I'm in the break room pouring coffee on Thursday when Rick's friend Josh Cain leans against the counter.
Two nurses at the table. A Ward B orderly at the sink. Josh waits until I've got my mug before he speaks.
"Hey, Ms. Turner. Quick question." He keeps his eyes on his coffee. "The reports you send to the court liaison, do those go through clinical review first, or do they go straight out?"
One of the nurses looks up.
"They go to the court liaison," I say. "Standard process for independent monitoring."
"Right, right." He sips. "It's just—I was chatting with Dr. Kennedy, and he mentioned your observations don't always line up with his clinical assessments. Wanted to make sure you're covering yourself. In case someone asks."
The nurse is still watching. The orderly has stopped running the water.
"My observations are based on what I see during sessions," I say. "Dr. Kennedy's are based on his clinical framework. We're looking at the same patient from different angles."
"Sure." Josh lifts his mug. "Different angles."
He takes his coffee and walks out. The nurses go back to their conversation. Nobody says anything to me.
Josh Cain, break-room inquiry re: clinical alignment, witnesses present.
Rick stands in front of you and tells you what he thinks. Josh stands next to you and says it to the room. He's smarter about it, but review panels and federal judges have come at my methodology harder than Josh Cain with a coffee cup.
The following week, Gage starts meeting me at checkpoints.
Monday, I'm heading for the east corridor, the shortest route between Ward A and admin, and he's there, falling into step beside me.
"East corridor's closed," he says. "Pipe issue."
I don't question it. He's head of security. We take the long way through the main wing, past the staff offices and the physio room and the medication dispensary with its sliding window and permanent queue. Two nurses in the hall. A custodian mopping near the fire exit. People everywhere.
The detour adds three minutes. He walks at my pace, not his, shortens his stride without mentioning it. I don't mention that I notice.
"Busy morning?" I ask.
"Same as always."
"You say that every time."
He glances down at me. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Because it's true."
The next day, the east corridor is closed again. No reasons offered. On Wednesday we take the south stairwell. He goes first, holds the fire door at the bottom, waits. His sleeve rides up when he reaches for the handle. A rose tattoo on his forearm, military ink around it, faded with age.
He catches me looking. Pulls the cuff down.
"Sorry," I say. "Nice tattoo."
"Thanks."
The door shuts behind us. He doesn't elaborate. I don't push.
Thursday, he meets me at the break room door and walks me to the Ward B checkpoint without being asked. Lifts his chin at a passing guard. The guard returns it, eyes flicking between me and Gage.
"You don't have to walk me every time," I say.
"I know." He doesn't break stride. "But I want to."
He holds every door and waits until I'm through before he falls back in beside me. I've worked with men who talk to fill space, who can't walk next to a woman without narrating the trip. Gage is comfortable with quiet. So am I. We walk side by side through the building without speaking and neither of us finds it strange.
