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Prison Is Revolving Door for Mentally Ill, Who Don't Get Needed Meds

It was 3 o'clock in the morning when the bad guy showed up, talking real loud and fast, like an auctioneer.

"Are you OK, my son?" Ellen Hanson asked as her son headed up the stairs. The look in his eyes when he turned to face her was like nothing she had ever seen before. It sent chills down her spine.

"I'm not your son," was his rapid reply.