I kick off my shoes by the door, drop my bag on the counter, and open my laptop. Forty-seven unread. Staff memos, court liaison updates, a reminder about the facility fire drill next month. Then, buried in the middle:
From: M. Nolan, Administrative Director CC: Dr. David Hudson, Facility Director Subject: Monitoring Report Language
Ms. Turner,
Following our previous conversation regarding the tone of your monitoring reports, this is a formal reminder that all documentation submitted under the court-mandated monitoring program should align with Greenridge's established clinical framework. Language that could be perceived as adversarial or accusatory undermines the collaborative relationship between independent monitors and facility staff.
Please ensure future reports reflect a constructive and professional approach.
Regards, Malcolm Nolan
I read it twice.
CC'd to Hudson. Following our previous conversation—the one where he told me disproportionate was too strong and I told him it was the right word.
They're covering themselves.
My tone isn't the problem. The dosing charts are the problem.
The word disproportionate stays.
I put the kettle on, pull a mug from the drying rack, and spoon in the instant coffee, the same brand I've been buying since undergrad because it was on sale once and I never switched.
The kettle clicks and I pour. The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and home.
I carry the mug back to the couch and sit with it warming my palms.
The email can wait until Monday.
Chapter 8
Jude
Kent got me the day room.
Six weeks of swallowing the pill in Devina's paper cup. Six weeks of Kennedy's office and the WORLD'S BEST THERAPIST mug and the careful stories fed at the pace his notes required. Six weeks of corridor transfers where guards pressed into my shoulders and I kept my hands open, my mouth closed, and gave them nothing to report.
Hope's second monthly report delivered the argument Kent needed. The patient's behavioral data supports transitioning supervised sessions to a less restrictive environment. Assessment conducted exclusively within the patient's cell limits the clinical scope of independent monitoring. Hudson's signature took eight days because refusing meant contradicting the notes Dr. Kennedy had written since the turn.
The day room sits at the end of the secure wing. A few tables bolted to the floor. A few chairs. A window, small and reinforced, facing an internal courtyard nobody uses. Camera in the corner. Ankle cuffs threaded through a floor plate under the table, but my hands are free during a session because Hope told Hudsonshe couldn't file meaningful reports while the patient's upper body sat locked to furniture. She's right. She also gave me range I haven't had since they locked me up and I don't think she's thought about what that means for a man built the way I'm built.
Gage stands at the door. Six feet from the table, arms folded against his chest. Nobody assigned him here. He chose it. The first time Hope walked through the day-room door he shifted from the observation booth to the doorframe and hasn't moved since.
She pulls her chair forward and sets her notebook on the table. Pen behind her right ear, cap facing back. A crease digs between her eyebrows.
"How do you like the day room?"
"Better than the cell."
"In what way?"
"It's bigger. A change of scenery is better than a vacation. Or so they say."
She laughs, opens to a fresh page and starts writing the date.
Under the table, her knee bumps mine.
She doesn't move it. Doesn't shift her weight, doesn't angle her chair. Her knee rests against my thigh through fabric and she writes the time.
