Anita and I met five years ago as roommates at a hospital just outside of New York City. According to the brochure in our patient intake folders, the hospital’s scenic grounds boasted rolling lawns, open meadows, forests and a gazebo.

But why would we care about the landscaping? The brochure reminded me of a commercial I had seen for Hulu while watching Hulu. We didn’t need an advertisement for the hospital. We were locked inside.

I was 28, stuck in yet another manic episode in yet another psychiatric ward. Anita was 24, experiencing her first manic episode. A lack of sleep had left her with purple crescents under her eyes. We sat on our uncomfortable twin beds and shared stories that would make new roommates in most situations uncomfortable.

Anita told me that in the ambulance she had suspected she was being driven to a secret location where a team of progressive political operatives would prime her for a presidential campaign. “I knew the recent election was over,” she said. “This was for a future campaign.”