Correctional officer Marcus Hunt is waiting outside the exam room. Hunt is the officer assigned to the medical unit, which means he brings the patients to the waiting area （i.e., the plastic chairs lined up outside the examining room）， and he stands at attention right outside the room while I’m with the patients.
Hunt is tall, and while he’s not exactly broad, he looks strong under his blue guard’s uniform. He’s maybe in his early thirties with a shaved skull and a few days’ growth of a beard on his chin. There are no windows on the doors, so it’s comforting to leave the door to the exam room open and know Hunt is right outside. I’ve noticed sometimes Hunt leaves the door wide open, and other times, like with Mr. Henderson, he just cracks it slightly. I figure he knows more about the inmates than I do, so I leave it to his discretion.
About a third of the men today came in with their wrists shackled. A couple of them had their ankles shackled as well. I didn’t ask how they determine who gets shackled and who doesn’t.
I deliver Mr. Henderson to Officer Hunt, and he nods at me without expression. Like Dorothy, he doesn’t smile much, or at all. The only people who have smiled at me since I’ve been here have been the prisoners.
“I’ll take him back to his cell,” Hunt tells me.
I check the plastic chairs outside the examining room. “Nobody else is waiting?”
“No, you get a break.”
I watch Hunt disappear down a hallway with Mr. Henderson, leaving me alone. Not that I’m not glad to have a break, but there’s not much to do around here. The Wi-Fi signal is practically nonexistent, and there’s nobody around to talk to. I should start bringing a book to read if there’s a break in the schedule.
The medical records room is located on the left. I’ve been in there a couple of times today to locate charts since nobody does it for me. I look down at my watch—still another hour before quitting time. Then I look both ways down the hallway.
There’s nobody here but me.
I creep over to the medical records room and use my ID badge to unlock the door. It’s a painfully claustrophobic room packed with as many file cabinets as can be squeezed into this amount of space, lit by a single naked bulb on the ceiling. There’s also a stack of files dumped in the corner of the room, the pages spilling out. Dorothy told me those are from inmates who are no longer here. Since most of these men are serving life sentences, I’m guessing that means they’re dead.
I don’t have much time here before Hunt returns. Fortunately, I know exactly what I’m looking for.
I make a beeline for the drawer marked N. I pull it open, exposing a thick stack of charts packed tightly into the drawer. I thumb through the names. Nash. Nabb. Napier. Neil.
Nelson.
I pull out the chart, my hands shaking slightly. The name scribbled on the tab is Shane Nelson. It’s him. He’s still here. Not that I should be surprised, since the last time I saw him, he was being sentenced to spend the rest of his life here.
I close my eyes and I can still see his ruggedly handsome face. His eyes looking into mine. I love you, Brooke.
That was what he said to me just a few hours before he tried to kill me.
And that’s not even the worst thing he did.
I stare down at the paper chart, wanting to open it and look inside, but knowing I shouldn’t. Morally, I definitely shouldn’t. Legally… It’s a gray area. Technically, as a prisoner of this facility, he’s one of my patients. But if I open this chart, I won’t be looking at it as a practitioner.
I’ve only been here a day. It’s a bit early to be breaking the rules.
When I applied for this job, I didn’t think I would get it, given my connection to one of the inmates. But I was a minor at the time of Shane’s trial, and my parents worked hard to keep my name out of public records. Still—I had believed a background check would give me away. But I was wrong.