Not like Silas could. Not anymore.
Martinez led me through another security checkpoint into what he called the medical wing.
“This is the waiting area for inmates.” He gestured to a space that looked about as welcoming as a dentist’s office in hell. Two concrete benches where three inmates sat shackled, apparently waiting for medical attention. They looked up as we entered, their expressions ranging from bored to curious to something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Seated behind a security desk that looked like it could withstand a small explosion, another correctional officer gave me a polite nod before returning to his computer screen. At least this one didn’t look at me like I was on the menu.
We passed through a gated door that separated the waiting area from the actual medical facilities. The small nurses’ station would have looked relatively normal with its computer monitors, clipboards, and logbooks, if not for the fact that everything was encased in metal housing. Like a cage within a cage.
The locked medication cabinet caught my eye. Old-fashioned lock that required actual old-fashioned keys. When was the last time this place had seen an upgrade?
Martinez led me down a narrow hallway that smelled like industrial-strength disinfectant trying to mask something worse. We stopped at an office where a woman with curly red hair and thick-rimmed glasses looked up from a stack of files.
“Ms. Mitchell!” She rose, extending her hand with genuine warmth. “I’m Dr. Mercer. So glad to have you on board.”
“Glad to be here.” Mostly.
“Gotta head back.” Martinez hooked a thumb over his shoulder, already backing away. The understaffing wasn’t just talk, apparently.
“Well …” Dr. Mercer pressed her palms together, a gesture that reminded me of my yoga instructor. The comparison was so incongruous in this place that I almost laughed. “How about I show you around?”
“That would be great.”
She led me down the hallway, her voice taking on the practiced cadence of someone who’d given this tour before.
“One camera”—she gestured upward without breaking stride—“covers the intake entrance. The rest of the wing falls under patient confidentiality exemptions.” A small, dry smile.
I’d assumed there would be more. More cameras, more eyes, more … something. A buffer between me and the men I’d be treating. But there was just the one, pointed at the door, and beyond that, a lot of empty places where no one was watching.
I swallowed.
“We have six exam rooms,” she continued. “Bare-bones, no frills.”
She wasn’t kidding.
The first exam room was a study in contrasts to my last job. At the primary care facility, we’d had warm lighting, potted plants that actually made the space feel alive, and soft colors chosen by some consultant to “promote healing.” Everything designed to make patients feel comfortable, cared for, and human.
This place screamed:We are legally obligated to provide medical care. Nothing more.
The exam table was solid metal. The vinyl padding on top looked older than I was, compressed to maybe half an inch thick from decades of use. Above us, fluorescent lights buzzed with theintensity of an interrogation room, harsh enough to eliminate any shadow where trouble might hide.
That’s when I noticed the wall-mounted blood pressure cuff had a lock on it.
A lock. On medical equipment.
Because, of course, a blood pressure cuff could become a weapon. A strangulation device. The thermometer? Locked too. Eye socket stabbing tool, probably. That old rolling stool in the corner that had seen better decades? Not locked up, even though it was a potential skull-crushing implement.
Okay, maybe I’d underestimated the danger level here. Just a smidge.
“It’s not much,” Dr. Mercer admitted, running her hand along the metal exam table like she was apologizing to it. “But it gets the job done.”
I thought back to my training, trying to reconcile it with what the CO had said about being short-staffed.
“Will I be … alone with inmates?” Translation: Will someone have the opportunity to take that stool and introduce it to my skull?
Dr. Mercer must have heard the real question because her expression softened. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve worked here seven years. A correctional officer escorts prisoners to and from their cells and waits right outside the exam room with the door open. So, no, you’re never fully alone with an inmate.”
There was that word,fully, doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
