For some reason, they have a room with a metal door and a tiny window off to the side. They don't tell anyone to look into it, but people do. They don't tell anyone what the room is for, and they don't need to. Inside is a table in the middle of the room, and attached to it are restraints. Leg-cuffs, hand-cuffs, a waistcuff. They don't tell anyone that they're more than happy to strap people up in there if they get out of line, or make a fuss about being ignored, bored, or god forbid, suicidal. They don't have to, the threat hangs above everyone's head and maintains the peace.
They don't tell you why all the other patients are homeless people. Apparently being threatened by someone who wants to "trade pants" with you is supposed to help with any thoughts of hurting oneself.
Nevermind the fact that sometimes people only hurt themselves to hurt others. Nevermind the fact that sticking a knife into themself is better than sticking it in their parents. All they care about is liability. All they care about is charging people for ambulance rides and hospital stays.
When the doctor finally comes around to talk to everyone, it's first come first served. 24 hours after someone first goes for help, because the little wound on their arm won't stop seeping blood, he asks what the problem is. As if he's concerned. As if he has any interest in the mental condition of a bunch of homeless people. As if he'd be caught dead here if it weren't part of his education. He asks questions, and if they don't get answered properly, it means another 24 hours in the psych ward. He wants the truth and the only truth that's worth telling might turn out to be a lie. "I learned my lesson and I won't ever do it again."