Chapter 7
Hope
I'm halfway to Ward B when Rick Dutton decides we're friends.
He's one of the Ward C guards, been at Greenridge longer than most and he's never spoken to me before today. He falls into step in the west corridor, uninvited, and matches my pace.
"Ms. Turner." He smiles. "Settling in all right?"
"Fine. Thank you."
"Good. Good." His boots hit the linoleum louder than mine. Everything about Rick is louder than it needs to be—his voice, his footsteps, the way he takes up space in a corridor wide enough for three people and somehow makes it feel like one. "You know, I've been meaning to talk to you. Just a friendly heads-up."
"Go ahead."
"The reports you're filing." He puts his hands in his pockets, relaxed, just two colleagues having a chat. "Some of us have been here a long time. We know how the building works. I'm not saying your reports aren't thorough. They are. Everyone says so."
I've heard that word before. Nolan used it. Kent used it. It never means what it sounds like it means.
"But thorough reports make enemies," he says. "And enemies in a place like this? Long memories."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Dutton?"
He laughs. Too loud for the corridor. "No. God, no. Just friendly advice." The smile gets wider. "Colleague to colleague."
We keep walking. His shoulder drifts closer to mine. He doesn't adjust.
"Dane," he says. The smile hasn't moved. "Dane Ryan. Friend of mine. Good guy. Two kids. He's in physio now, can't lift his right arm above his shoulder. They're saying he might not come back."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah. So are we." He stops at the intersection and I stop too. His eyes hold mine a beat longer than the conversation needs. "Just something to keep in mind. When you're writing your next report."
He turns left toward the staff room. I turn right toward Ward B.
I pull out my notebook. Date, time, hallway. Rick Dutton, unsolicited commentary re: reporting practices. Tone conversational. Threat implied.
Every facility has a Rick Dutton. Someone who's been there long enough to think seniority is a credential. His opinion about my methodology won't change a single sentence I write. The thing about Dane is fair enough. The man's hurt and his friend is worried. That's being human. But my reports documented the conditions that led to the incident. They didn't put Dane in physio.
If Rick can't see the difference, that's not my problem.
In Ward B, George is at his desk when I knock. He's working on a new section of his Dust Bowl manuscript—six pages since last week—and his pencil is sharpened down to a fresh nub.
"Morning, Mr. Palmer."
"Ms. Turner." He straightens his glasses. "You're later than usual."
"Got held up." I pull the chair over and sit. "How's the writing going?"
"The Okies crossed the state line into California yesterday." He taps the page. "Had to look up the highway numbers. The library sent me a road atlas from 1934. Wrong year, but close enough."
His medication log is clean. No adjustments, no side effects flagged. One of the few charts in this building that looks like someone is paying attention.
"Any changes I should know about?"
"New guard on the night shift," he says. "Young kid. Polite. Didn't catch his name though."
The rest of the morning is steady. Room by room. Chart by chart. Bryan's jaw is still locking up from the antipsychotic and nobody's adjusted it. Yoon has a new letter for the governor, this one about the heating. Thomas King's pupils are still pinned tight and nobody's reviewed his lorazepam, even after I flagged this, twice.
