‘Bloody laugh, coming from you, holding the gun.’ He looked at the door. ‘I’m leaving. You want to shoot me, shoot me.’ He took a step towards the door and part of Penelope was praying that the woman would just shoot him. That he would provoke her. But he didn’t. She took a step to the side and kept the gun on him as he ambled out the door and down the corridor.

Penelope stood and went to her son. She helped him sit up, a struggle with her wrist. He held onto her like he was still a baby, the way he used to wrap his legs and arms about her as she carried him inside from the car, his little head on her shoulder. If he was crying she couldn’t tell.

She looked at her rescuer, this woman she had so quickly dismissed. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

The woman tried to smile. ‘No worries.’

‘You think he’ll come back?’

She faltered. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back. I’m sure the governor will be talking to me about what I did here today. I’ll be lucky if I’m not transferred some other place.’

Penelope said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. Well, I’m not. I’m glad I did it. About time somebody stood up to those Cahills.’

The woman walked over to Margie and helped her sit up.

‘You alright, love?’

‘I think he broke something.’

‘Did he hit you with the bat?’

Margie nodded, a child herself.

‘Let’s get you up. Get you to the hospital,’ the woman said. ‘Can you drive her?’

‘Me?’ Penelope asked, still holding her son.

‘I can’t go,’ the woman said, and gestured in a way that took in the whole room. ‘This is a prison.’

‘Right, right,’ Penelope said. ‘Can you walk her to the car? I’ll be along in a second.’

The woman looked at Penelope, perhaps trying to gather her intent, and said, ‘Alright. You got the keys?’

Penelope kept one arm around her son and with the other found her bag and threw it in Margie’s direction. The woman, with a mighty struggle, hefted Margie to her feet. As she hobbled from the room she was crying again, moaning with every step.

They were alone then, the two of them. Her son’s breath on her neck. She tried to remember when last they had been so isolated, and couldn’t recall.

Caleb said, ‘You have to go now, right?’ He pulled away from her and stood, arching his back. ‘That bastard knows right where to hit.’ He made it to the bed and lay down.

‘I’m sorry, honey,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I know,’ he said. After a moment, ‘Me too.’

She sighed, wriggled her wrist, checking it. She was able to move it but it hurt deep within. ‘We’ll figure it out. We’ll stop him coming.’

‘Dad said he’d try that. Doesn’t look like it worked. Is your wrist alright?’

‘I know he did. And it’s okay, I think.’

Caleb smiled. ‘At least they’re letting me out tomorrow.’