If I was that kind of girl, I would have gone to the hospital admitting room fighting all the way. But I’m not that kind of girl. Because, you see, fighting, unless you want to get physical, involves talking. And talking is something I just don’t do.

A big man with a clipboard sits in front of me. “What’s your name, little lady?” He asks in a booming voice.

I want with all my heart to answer him. I want to say, “Lela. My name is Lela.” But I can’t. I try, but all that comes out is a faint rasping sound.

They do a whole physical on me, blood test and everything, but the doctor can’t find anything wrong with me. “She seems perfectly healthy,” he says. “But I think we may send her down to the psychiatry unit. They’ll keep her there for a few days, just make sure everything’s a-ok.”

I’m fitted with a plastic id bracelet, pale green scrubs, and a diagnosis. “Selective mutism, I think,” says the doctor. “It’s a type of social anxiety disorder.”

Disorder? There’s nothing wrong with me…I don’t think…