I can hardly believe my ears. My right hand balls into a fist, and I have to shove it between my knees. Honestly, I’m shocked one of the men hasn’t taken a swing at Dorothy by now. Maybe they have. If it has happened, I’d love to have seen it.

“Listen, Dorothy,” I say. “I may not be as experienced as you, but I know enough to know that Mr. Carpenter has a serious pressure ulcer, and it’s just going to get worse if we don’t treat it properly. I ordered him the bed, and if you keep him from getting it, I’m going to call the local newspaper and let them know how the inmates at the prison are being deprived of appropriate medical care.”

Dorothy’s mouth falls open. “Are you threatening me?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “I’m simply advocating for my patients to get adequate care. If you’re not on the same page as me, then perhaps you can explain why to the local media.”

“Brooke…”

“Also,” I add, “you need to keep lidocaine in stock in the pharmacy. I’m not sewing up anyone else with no anesthetic. It’s inhumane. Next time there’s no lidocaine, I’m sending the inmate to the emergency room, and you can eat the cost of transportation.”

Now it’s Dorothy who looks like she wants to hit me. I can see her jaw working as she debates whether it’s worth it to fight me on this or not. She doesn’t like the idea of a twenty-something-year-old nurse practitioner pushing her around. But she’s got to realize that I’m right. She could never justify her behavior to the newspaper, or worse, in a courtroom if things went south for Malcolm Carpenter.

“The mattress is already here,” she finally says. “I suppose it’s all right for him to keep it. This time.”

She’s trying to save face. She doesn’t want to admit that I have won this argument, and I’ll let her have that much. But I’m going to advocate for my patients. They are human beings, and they deserve to be treated that way, despite what Dorothy might think.

Chapter 34

Today is my birthday.

Compared with last year, I have a lot more to celebrate this year. Last year, I was living in a one-bedroom apartment where my son slept on a cot in the living room, and the landlord had just hiked up the rent by two hundred bucks a month. I hadn’t been on a date in two years. Josh was coming home in tears every day because of the bullies at school. I had a babysitter who didn’t show up half the time and kept making me late to my urgent care shifts. And even though my parents were alive, we weren’t speaking for years.