When I come out of the examining room to see who my next patient is, the only person waiting is Shane Nelson.

Once again, Officer Hunt has shackled both his wrists and his ankles. And it’s obvious what Shane’s reason is for being here: somebody beat the crap out of him. His lower lip is split open, he’s got a deep bruise blossoming on his left cheekbone, and when Hunt helps him to his feet, he has to limp into the exam room.

“I thought we weren’t doing the shackles anymore with him,” I say to Hunt.

The guard shoots me a look. Our relationship has been decidedly frosty since I confronted him about our shared past, but I’m feeling braver since I had an interview yesterday at the primary care practice, and it went well. If he wants to get me fired, that’s fine with me.

“He was fighting,” Hunt snaps at me. “The shackles are required.”

Considering I don’t see any abrasions on Shane’s knuckles, it seemed less like he was fighting and more like he was getting beat up. But I don’t push the issue. I do, however, close the door once Shane is in the exam room.

“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.

We could have easily looked at these photographs for the next several hours, but then Hunt knocks loudly on the door. “You wrapping things up?” I shove my phone back into my pants pocket. Shane’s face falls.

“Sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Thank you. For showing me those pictures. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re welcome.”

His brown eyes are so sad, it almost breaks my heart. “I’m glad you never brought him here. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. I wouldn’t want him to know that his dad is…”

“Yeah…”

Shane stares at the wall. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I almost get used to how much it sucks being stuck here, especially for something I didn’t even do. I accept the fact that I’m going to have to ask permission to use the bathroom for the rest of my life, I’ll never get to hold a real job, I’ll never get to drive a car again, I’ll never get to be with… with a woman again. That every meal I’ll eat for the rest of my life is going to taste like slop. That once a month, a bunch of guys will jump me in my cell and beat the shit out of me

for no reason except maybe I looked at one of them wrong.” He takes a shaky breath. “But then I find out about one more goddamn thing being in here has taken away from me, and it’s just…. it’s…”

He presses his lips together hard, even though it must hurt like hell with that cut he has on his lower lip. It takes me a second to realize that he’s trying not to cry.

“Shane,” I say. “Why don’t we get that chest X-ray?” “It’s fine,” he mutters. “Don’t bother.”

“You just told me you have a broken rib. We at least need to make sure you don’t have a pneumothorax. That could kill you.”

“I doubt it. I’m not that lucky.” “Shane…”

“I’m allowed to refuse, Brooke,” he says sharply. He drops his voice. “At least give me that.”

Our eyes lock. For a moment, he’s the boy that I used to watch playing football when I was a cheerleader. He was so great at it. And he looked so hot in his football uniform. But most of all, I loved how excited he used to be when he would spot me on the field and wave to me.

I would never have believed that boy was capable of trying to kill me.

The truth is, I still don’t believe it. There was something else that happened that night—something important I’m missing. Something tugging at the periphery of my memory. I feel like if I could think hard enough, I would figure it out. But the harder I try to remember, the more it eludes me.

Shane breaks eye contact first. “I’d like to go back to my cell now.” “Are you sure you don’t want—”

“Yes.”

I do as he says—I ask Hunt to bring him back to his cell without getting the tests he needs. He’s depressed—that much is obvious. Suicidal? I don’t know. We have a psychiatrist who allegedly comes here once a month, but I’ve yet to see him once during the months I’ve been here. I consider calling Shane back to ask him more about it, but I don’t want to torture him.

I’m not sure I’m going to see Shane again while I’m working here. He’ll probably do his damnedest to avoid any medical visits, and if the primary care practice offers me a job, I’m out of here. It’s been too hard seeing him. It has been nothing like I thought it would be.

I’m glad this is almost over.