The guard shoots me a look. Our relationship has been decidedly frosty since I confronted him about our shared past, but I’m feeling braver since I had an interview yesterday at the primary care practice, and it went well. If he wants to get me fired, that’s fine with me.

“He was fighting,” Hunt snaps at me. “The shackles are required.”

Considering I don’t see any abrasions on Shane’s knuckles, it seemed less like he was fighting and more like he was getting beat up. But I don’t push the issue. I do, however, close the door once Shane is in the exam room.

“Jesus,” I comment.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “Really.”

I give his face a once over. The bruise from when he hit my desk is completely gone, and he still has a light pink scar from the laceration I sewed up the first time he was in here. He has that cut on his lip and some bruises on his face, but nothing that looks like it needs stitches. But I notice every time he shifts his weight, he winces.

“What hurts?” I ask him.

“I have a broken rib.”

I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

“Because it feels exactly like it did last time I had a broken rib.”

I wonder how many broken ribs he’s had since he’s been in here. “I’ll order a chest x-ray,” I tell him.

“Great.”

Despite everything, I feel a rush of sympathy for Shane. In the short time I’ve worked here, I’ve seen him come in here with significant injuries at the hands of other inmates on two separate occasions. Even if he is “evil” like Tim claims he is, it seems wrong that the prison is allowing this to happen.

“Are you sure you don’t want to report the men who did this to you?”

“Very sure.” He snorts. “You think I want this to happen to me every day?”

“You know,” I say, “sometimes you need to stand up to bullies. Last year, when my son was in fourth grade, he was getting pushed around every day. But now—”

I stop short because Shane is staring at me like I just punched him in the gut. I rewind what I just said in my head, trying to figure out why he looks that way. Then I realize.

“You have a son in fifth grade?” he asks in a hoarse voice. “You said he was in kindergarten.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Just a little squeak.

“Brooke.” He squeezes his knees with his hands. Hunt must’ve made the cuffs extremely tight, because I can see the metal biting into his wrists.  “How old is your son?”