She'd go in. I'd call her. "Where are you?" "I'm in the clinic, getting dry." "Oh, um, sorry to hear it." "What are you sorry about? I'm the idiot who got myself into this state." And that was her attitude towards it. She had little time for emotions like pity anyway; she only liked the big ones: Love, Heartbreak, Death, etc. Once in, she'd make these miraculously speedy recoveries. It didn't matter how messed up she'd been for the past however long, how slurred her words had been when I had run into her just three days earlier. Day 2 in that place and it was the old Amy again, the Amy that I had met five years ago. She had her brilliant mind back, her razor-sharp wit, and a warmth, a beautiful lovingness that was sometimes obscured in the depths of abuse. I would hang out in her room there for hours and not ever want to leave, like a sleepover at your best friend's house when you're 13 years old.