He glances over. "Hmm."
"Thank you," I say, holding up the bag.
He nods, pockets his phone and opens his truck door. Before he gets in, he pauses.
"Drive safe, Hope."
I watch his truck pull out toward the road. I take a bite of the muffin. It's good.
In my car, I set the muffin in the cup holder and open my notebook. The pages from today are messy. Notes crammed intomargins, arrows connecting observations to questions. Thomas. Bryan. Yoon. George. Three wards of charts that don't add up and a sedation log that tells a story nobody's reading.
I flip to the dosing sentence and below it, in the margin, I write a new question.
Why does the dose only ever go up? Are they trying to control him or kill him?
Years of dose adjustments. Every one an increase. Not one reduction. Not one review that concluded the patient needed less. A chart that moves in one direction, and nobody thought to ask why.
Mishel would tell me I'm overthinking it.
I close the notebook and start the car.
On my way out of the lot, I pass the Ward A common room windows. The lights are still on. Casey is standing at the glass, watching my car pull away. His hand flat against the window. His smile gone.
I don't think anything of it.
Chapter 4
Jude
The corridor between Ward C and the medical wing is forty-two meters. I've walked it nine times since they put me in this building. Two guards per transfer—it should be four, but they're short-staffed today. Standard formation—one at my left shoulder, one at my right, half a step behind. My wrists sit in front of me because the cuffs feed through a waist chain and the waist chain threads through a belt loop on the escort vest, which gives me roughly fourteen inches of play between my hands.
Fourteen inches is enough.
The guard on my left is new. Young. Keeps his radio clipped high on his vest, which means he'll have to reach across his body to key it. Two seconds, maybe three, depending on whether panic locks his fingers.
The guard on my right is Dane Ryan.
Dane has been on shift rotation in Ward C for two years. I know his schedule, his boot size, the hitch in his right knee from an old football injury that makes his step slow. He drinks with Rick Dutton after Thursday shifts and calls his ex-wife on Sundayswhen he's sober enough to pretend he's fine. It's funny what you hear when the guards don't think anyone's listening.
He's walking too close. His hand sits on my upper arm where it shouldn't be, fingers digging into the muscle above my elbow. Whatever they injected this morning has my hands slow. Not my head. They've started sedating me even when I'm not attacking the staff.
Dane leans in. His breath smells like coffee and the mint gum he chews to cover the coffee.
"Hear the new monitor's been writing you up as stable." His voice stays low. Meant for me. Not for the kid on my left. "Stable. That's a good one."
I keep walking.
"Clipboard woman thinks she's going to save you." His grip tightens. His thumb presses into the nerve bundle between my bicep and tricep. It hurts. He knows it does. "Rick thinks she's cute. I think she's stupid. Walking into your cell like she's visiting a fucking puppy."
My jaw locks.
"Women like that." He adjusts his hold, crowding me toward the wall so my shoulder hits it. The new guard glances over. Dane shakes his head and the kid looks straight ahead again. "Women like that don't last. Somebody always teaches them where the line is."
Dane's hand moves to my shoulder. Squeezes. His other hand drops to my waist chain and pulls it taut so the belt digs into my hip bone.
"Between you and me," he says, "I give her a month."
I stop walking.
