to my cell. I stood, continuing to hide the mysterious object in my waistband beneath the baggy flow of my sweatshirt, saying goodbye to the good doctor. Would this object be able to somehow give me my freedom? I could only hope.