John honestly considered walking away, but that would mean heading back inside. Was his dignity worth another twelve hours of monotonous television? Answer: no. Hardly. So, he exhaled and sat back down. The wrapped muffin found its way into his pocket, which freed his arms to cross over his chest.
"I'm just getting tired of being treated like I'm mad. I'm beginning to wonder if the doctors didn't get their licenses through mail order - first they tackle a heavily sedated girl like she's some sort of threat, then they won't even talk to me, and if this is really supposed to be some sort of mental hospital, where's the therapy? The only 'treatment' I've seen is a tendency to overmedicate, and that's not helping anyone."