Noah woke up before everyone else in the boy’s wing like he had done every day since he’d arrived. Usually he was a late sleeper, but he couldn’t risk someone walking in on him in the shower or seeing him without his binder on. So he had been setting an alarm for an hour earlier than the time the workers would come to wake everyone else up.

“Morning.” Helen smiled at him. She was always very chipper for someone coming off a night shift. He instinctively curled the bundle of clothes to his chest to hide it.

“Morning.” He muttered back.

He hurried off to the bathroom. He took a spare towel and draped it over the mirror, undressed, and showered. He had memorised where all of the soaps were so that he could shower with his eyes shut. When everyone else was up, they made breakfast. The service got a lot of donations of day-old bread from the local bakeries, so he’d gotten used to eating a lot of vegemite toast.

Then the mandatory morning activity began. The others were still in their pyjamas, rubbing their eyes, nursing cups of coffee and waiting for the caffeine to hit. James looked especially rough. Supposedly he’d disappeared to a party yesterday. That explained the faint weed smell emanating from his general direction. The workers took them through a card game this morning. They each had to pick a card and answer the question written on it. Noah noticed that all these morning activities were more like morning therapy sessions. His question was ‘what are you most proud of?’. He didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure what there was to be proud of in his life. He was a dropout. A weirdo. The other people living in the house didn’t seem to like him very much. He searched his memory and came up blank. Eventually, when the expectant silence of the others became too much, he just said ‘I don’t have anything, sorry.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big achievement. It could be something small. Maybe even just eating breakfast this morning.” Helen said. She smiled encouragingly. Eternally patient. Even when she was getting screamed at or threatened, she was always nice.

He thought some more. Little achievements. “Does being alive count?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m most proud of still being alive.”

Without thinking, he ran his hand over the scar on his arm.The staples had left an odd dot pattern along with the line.

“Yeah. I’m proud to still be here.”