My shoulders sag in defeat as I march back to my examining room/office. I haven’t given up though. I’m going to figure out a way to get Mr. Carpenter that mattress if it’s the last thing I do. But first, I have to treat this guy who got injured in the yard.

I wonder how he got hurt. Was it a lock in a sock? Is that a real thing they do in prison?

Just as I reach my office, I catch sight of Officer Hunt coming down the hallway with one of the prisoners. It must be the guy who got injured in the yard. The inmate is wearing the standard prison khaki jumpsuit, and unlike most of the prisoners, both his wrists and his ankles are shackled, so he’s shuffling along slowly next to Hunt.

As he gets closer, I can see the bandage taped to his forehead, which is saturated with bright red blood. Whatever is under there, it’s almost certainly going to need stitches. Then my eyes drop to the prisoner’s face.

Oh. Oh no. No, no, no…

It’s Shane.

Chapter 7

ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER

Somehow it’s not possible for Chelsea to pull up in front of my house without leaning all her weight on her car horn. I come racing out the front door, my backpack slung on my right shoulder, and sprint down the walkway, swearing under my breath. She doesn’t let up on the horn until I’ve wrenched open the passenger side door of the car and plopped myself down next to her.

“Oh my God!” I smack Chelsea in the arm. “I heard you. You’re disturbing the whole neighborhood!”

Chelsea rolls her eyes dramatically. She’s wearing so much mascara around her dark brown eyes, her eyelashes are at least three times as long as they would be otherwise. Chelsea wears an insane amount of makeup—my parents would never allow me to leave the house looking like that. If I even want a darker shade of lipstick than nude, I have to put it on in the bathroom at school.

“Can I help it if you’re slow?” Chelsea says.

I glance at the back seat for support. Chelsea texted me she was bringing along Kayla Olivera as a sixth for Tim. Kayla is another cheerleader—dark and petite and very pretty. When I crane my neck, I feel perturbed by the fact that she is texting on her phone, oblivious to the volume of Chelsea’s horn.

“Hey, Kayla,” I say.

“Hey,” she says without looking up.

I clear my throat. “Thanks for coming.”

Kayla finally rips her eyes away from the screen of her phone. “Chelsea said Tim Reese is going to be there, right?”