1.
Salvatore told her they were going for gelato.
That was the last thing she remembered before Dr. Neroni shoved a bitter plastic bite guard into her mouth and whispered, “We’ll take good care of you here,” which is not the type of thing you want to hear with electrodes pressed against your temples.
Because the thing was—once they called you criminally insane, it was nearly impossible to prove you weren’t. Yelling that you weren’t insane while being dragged away in a straitjacket only made you look more fucking insane. So, eventually, you stopped fighting. You filled the limitless space of madness.
And eventually, you were the gelato.
And nobody knew your name.
Not even you.
2.
She didn’t know if it was the ducks or the alarms that woke her first.
A woman was screaming about ducks. A nightstick clattered against metal doors. Gia tried to roll over and go back to sleep, soothed by the sounds, but couldn’t. Nylon straps dug into the raw skin of her chest, waist, hips, and thighs, binding her to the table.
Then—the heavy click of the door.
A tide of patient prisoners surged down the dark hallway, their orange-striped jumpsuits illuminated by pulsing red alarm lights. Gia blinked at the blur of movement, and for a moment, it looked like orange cream saltwater taffy. Ocean City, New Jersey. Had she been there before?
A jolt of pain shot from her molars to the back of her skull. She screamed. Blood, metallic and thick, filled her mouth.
A shadow slipped into her room, moving against the chaos. A girl—no older than eighteen—wild hair frizzing at the ends, her grin revealing a mouthful of rot. Her flashlight lit the room, catching the water damage on the ceiling and the desperate messages carved into the walls, some written in blood.
The girl leaned close, breathing against Gia’s ear.
“Little duck?”
Gia swallowed.
The girl’s grin widened. “We’re gonna ‘scape. Wanna ‘scape with us? Mama Trixie says we gotta go now, little duck.”
Gia hesitated, wondering where she was and where she would escape to.
The girl worked at the buckles of Gia’s restraints, her filthy fingers nimble.
“What you doin’, Ducky?” a voice drawled from the doorway, booming over the noises of insanity on the loose.
“Nothin’, Mama Trixie,” the girl answered sweetly, innocently, twirling her hair between her fingers and hiding the flashlight behind her back.
“Now, Ducky. I tol’ you. We in a hurry. You can only bring one little duck. This the one you gon’ pick?”
“Yes, Mama Trixie.”
“Well, okay. Hurry up then.”
Mama Trixie was a large woman who had been a kindergarten teacher before she fed the children poisoned gingerbread and read them The Polar Express as they drifted off, little mouths foaming. She laced their teeth onto a necklace with scissors, paper clips, and apple charms, so she wound up in the State Asylum for the Criminally Insane instead of in Rikers with the bathtub-drowning mothers. Naturally, the parents were quite upset, but after a tour of the State Asylum, they decided their protest was no longer necessary.
“Hurry now. Ain’t no time for dawdlin’. Don’t know when we gon’ get another chance like this.”
3.
The asylum was chaos.
Gia staggered through the narrow, winding corridors, legs weak from disuse. The stampede of patient prisoners shoved her forward. She tripped, palms slamming against the linoleum.
A body.
A guard—his face caved in, his limbs bent in unnatural angles.
She crawled into a nearby room that reeked of antiseptic, old blood, and burnt hair.
Ducky found her, grabbing her hand.
“Where’d you go, little duck? Mama Trixie says we gotta ‘scape now if we gonna.”
Ducky pulled her down the hallways, gripping tightly, her long, jagged nails digging into Gia’s palm, skipping madly, hopscotching over the fallen bodies of guards. Past gurneys with cracked leather straps. Past electroshock machines. They ran until they reached a vast, cathedral-like hall. Crumbling stone arches. A chandelier missing half its bulbs. There, the asylum had set up a perimeter and was fighting back. Guards in riot gear were filling the air with noxious smoke bombs, disorienting the patient prisoners and shooting them with tranquilizers. The patient prisoners stumbled into a heavy sleep.
A dart hissed through the air.
Ducky swayed, a tranquilizer lodged in her shoulder. She laughed as she crumpled.
“Run, little duck.”
4.
Gia awoke alone in the asylum courtyard, hidden under an ivy hedge. Everything was dark and quiet. She pulled herself out from under the foliage, brushing off the dirt. A janitor pushed a large cart across the gravel paths, whistling. The last police car switched off its swirling lights and disappeared down the road, the sound of its engine fading into the night.
A fog lingered beyond the rusted fences, illuminated by moonlight. Dead trees stood like skeletal sentinels, their leafless branches scratching the sky. A winding, uneven stone path led to the main entrance, surrounded by high fences with barbed wire. With only the fog as her cover, she moved quickly, feet barely making a sound. She pushed against the iron gate, its bars twisted and blackened by time. Above her, a rusted plaque read: “State Hospital for the Criminally Insane – Est. 1912”. The letters were chipped, half-swallowed by the ivy that curled hungrily around the ironwork. The asylum loomed behind her, a beast of gothic stone with turrets and pointed spires. Gargoyles perched on ledges, their faces frozen in silent agony.
Gia turned and stumbled toward the city beyond.
5.
Gia walked across the bridge into the city. Beneath her, a river slithered, slow and toxic, reflecting the neon skyline. Rotting warehouses, derelict shipyards, and the husks of cargo ships sunk into the polluted depths. The air was thick with urine. The bridge sheltered lost souls—addicts and drifters hunched beneath patched tarps. Some rocked back and forth, lost in some chemical-induced oblivion. Others muttered to themselves, their arms fresh with needle marks.
A boy, no older than ten, crouched beside a smoldering barrel fire, the glow flickering against his face. He looked up as Gia approached, his gaze locking onto her asylum suit. His eyes widened with recognition.
“Yo! It’s one of them loony bin people!” he shouted, scrambling backward.
The encampment stirred. Hollow-eyed figures lifted their heads, their gaunt faces shadowed with something between curiosity and hunger. Gia tensed.
The boy ran, calling out to others in the darkness. The shuffling of feet echoed against the concrete, gaunt figures slipping from the shadows.
Gia took a step back. Then another.
She turned and bolted, breath burning in her throat as she cleared the bridge and careened towards a narrow alley, her body weak from hunger. Rusted fire escapes zigzagged down dilapidated buildings, wires hanging low over the streets like nooses. She had no idea where she was going. She only knew she couldn’t stop. Gia ran through decaying apartment blocks, past abandoned industrial sites and factories. All the windows were darkened or boarded up. Gia pushed forward, breath ragged, feet pounding against the uneven pavement. Behind her, the fog swallowed her pursuers. But the city never lost track of its own. Not for long.
6.
“Ey! Get in!” a cabbie hollered, jerking his thumb toward the backseat.
Gia got in, slamming the door. Tires screeched, and the cab lurched forward.
“Sheesh, rough neighborhood,” he muttered, eyes flicking to Gia in the rearview. “You just bust outta the asylum or somethin’?” He laughed.
Gia pulled her jacket tight across her chest to obscure the asylum logo.
“Hey, hey, no judgment,” he said. “I did a little time myself—nothin’ major, not the looney bin or nothin’, no offense—but still. I get it. System’s rough. Ya know, I heard about the bust-out on the radio. And I says to myself, you know what, Frankie, you oughta go down there and help out, you know what I mean? Convinct to convict. Second chances and all that.”
“Sure,” she mumbled.
Frankie squinted in the mirror, chewing on a thought. “You know, you look like someone. Wait… yeah… Gia. Gia Giamatti, that’s it. Family maybe? You her cousin or somethin’? What’s ya name, kid?”
Gia opened her mouth to correct him… nothing. Her stomach twisted. How the hell did she not know her name?
“No, I’m not Gia.” She stammered.
“Weird,” he said, honking at a pedestrian. “You’re a dead ringer, I swear. But hey, where we headin’ besides outta this dump?”
“Oh. Uh…” She hesitated.
“No place? No family?”
“I… I don’t think so.”
Frankie let out a low whistle. “Yeah, I know how that feels, kid. You go inside, you come out, and it’s like the whole damn world moved on without you. Ain’t fair.” He honked at another pedestrian. “Tell you what, I know a spot—Luigi’s. Best veal in the city.”
“What city is this?”
“Jeezus! What city? What city, she says. The best city in the world! New York, baby!”
“Oh.”
“You must be so hungry you can’t see straight. My blood sugar gets like that, too. And my wife, she says to me, Frankie, you need to eat somethin’. Don’t worry, you’re in my cab now. We’ll figure it out.” He threw a wink in the mirror, then floored it.
“Ey! Don’t you see I’m drivin’ here?” he yelled to another cab. “Moron!”
They drove toward downtown. Towers rose like monoliths, their Art Deco crowns slicing through the clouds. A clock tower loomed, its iron hands frozen in time. Steam rose from rusted sewer grates, twisting into the neon haze of flickering signs. Lamp posts tilted, their shattered bulbs casting feeble light. The streets were a living thing, pulsing with the shuffle of nightwalkers and headlights slicing through the ever-present fog—torn posters peeled from brick walls, graffiti creeping like veins across every surface. Garbage overflowed from dented bins, rats scattering as footsteps echoed too close.
The neon sign above Luigi’s Trattoria cast red and green light onto the cracked sidewalk. Two men stood outside the door, smirking as Frankie entered the restaurant.
“Frankie,” one nodded.
“Where ya been, Frankie?” asked the other.
Inside, the air was thick with garlic, simmering sauce, and cigar smoke. Gia tentatively followed Frankie inside. The restaurant had a few late-night diners, and a waiter brought a plate of cannoli with a sparkler to a somber birthday party. The cigar smoke came from a back table where a large group of men were seated, speaking in hushed tones. Upon seeing Frankie, a man jumped up from his seat and grabbed him by the collar.
“What are you doin’ here? You got a lotta nerve comin’ back here, Frankie.”
“Hey, guys. Just here to visit my cousin. Right? Vinny?”
Seated in the center of the table, a man took a long drag of his cigar and squinted his eyes, thinking. A gold ring with a large ruby sparkled in the light of the tea candles.
“What do you want, Frankie?”
Frankie grinned. “It’s a reunion.”
“This ain’t no fuckin’ reunion, Frankie. You’re lucky I don’t cut your throat right here after the shit you pulled.”
“That was all a misunderstanding, Vinny. Plus. Look. I got something that will make up for all that.”
“What the hell could possibly make up for all that, huh? You know me—I don’t do second chances. You cross me once, that’s it. End of story.”
Vinny got up from his seat. Quickly, everyone followed suit. Frankie cowered.
“Did you check him for goddamn wires?” Vinny asked a huge man standing behind Frankie.
“No, boss.”
“Jeezus! What am I paying you for, you moron?”
“Ey, relax, would ya? Don’t be so damn uptight. Look what I brought with me—thought you might appreciate a little… peace offering,” Frankie said while being aggressively patted down.
“The only kinda peace I get is you dead, Frankie.”
“Look, didn’t I say this was gonna be a reunion? C’mon, take a look at what I brought.” Frankie grabbed Gia’s wrist and flung her into the light. She stood blinking as Vinny searched her face.
“Is that Gia Giamatti? You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Vinny said in disbelief.
“No, no…” Gia stammered.
“Hey, hey, take it easy. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. You and me? We just gotta have ourselves a little conversation, that’s all,” Vinny said.
“See, Vinny? I knew you’d be real happy with me. And since you’re so damn pleased… I was thinkin’ maybe you’d wanna show your appreciation. Maybe… make it worth my while.”
“Shut the hell up, Frankie. You talk too damn much.”
The sound was muffled, barely more than a whisper. Frankie gasped, a hand flying to his chest, his wide eyes flashing with shock. He made a sound—some half-formed word that never left his lips—before his body slumped forward, knocking over the wine glass. Red spilled across the table. The other restaurant patrons were unbothered, continuing their meals and quiet conversations. Gia froze. She staggered back, nearly bumping into one of Vinnie’s men, but he didn’t let her go far. Vinny set the gun down.
“I hate rats,” he said. “Come on, Gia.” His voice was softer now, gentler. “We need to talk.” He motioned to his men, snapping his fingers. “Ey, clean this up.”
Gia’s pulse pounded in her ears. She struggled as she was forced back to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, the chef moved with practiced precision, his knife flashing under the dim kitchen lights as he severed the heads of the ducks lined up on the worn wooden counter. Blood pooled, dark and glistening, soaking into the grooves of the cutting board as he set the lifeless bodies aside, ready to be plucked and prepared for the evening’s dishes. He wiped his blade clean with a stained rag, unfazed, already reaching for the next bird.