"Don't you go after them?" He looked at me as if trying to guess what was behind my question.
"No. If they get into trouble, we soon know about it from the people in town—or the police bring them back."
"And if not?" "If we don't hear about them, or from them, we assume they've made some satisfactory adjustment on the outside.
You've got to understand, Mr. Gordon, this isn't a prison.
We are required by the state to make all reasonable efforts to get our patients back,
but we're not equipped to closely supervise four thousand people at all times.
The ones who manage to leave are all high-moron types—not that we're getting many of those any more.
Now we get more of the brain-damaged cases who require constant custodial care—but the high-morons can move around more freely,
and after a week or so on the outside most of them come back when they find there's nothing for them out there.
The world doesn't want them and they soon know it."
We got out of the car and walked over to one of the cottages.
Inside, the walls were white tile, and the building had a disinfectant smell to it.
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