Bethany Bruno

Exit Interview

The room is white in a way that feels intentional. Not sterile. Manufactured. A white that hums softly beneath the surface. It has no corners, no clock. Just a smooth table and two chairs. One of them is already occupied.

The man sitting across from me wears a dark suit and no expression. His eyes are the exact color of boiled water. His tie is slightly askew.

“Ms. Collins,” he says.

“Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse. I haven’t used it in a while. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten how.

He looks down at a clipboard that wasn’t there a second ago.

“Do you remember where you are?”

“No.”

He nods once, as if that’s expected. Checks something off.

“Do you remember your age?”

“I’m—” I stop. I don’t know. Thirty? Forty? The number slides away before I can catch it.

“That’s fine,” he says. “We’ll begin anyway.”

I glance down. My hands are folded neatly in my lap. I didn’t do that. My legs are bare. My knees look too smooth.

He flips a page.

“Do you regret the choice you made in the parking lot?”

I blink. “Which one?”

“The woman with the stroller. The yellow Honda. You saw it coming. You didn’t speak.”

It unfolds in my head like a crumpled photograph. The sun sharp on the pavement. The baby’s feet kicking, one sock missing. The mother laughing at something on her phone. A car turning too fast.

I could have called out to her.

I could have tried to grab her arm.

But I didn’t.

I watched.

“I thought someone else would,” I say.

He doesn’t respond. Just checks another box.

He flips another page.

“Do you remember your father’s last week in the hospital?”

I nod.

“You didn’t visit.”

“I couldn’t,” I say.

“You said you couldn’t handle it. The smell. The machines. His face.”

“He wouldn’t want me to see him like that.”

“He asked for you,” the man says. “Twice. Then he stopped.”

I look down at my lap. My hands won’t stay still.

“I thought it would be easier,” I whisper.

He checks the page without looking at me. “For whom?”

On the wall behind him, something flickers. For a moment I see a screen. My face—older, crying. A hospital gown. Then it's gone.

He clears his throat.

“Do you believe you were a good person?”

“I don’t think that’s my question to answer.”

He smiles. It is the first expression he’s made, and it lands wrong on his face.

He flips another page.

“What about the boys at the gas station?”

I swallow.

“Two of them,” he says. “Brothers. Maybe ten and five. Filthy sneakers. One wore a too-big hoodie, the other no shoes at all.”

I nod.

“They asked for food. Not money. Just something warm.”

“I told them I didn’t have any cash,” I say.

“You did.”

“He might’ve been lying.”

He shrugs. “They usually are. But he wasn’t.”

I look down. My fingernails are painted pale blue. I’ve never liked blue.

“Do you remember the moment you stopped trying?” he asks.

The words crawl down my spine like cold fingers. I sit up straighter, suddenly aware of how quiet the room is.

“Trying what?” I ask, even though I already know.

He doesn’t answer. He waits.

I think of the parking lot. The hospital room. The gas station.

Of the moments when it would have cost me something—comfort, time, dignity—to do the right thing.

When I chose not to.

“To be good,” I whisper. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

He nods, just once.

“I don’t know when,” I say. “Maybe it was never just one moment. Maybe I let it slip away piece by piece.”

He marks something on the page. Slower this time.

A soft chime fills the air. It doesn’t come from anywhere I can see.

“We’re nearly done,” he says, standing.

I don’t remember him standing.

He extends a hand. I don’t want to take it, but my body does anyway. The contact is cold, dry, nothing like how skin should feel.

“Thank you, Ms. Collins. We appreciate your participation.”

“What is this?” I ask. “What’s it for?”

He adjusts his tie.

“Exit interview,” he says, simply.

“For what?”

He opens the door behind him. I hadn’t seen it before. A hallway glows beyond. Pale green light, like the inside of a fish tank. He waits.

I follow.

The hallway breathes.

At the end, there’s another door. Smaller. Almost domestic.

He knocks once and steps aside.

I open it.

Inside, the air holds the warm scent of lavender lotion, powdered formula, and the quiet sour-sweet edge of something forgotten in a corner.

The walls are padded in pale yellow fabric stitched with tiny stars. A mobile turns above
me, its shapes casting shadows across the ceiling: a half-moon, a moth, something with too many
arms. It squeaks softly as it spins, a lullaby clicking faintly beneath the hum.

I feel a weight in my limbs. A pulling down.

I stagger, reach for something to steady myself, but my fingers curl too tightly.

I’m falling— but not quite.

It’s a placement. Of being laid down, carefully.

I blink up at the spinning mobile. I hear a soft voice. A hum. A lullaby without words.

A shadow leans over me.

It caresses my forehead.

“You were so close,” it whispers. “You almost made it.”

The mobile slows. Its tune drags, notes curling and unraveling in the thick air. One of the stars twitches, then stops.

For a moment, there is nothing—no music, no motion, no sound.

Then a faint whir. A jolt. The motor catches again. The lullaby resumes, high-pitched and off-key.

I open my mouth and wail as my arms flail. My legs kick beneath the blanket, wild and uncoordinated.

I don’t know why I’m crying. Only that I am.

And the mobile begins to spin again.