The Inmate (11)

“It’s a pressure wound,” I say. “We can put a dressing on it, but it’s never going to heal if you don’t keep pressure off of it.”

“Yeah, well, how am I supposed to do that? The cushion on my chair is halfway decent, but the mattress in my bed is terrible. I’m basically lying directly on metal springs.”

“So you need a better mattress.”

Mr. Carpenter snorts. “How long have you worked here? Nobody’s getting me a new mattress.”

“They have to get it for you if I prescribe it.”

“Whatever you say…”

Despite Mr. Carpenter’s skepticism, he’s going to get that mattress. It’s medical neglect not to give a paraplegic a decent mattress with pressure relief. It might involve a stack of paperwork, but I’m going to make it happen.

As soon as I’m done with Mr. Carpenter, I confirm nobody is waiting to be seen and head down the hall to Dorothy’s office. Yes, she has an office and I have a desk in my examining room. But I recognize she has seniority, so I’m not going to say anything. Hopefully, I won’t be working here long enough to get a desk.

I knock on the door to Dorothy’s office and wait to hear her say to come in. After what seems like five minutes, she calls for me to come inside. When I enter the office, she’s sitting at her desk, a pair of half-moon glasses balanced on the bridge of her bulbous nose.

“I’m very busy, Brooke,” she says.

“This won’t take long,” I say. “I just need to find out how I can get a pressure relief mattress for Malcolm Carpenter.”

She peers at me over the rim of her glasses. “A pressure relief mattress?”

She says it like I was speaking in an unfamiliar language. She knows very well what I’m talking about. “He’s a paraplegic, and he’s developed a pressure sore on his coccyx. He needs a decent mattress or it won’t heal.”

“Brooke,” she says flatly, “this is not the Ritz Carlton. We can’t get dream mattresses for all the inmates.”

A muscle twitches under my eye. “I’m not asking for a luxury item. This is medically indicated.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t.”

“Of course it is!” I burst out. “He can’t move or feel the lower half of his body. The sore is just going to get worse if we don’t relieve pressure on it. Getting him a decent mattress is the least we can do.”

“I’m afraid a new mattress just isn’t in the budget. You’ll have to come up with a more creative solution.” She shakes her head. “Don’t you have any problem-solving skills?”

I stare at her, too stunned to respond. The problem is that the man has a pressure ulcer. The simple solution is a decent mattress. What is wrong with this woman? Doesn’t she care about these prisoners at all? They’re human beings, after all.

The phone rings on Dorothy’s desk. She picks it up without saying another word to me. I stand there while she listens to the other person speaking. Finally, she says, “Yes, I’ll send her right over.”

Damn. She probably means me.

Sure enough, when Dorothy hangs up the phone, she raises her eyes to look at me over the rims of her glasses. “There was an incident out on the yard. Officer Hunt is bringing one of the inmates over to see you for an injury.”

Great.

My shoulders sag in defeat as I march back to my examining room/office. I haven’t given up though. I’m going to figure out a way to get Mr. Carpenter that mattress if it’s the last thing I do. But first, I have to treat this guy who got injured in the yard.

I wonder how he got hurt. Was it a lock in a sock? Is that a real thing they do in prison?

Just as I reach my office, I catch sight of Officer Hunt coming down the hallway with one of the prisoners. It must be the guy who got injured in the yard. The inmate is wearing the standard prison khaki jumpsuit, and unlike most of the prisoners, both his wrists and his ankles are shackled, so he’s shuffling along slowly next to Hunt.

As he gets closer, I can see the bandage taped to his forehead, which is saturated with bright red blood. Whatever is under there, it’s almost certainly going to need stitches. Then my eyes drop to the prisoner’s face.

Oh. Oh no. No, no, no…

It’s Shane.





Chapter 7


ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER




Somehow it’s not possible for Chelsea to pull up in front of my house without leaning all her weight on her car horn. I come racing out the front door, my backpack slung on my right shoulder, and sprint down the walkway, swearing under my breath. She doesn’t let up on the horn until I’ve wrenched open the passenger side door of the car and plopped myself down next to her.

“Oh my God!” I smack Chelsea in the arm. “I heard you. You’re disturbing the whole neighborhood!”

Chelsea rolls her eyes dramatically. She’s wearing so much mascara around her dark brown eyes, her eyelashes are at least three times as long as they would be otherwise. Chelsea wears an insane amount of makeup—my parents would never allow me to leave the house looking like that. If I even want a darker shade of lipstick than nude, I have to put it on in the bathroom at school.

“Can I help it if you’re slow?” Chelsea says.