I Came Home From The Oil Rig 3 Weeks Early. My Daughter Sophie Wasn’t Home. My Wife Said She’s “At Wilderness Camp With Grandpa.” I Drove To The Address. Found 13 Children Locked In A Building. Sophie Was There. Starving. Bruised. “Dad, We Can’t Leave. Mr. Thornton Says There Are Bears.” I Found A Girl In The Basement. Barely Breathing. Then I Heard A Truck Coming…
I had missed four Christmases in seven years, a math problem that never stopped hurting no matter how much the oil rig contracts paid.
The money was good, the work was brutal, and the distance was the quiet cost nobody talked about when you signed your name at the bottom of the page.
This rotation wasn’t supposed to end for another three weeks, but when a relief crew arrived ahead of schedule, I didn’t hesitate for a second.
I took the first helicopter back to Vancouver, already picturing Sophie’s face when I walked through the door, imagining the way she would freeze for half a second before realizing her dad was really home for her ninth birthday.
The house was quiet when I stepped inside, not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the hollow kind that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Sarah’s car was in the driveway, the lights were on, but no music played, no footsteps padded across the floor, and my phone calls went unanswered.
I checked Sophie’s room first, because that was muscle memory by now, and the emptiness hit harder than I expected.
Her bed was made too neatly, her backpack gone, her favorite stuffed fox missing from the pillow where she always left it.
Sarah came out of the kitchen like she hadn’t heard the door open, eyes wide, startled in a way that made my stomach tighten.
“Marcus, what are you doing here?” she asked, forcing a laugh that didn’t land, “you’re not supposed to be back until the twenty-eighth.”
“I got relieved early,” I said, already walking toward her, already scanning her face.
“Where’s Sophie? I wanted to surprise her for her birthday.”
Something flickered in her expression, a hesitation so fast she probably thought I wouldn’t catch it, but years on dangerous sites had trained me to notice when things didn’t line up.
“She’s at camp,” Sarah said quickly, smoothing her hands on her jeans, “that wilderness program my father recommended, remember?”
I stared at her, waiting for the rest of the explanation that never came.
“What wilderness program?” I asked slowly, “Sophie doesn’t need a wilderness program.”
“She’s been having behavioral issues,” Sarah snapped, the words coming out sharper than necessary, “talking back, pushing boundaries, and you’d know that if you were here more often.”
The guilt landed exactly where she aimed it, but something about the timing felt wrong.
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“What’s the address?” I asked, already moving toward the door, “I’ll go pick her up.”
“You can’t just show up,” Sarah said, stepping in front of me, voice tight now, “parents aren’t allowed during the first two weeks, it disrupts the process.”
Every instinct I’d developed working isolated rigs where mistakes got people <hurt> started screaming.
“What’s the name of this place?”
“Pineridge Wilderness Academy,” she said, just a beat too fast, “it’s past Squamish.”
I opened my laptop right there on the kitchen counter, fingers moving before she could stop me.
No website, no registration, no reviews, no trace of anything called Pineridge Wilderness Academy anywhere in the province.
“There’s nothing online,” I said, turning the screen toward her, “Sarah, nothing at all.”
“It’s exclusive,” she insisted, eyes darting away, “they don’t advertise, my father had to pull strings.”
Her father, Richard Thornton, the retired psychiatrist who had always made my skin crawl, the man who talked about discipline and broken children like they were faulty equipment.
Sarah adored him, trusted him without question, and suddenly the air in the kitchen felt too tight to breathe.
“I’m going to get her,” I said, grabbing my keys, “give me the address or I call the police and report our daughter missing.”
She wrote it down with shaking hands, an address off a logging road north of Squamish, and as I turned to leave, something on the counter caught my eye.
A brochure, glossy but old, not for any wilderness academy, but for something called New Horizons Behavioral Modification Center.
I slipped it into my pocket without saying a word and drove north.
The road deteriorated quickly, pavement turning to gravel, then to mud and ruts that rattled my teeth.
No signs, no markers, just trees closing in tighter the farther I went, until my GPS gave up entirely.
After forty minutes, I saw the fence, chain-link topped with barbed wire, a heavy padlock sealing the gate.
Beyond it stood a cluster of buildings that looked nothing like any camp I’d ever seen, just old cabins and one larger structure squatting in silence.
I parked and walked the perimeter until I found a section of fence I could climb, adrenaline carrying me over like I wasn’t already exhausted.
Inside, the compound felt wrong, five cabins spaced too far apart, windows dark, no sounds of kids laughing or counselors calling out.
The first three cabins were locked tight.
The fourth had a broken window, and when I looked inside, my heart dropped into my boots.
Sleeping bags lined the floor, no beds, no furniture, just a bucket shoved into a corner like an afterthought.
The walls were carved with messages, tally marks, desperate scratches that told a story nobody had wanted to hear.
“Help us.”
“Day 47.”
“Mom please come get me.”
I heard a sound then, faint, a whimper coming from the larger building.
The door was padlocked, but the frame was rotting, and two hard kicks splintered it open.
The smell hit first, stale air, unwashed bodies, fear soaked into wood.
Then I saw them, twelve children sitting in rows on the floor, silent, eyes unfocused like they’d learned not to expect anything good.
Sophie was in the back row.
Her hair was matted, her cheeks hollow, <bruised> marks dark against her arms, and when she looked up at me, it took a moment for recognition to break through.
“Sophie,” I said, my voice cracking despite every effort to hold it together, “baby, it’s Dad.”
She started shaking, then crying, then running, and when I caught her, she felt so light it terrified me.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered into my chest, clinging like she was afraid I’d disappear again.
Around us, the other kids stood slowly, hope and fear tangled together on their faces.
“How long have you been here?” I asked her, brushing hair from her face.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, “three weeks, maybe more, they took our phones, they took everything.”
“We can’t leave,” she added quickly, panic rising, “the doors lock from the outside, and Mr. Thornton says there are bears in the woods.”
Mr. Thornton, my father-in-law, her grandfather.
“He says we’re sick,” Sophie whispered, eyes darting to the door, “that we need fixing, that our parents sent us here because we’re broken.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest that had nothing to do with fear.
“Is anyone else in trouble right now?” I asked the group, forcing calm into my voice.
A boy stepped forward, older than the rest, eyes too tired for his age.
“Emma’s in isolation,” he said, “she tried to escape and they locked her in the basement three days ago.”
I found the door, unbolted it, and the air inside was freezing.
Emma lay curled on the concrete, barely conscious, her skin cold, her breathing shallow, her body showing signs of <dehydrated> and <hypothermic> shock.
I wrapped her in my jacket, lifted her carefully, and reached for my phone, knowing before I checked that there would be no signal.
“We’re leaving,” I said to the group, “right now, can everyone walk?”
They nodded, shaky but determined, and I started counting as we moved, twelve kids plus Sophie, thirteen in total.
We were halfway to the fence when the sound cut through the trees, low and unmistakable.
An engine, a pickup truck climbing the road toward the compound.
I recognized the driver,…
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I had missed four Christmases in seven years. The oil rig contracts paid well, but they kept me away from home for months at a time. This rotation was supposed to end in 3 weeks, but when the new crew arrived early, I took the first helicopter back to Vancouver. I wanted to surprise my daughter Sophie for her 9th birthday.
The house was quiet when I walked in. Too quiet. Sarah’s car was in the driveway, but she wasn’t answering her phone. I checked Sophie’s room. Empty. Her birthday was tomorrow and I’d imagined her face when she saw me walk through that door. Sarah came out of the kitchen startled. Marcus, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until the 28th. Got relieved early.
Where’s Sophie? I wanted to surprise her for her birthday. Something flickered across Sarah’s face. Hesitation. She’s at camp. Remember that wilderness program my father recommended? It’s supposed to be really good for her. I stared at my wife. What wilderness program? Sophie doesn’t need a wilderness program.
She’s a straight A student. Well, you’d know that if you were here more often. The words came out sharp. She’s been having some behavioral issues. Acting out. Talking back. My father said this program would help. I pulled out my phone. What’s the address? I’ll go pick her up. You can’t just show up, Marcus. It’s a structured program.
Parents aren’t allowed to visit during the first two weeks. It disrupts the therapeutic process. Every instinct I’d developed working dangerous jobs in isolated locations started screaming. What’s the name of this place? Pineidge Wilderness Academy. It’s up past Squamish. I opened my laptop right there in the kitchen.
Searched for Pineriidge Wilderness Academy. Nothing. No website, no reviews, no business registration with the province. Sarah, there’s nothing online about this place. It’s very exclusive. They don’t advertise. My father had to pull strings to get Sophie in. Your father, Richard Thornton, the man had always made my skin crawl.
He’d been a psychiatrist before he retired. The kind who talked about troubled youth and necessary discipline in ways that made me uncomfortable. Sarah worshiped him. Thought he walked on water. I’m going to get her. Marcus, you can’t just give me the address or I’ll call the police and report our daughter missing.
She wrote it down. An address off a logging road past Squamish. As I grabbed my keys, I noticed something on the kitchen counter, a brochure, but not for any wilderness program. It was for something called New Horizon’s Behavioral Modification Center. I pocketed it and drove north. The address led me up a deteriorating logging road.
No signs, no markers. After 40 minutes of rough driving, I found a chainlink fence with barbed wire, a padlocked gate. Beyond it, I could see buildings, old cabins. This wasn’t any kind of legitimate camp. I parked and walked the fence line until I found a section I could climb. The compound was bigger than it looked from the road.
Five cabins, a larger building that might have been a messaul, and absolute silence. No kids playing, no counselor’s voices, nothing. The first three cabins were locked. The fourth one had a broken window. I looked inside and my heart stopped. Six sleeping bags on the floor, but no beds, no furniture, a bucket in the corner.
The walls were covered in scratches, tally marks, messages carved into the wood. Help us. Day 47. Mom, please come get me. I heard something. A whimper from the larger building. The door was secured with a padlock, but the frame was rotting. Two hard kicks and it splintered open. The smell hit me first. Unwashed bodies. Fear. Then I saw them.
12 children, ages maybe 7 to 15, sitting on the floor in rows, silent, staring at nothing. And there in the back row was Sophie. Her hair was matted. She’d lost weight. There were bruises on her arms. She looked up at me and I watched her face struggle to process what she was seeing like she couldn’t believe I was real. “Sophie, baby, it’s Dad.
” She started shaking, then crying. Then she was running toward me and I caught her and she was so much lighter than she should be. Dad. Dad, you came. I knew you’d come. I knew it. The other children were standing now watching us. Hope and terror mixed on their faces. How long have you been here, sweetheart? I don’t know. 3 weeks maybe.
They took our phones. They took everything. Dad, we can’t leave. The doors lock from the outside. And Mr. Thornton says if we try to run there are bears in the woods. Mr. Thornton. Grandpa. She nodded. He comes every few days. He says we’re sick. That we need fixing. That our parents sent us here because we’re broken.
I looked at the other children. Is anyone hurt? Does anyone need a doctor right now? A boy, maybe 13, spoke up. Emma, she’s in the isolation room. She’s been there for 3 days. She tried to escape and they locked her in the basement. I found the basement door. It was secured with a bolt. Inside, a girl lay curled on a concrete floor in the dark.
She was barely conscious, dehydrated, hypothermic, despite it being June. I carried her up, wrapped her in my jacket. I pulled out my phone. No signal. Of course not. Listen to me, all of you. We’re leaving right now. Can everyone walk? They nodded, traumatized, but determined. I led them out, counting heads. 12 plus Sophie, 13 children.
We were halfway to the fence when I heard the engine. A pickup truck was coming up the road. I recognized the driver, Richard Thornton, and Sarah was in the passenger seat. Everyone into the trees. Stay hidden. Stay quiet. The children scattered into the forest like ghosts. Years of survival instinct kicked in.
I positioned myself between them and the truck. Richard got out first. He saw the broken door and his face changed. Cold rage. Marcus, you’re not supposed to be here. No, you’re not supposed to be here with 13 kidnapped children. Kidnapped? He laughed. These are troubled youths whose parents paid me to fix them legally with contracts.
Sarah stepped out of the truck. She looked from me to the building and I saw her face crumble. Dad, you said it was a camp. You said it was therapeutic. It is therapeutic, sweetheart. These children need structure, discipline. Their parents can’t handle them, so I do. I looked at my wife. Did you know? Did you know what this place really was? I thought she was crying now.
He said it was like the program he ran in the 80s, the wilderness therapy program. He showed me testimonials, success stories, the program that got shut down by the province. I’d found articles while searching. Richard Thornton had run a facility that was closed in 1988 after allegations of abuse. No charges were ever filed, but the license was revoked.
Those allegations were lies, Richard said. Angry parents who couldn’t accept that their children needed real discipline. Where are the counselors, the therapists, the medical staff? I am the medical staff. I’m a trained psychiatrist. You lost your license in 1992. His face darkened. Who do you think you are? coming here interfering with my program.
Sophie’s father and I’m calling the police. There’s no signal up here. And by the time you get back to town, we’ll be gone. All of us. You have no proof of anything. I pulled out my phone, started taking pictures. The building, the basement, the bucket, the scratches on the walls. Then I held up the brochure.
I’d found New Horizons Behavioral Modification Center. Is that what you’re calling it now? I’d been recording the entire conversation, every word. Richard threatening to disappear with the children, his admission about the contracts, the lack of proper licensing. Marcus, give me that phone. No. He reached into the truck, pulled out a rifle, not pointing it at me.
Not yet, but the threat was clear. Dad, what are you doing? Sarah’s voice was rising in panic. What I’ve always done. What needs to be done? These children are broken and society is too weak to fix them properly. Their parents sign them over to me because they know I get results by starving them, locking them in basement, by teaching them consequences, structure, respect.
A small voice came from the trees. You taught me that I was worthless. Sophie stepped out. Then another child. Then another. All 13 of them forming a line between me and Richard. You said my parents didn’t love me because I talked back, Sophie said. Her voice was shaking but clear. You said I deserve to be here, that I was too broken to go home.
Honey, Sarah was sobbing now. I never said that. I love you. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was like this. The boy who’d spoken earlier, the one who told me about Emma, stepped forward. My name is James. I’ve been here for 6 weeks. My parents think I’m at a wilderness camp learning leadership skills.
They paid him $15,000. I’m Olivia, 9 weeks. My parents think I’m in therapy for my eating disorder. He won’t let us eat unless we earn points by sitting still for hours. One by one, they spoke their names, how long they’d been there, what they thought their parents knew, what Richard had actually done. I kept recording.
Every word, every testimony. Richard lowered the rifle. He looked at Sarah. You brought him here. You ruined everything. I thought I was helping our daughter. You were. Until he interfered. Something in me snapped. 7 years of missing birthdays, missing Christmases, working myself into exhaustion to provide for my family while this man poisoned my wife against me and tortured my daughter.
Put the rifle down, Richard. Or what? You’ll call the police with no signal? You’ll hike out with 13 children through bear country in the dark? He smiled. This ends with you leaving alone and telling no one or none of you leave. I looked at Sophie at the terror in her eyes. At the other children, at my wife who was finally seeing her father for what he was. Then I heard the sirens.
Richard heard them, too. His face went white. That’s impossible. A woman stepped out from behind the treeine. She was holding a satellite phone. RCMP is 3 minutes out. They’ve had an open line for the last 20 minutes. I work for the BC Ministry of Children and Family Development. We’ve been investigating reports about this location for the past month.
She’d been there the whole time listening, recording the missing piece. Richard ran for his truck. Got maybe 10 m before two RCMP vehicles blocked the road. Four officers, guns drawn. Richard Thornton, you’re under arrest. They found the contracts. parents from across British Columbia and Alberta who’d paid between$10,000 and $30,000 for what they thought was wilderness therapy or behavioral programs.
47 children had cycled through the facility in the past 3 years. The 13 we found were the current group. They found the isolation rooms, plural, four of them, concrete cells where children were locked for days as punishment. They found the food stores, enough to feed maybe four people, not 13 growing children. They found Richard’s records, detailed notes about breaking resistant subjects and eliminating defiant behaviors through controlled deprivation.
Sarah sat in the police vehicle wrapped in a blanket, repeating, “I didn’t know.” over and over. They questioned her for hours. In the end, the crown decided she was a victim, too. Manipulated by her father, believing his lies because she’d spent her whole life believing him. But she’d face consequences.
She’d enabled this, even unknowingly. The ministry worker, Janet Morrison, had received an anonymous tip about the facility 4 weeks ago. She’d spent that time building a case, getting authorization for surveillance, coordinating with RCMP. When I’d called about Pineeridge Wilderness Academy, finding nothing, it had triggered flags in their system because they’d been searching for it, too, under different names.
They’d tracked my phone’s GPS heading up the logging road and scrambled a response team. Sophie stayed in the hospital for 4 days. Dehydration, malnutrition, psychological trauma. The doctors said she’d been maybe a week away from serious organ damage. Emma, the girl from the basement, stayed for 2 weeks. She developed pneumonia.
Her parents arrived from Calgary destroyed by guilt. They’d thought they were sending her to an expensive anxiety treatment program. They’d been forbidden from visiting or calling for the first month. I took a leave of absence from work. Sophie needed me home. She needed therapy. She needed time to trust that she was safe, that I wasn’t going to leave again, that her mother hadn’t deliberately hurt her.
The trial took 14 months. Richard was charged with 47 counts of forcible confinement, 23 counts of assault, 13 counts of child abuse, and multiple fraud charges. The parents testimonies were devastating. They’d trusted him. Some had known him professionally. They thought they were helping their children.
The defense argued that he genuinely believed in his methods, that his psychiatric training supported structured behavioral modification, that the parents had consented. The prosecution showed the isolation cells, the starvation, the testimonies of 47 children describing systematic abuse masked as therapy. The jury took 6 hours. Guilty on all counts.
Richard Thornton was sentenced to 37 years in prison. No possibility of parole for 25 years. He was 71 years old. He would die in prison. Four staff members who’d worked at the facility received sentences ranging from 8 to 15 years. They’d known, they’d participated. One had been a nurse who’d falsified medical records to show the children were healthy.
Sarah and I tried counseling, tried to rebuild our marriage, but the foundation was broken. She’d chosen to believe her father over trusting me. She’d sent our daughter to a place without visiting at first, without doing real research because her father had recommended it. In the end, we separated. Joint custody. Sophie lives primarily with me, but sees her mother regularly.
Sarah’s in therapy, too, working through the realization that her father was a monster. Sophie’s in fifth grade now. She’s doing well. Therapy twice a week. She has nightmares sometimes. There are foods she won’t eat because they remind her of the camp. She doesn’t like locked doors, but she’s healing. She has friends. She laughs.
I changed careers. I work in Vancouver now. Construction management. Home every night. There for every birthday, every Christmas, every moment I missed before the facility was demolished. The ministry bought the land and turned it into a proper youth wilderness program. one with licensed therapists, medical staff, regular inspections, and parent visitation rights.
They named it Sophie’s Place after my daughter, who’d been brave enough to speak up. 47 children received compensation from Richard’s estate and the parents settlements. It won’t undo the trauma, but it provides for therapy, for healing, for rebuilding. I think about those other parents sometimes. The ones who never suspected, who thought they were doing the right thing, who trusted a man with credentials and confidence.
Child predators don’t always look like strangers in vans. Sometimes they look like respected professionals, retired doctors, people with impressive resumes and authoritative voices. I learned something important in those woods. Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is. If a program doesn’t allow parent contact or visits, that’s a red flag.
If someone tells you your child is too broken to come home, they’re lying. No legitimate therapeutic program isolates children from their families completely. Sophie taught me something else. Children are resilient. They’re survivors, but they need advocates. They need adults who will listen, who will believe them, who will come get them when the world is telling them they’re too broken to save.
I came home early from the oil rigs that day by pure chance. But I think about the children whose parents didn’t come, who trusted, who waited, who believe that silence meant their child was healing. If you’re sending your child to any kind of program, camp, or facility, visit it first. Meet the staff.
See the sleeping arrangements. Ask about communication policies. If they won’t let you visit, don’t send your child there. No matter how impressive their credentials are, no matter who recommends them, your instinct to protect your child should always be stronger than your desire to trust authority figures. Sophie’s 9th birthday was 3 weeks late, but we celebrated anyway.
Her friends came over, we had cake, she opened presents, and when she blew out her candles, I saw her whisper her wish. Later, I asked her what she’d wished for. She smiled. That you’d stay home. I’m not going back to the rigs. Some contracts pay well, but the cost is too high. I missed too much. I almost lost everything that mattered.
The oil rigs will still be there. My daughter’s childhood won’t wait. Richard Thornton’s case led to new legislation in British Columbia. The Youth Residential Programs Act now requires licensing, regular inspections, mandatory background checks, and strict parent communication rights for any facility housing minors for therapeutic purposes.
Facilities must be registered with the ministry. Parents must have access to visit with 72 hours notice maximum. Children must have access to outside communication at least twice weekly. It’s called Sophie’s law. My daughter’s trauma helped protect thousands of other children from the same fate. That doesn’t erase what happened to her, but it gives her pain purpose.
It transforms her suffering into something that saves others. She’s starting to understand that now. At 9 years old, she testified before the provincial legislature about what happened. She helped write the law that bears her name. She found her voice. Janet Morrison still visits sometimes. She and Sophie have become friends. Janet brings her dog.
A therapy golden retriever named Bear. The irony isn’t lost on anyone. Richard had threatened the children with bears in the woods. Now, a dog named Bear helps them heal. The other 12 children are healing, too. James, the boy who spoke first, is in therapy and back in school. His parents visit him every weekend, making up for lost time.
Olivia’s family moved to be closer to specialized eating disorder treatment that’s actually legitimate. Emma’s parents started a support group for families affected by Richard’s facility. We meet once a month. 13 families bound together by trauma and survival. The children play together while the parents share resources, therapy recommendations, and the slow work of forgiveness, forgiving themselves, for trusting, for not knowing, for believing that sending their children away would fix whatever was broken.
Because here’s what I learned from all of this. Most of those children weren’t broken. They were normal kids going through normal struggles. Sophie talked back sometimes because she was frustrated that I was never home. That’s not a behavioral disorder requiring isolation and starvation. That’s a 9-year-old girl missing her father.
James had ADHD and struggled to sit still in class. That’s not defiance requiring punishment. That’s a neurological condition requiring support and understanding. Olivia was struggling with body image in a world that tells 13-year-old girls they need to look like adults. That’s not an eating disorder requiring isolation.
That’s adolescence requiring compassion and proper medical care. Richard Thornton built his program on a lie. The lie that children are problems to be solved rather than people to be supported. The lie that difficult behavior is willful defiance rather than communication of unmet needs. The lie that isolation, fear, and deprivation are therapeutic tools rather than torture methods.
And parents believed him because society tells us that experts know better than we do. That credentials matter more than instinct. That if we just find the right program, the right treatment, the right authority figure, they’ll fix what we can’t. But children don’t need fixing. They need presence. They need patience. They need parents who show up even when it’s inconvenient.
Especially when it’s inconvenient. I think about the man I was before that day. The one who prioritized career over family. who thought providing money was the same as providing presents, who missed birthdays and Christmases because the contracts paid too well to turn down. That man would have lost his daughter, not to Richard’s facility, but to the distance I’d created between us, to the belief that someone else could raise her while I earned money.
Sophie saved me as much as I saved her. She reminded me what mattered. She called me back to the life I’d been missing while I was busy making a living. The oil rigs are still operating off the coast. Other men work my old contracts. They make good money. They miss their children’s birthdays. I hope they come home before it’s too late.
I hope they learn what I learned before they have to learn it the hard way. I hope they understand that no amount of money is worth the cost of absence. That children don’t need parents who provide everything except themselves. Sophie and I have a tradition now. Every Friday night, we cook dinner together. She chooses the menu. We make a mess. We laugh.
We talk about her week, her friends, her fears, her dreams. Last Friday, she told me she wants to be a social worker when she grows up. Like Janet, she wants to help other kids who get sent to bad places. I told her she’d be amazing at that, that she already was a hero, that Sophie’s Law would help thousands of children before she even got her degree.
She smiled. Then she said something that broke my heart and healed it at the same time. Dad, I’m glad you came home early that day. But I’m more glad you stayed. That’s the real lesson from all of this. Coming home early saved 13 children from immediate danger. But staying home saves Sophie every single day.
If you take anything from this story, let it be this. Your children need you present more than they need you perfect. They need you available more than they need you affluent. They need your time more than they need your money. And if someone ever tells you that your child needs to be sent away to be fixed, ask yourself this question.
What kind of healing happens in isolation from the people who love them most? The answer should scare you enough to say no to trust your instinct to keep your child close even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. Because the real therapeutic wilderness isn’t a compound in the woods run by unlicensed predators.
