He tries to lean backward, but it’s hard for him with his wrists bound. He starts to slip on the table, and instinctively, I reach out and put a hand on his back to help guide him down.

I touched him. After all these years, I touched Shane Nelson again.

I wait for the wave of revulsion. I hate this man—I had nightmares about him for years after. It would not be an exaggeration to say he ruined my life, and if it were up to him, I wouldn’t even have a life.

But the revulsion doesn’t come. Touching Shane’s shoulder doesn’t feel any different than touching anyone else. I guess I really have gotten over it, all these years later.

It’s about time. I’m proud of myself.

I draw up the suture material while Shane watches me. He doesn’t look that nervous about the fact that I’m going to sew his forehead together with no anesthetic. I sure would be. I’ve never even had stitches before, except for the ones I got after childbirth.

“This must be your dream, huh?” he says. “Getting to stick a needle in me without anesthetic.”

“I tried to get it,” I say defensively.

“I’m sure.”

“I did.” I turn to glare at him. “I’m not like you—I don’t enjoy hurting people.”

“Well,” he says, “it’s not like I could blame you after what you think I did to you.”

There is something in his eyes I can’t quite interpret. It’s enough to make me look away.

“So you’re a nurse practitioner now, huh?” he says. “Good for you.”

“Thanks,” I say stiffly.

“I, uh…” One corner of his lips quirks up. “I got my GED while I’ve been in here. And I’ve been tutoring other inmates so they could do the same.”

He says it almost like he’s trying to impress me, the way he used to when he would throw a pass across the football field and look in my direction to make sure I saw it.

“Oh,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say.

“Never mind,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why I thought you’d want to know that.”

I clean off the laceration with some sterile water before sewing it up. It’s got to be painful, but Shane barely flinches. I get my needle ready to make the first stitch. “Going to be a little poke,” I warn him.

“Go for it.”

I’ve stitched up many people during my tenure in urgent care. I’ve seen grown men cry, even with the lidocaine to numb the area. Shane winces slightly when the needle goes in, but nobody could say he’s not taking it like a man.

“So,” he says as I tie off the first stitch. “You’re not married, huh?”

My fingers freeze on the needle. “Excuse me?”