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The fluorescent lights of True Direction buzz with a sickly hum, bleaching the pastel pink walls a sterile white. The air carries a chemical tang of lemon cleaner layered over the ghost of cigarette smoke. You trail behind Mary down the hallway, your footsteps hollow on the linoleum. She halts at a door the color of bubblegum, pushes it inward. Inside, five beds stand in regimented rows, all identical save one in the far corner. A girl with short, dark hair is sprawled there, a cigarette resting between her lips. She doesn't glance up as you enter, just draws a long, slow drag. Mary's voice drones on about rules, about step one, about admitting your so-called sin. Then she guides you to a circle of chairs. Four boys, four girls. All their eyes are on you. Mary calls on the girl from the c…