“Feel the danger, or else they are the cause of it. And maybe it all makes more sense than I had thought : Take a suicidal girl and put her in a war zone — some place where she can think of nothing but survival just to get through breakfast. Maybe there’s method in this madness after all.
Chloe and I didn’t sleep that night. We talked about everything from what kind of music I made, to the goth clubs in L.A. that she used to go when she had been happy. I told her that I always endep up dancing on a table, and she told that she always ended up taking off her shirt. At four o’clock, the nurses came. Chloe got out of bed, and so did I. She was shaking. I held her tightly and told her that I loved her. She told me she loved me too. Then Chloe switched off; she put her head down and let the nurses fold her into the wheelchair they had brought to carry her away.
When Chloe was gone, I tore the corner of the previous day’s asylum letter into the shape of a heart, because, frankly, that’s the sort of thing that girls never grow out of when it comes to each other, and, on the heart, I wrote her a note. I told her that, soon, when she got out of here, she was to go directly to the goth club we had spoken of. There, I wrote, she would find me dancing on a table, and she’d better be prepared to take her shirt off.

I never saw Chloe again.