“Jesus,” I comment.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “Really.”
I give his face a once over. The bruise from when he hit my desk is completely gone, and he still has a light pink scar from the laceration I sewed up the first time he was in here. He has that cut on his lip and some bruises on his face, but nothing that looks like it needs stitches. But I notice every time he shifts his weight, he winces.
“What hurts?” I ask him.
“I have a broken rib.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know that?”
“Because it feels exactly like it did last time I had a broken rib.”
I wonder how many broken ribs he’s had since he’s been in here. “I’ll order a chest x-ray,” I tell him.
“Great.”
Despite everything, I feel a rush of sympathy for Shane. In the short time I’ve worked here, I’ve seen him come in here with significant injuries at the hands of other inmates on two separate occasions. Even if he is “evil” like Tim claims he is, it seems wrong that the prison is allowing this to happen.
“Are you sure you don’t want to report the men who did this to you?”
“Very sure.” He snorts. “You think I want this to happen to me every day?”
“You know,” I say, “sometimes you need to stand up to bullies. Last year, when my son was in fourth grade, he was getting pushed around every day. But now—”
I stop short because Shane is staring at me like I just punched him in the gut. I rewind what I just said in my head, trying to figure out why he looks that way. Then I realize.
“You have a son in fifth grade?” he asks in a hoarse voice. “You said he was in kindergarten.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Just a little squeak.
“Brooke.” He squeezes his knees with his hands. Hunt must’ve made the cuffs extremely tight, because I can see the metal biting into his wrists. “How old is your son?”
I could lie. There’s no way he would figure out the truth. But then again, I’m sure he can see the truth written all over my face. “He’s ten.”
“Is he…？”
“Yes.” I nod slowly. “He’s yours.”
Whatever those men did to Shane that landed him in here, what I have just done to him is far worse. He looks like he’s having a lot of trouble catching his breath, which is a bit disturbing if he really does have a rib fracture, but I don’t think that’s why.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he manages.
I shake my head, but I don’t answer. I don’t think he expects me to. The answer is obvious.
“Brooke, can I…？” He hesitates, and I’m afraid he’s going to ask me to bring Josh to visit. I won’t do that. There’s no way he can convince me. But instead, he says, “Can I see a picture of him? Please?”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But the way he’s looking at me is breaking my heart. And really, what harm could it do?
So I dig out my phone. I bring up a recent photo of Josh and I hold out the screen for him to look at it. He stares down at the photo, his lips parted.
“My God,” he breathes. “He looks like me.”
“Yes.”
“Can I see one more? Please, Brooke?”
I really, really shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to say no. Shane will never meet his son, but I can at least give him this. So I show him a few recent pictures. One of Josh playing baseball. One from a birthday party. I show him some old ones too. Josh on his first day of kindergarten, proudly posing with his teenage ninja turtle backpack. Shane eats it all up. In all my years of being a mother, I don’t think I have ever met anyone this mesmerized by pictures of my son. Even my parents never seemed that interested.