Chapter 2 – Rebecca
I work on the stitches, deep ones first to close the muscle layer, then a second row for the fatty tissue, and finally the skin itself.
He's lucky. The blade missed his organs but sliced clean through his external oblique.
With proper care, he'll heal, but right now he's in serious danger from blood loss.
"Don't talk," I instruct, focusing on my work. "Save your energy."
He's different from what I expected when he first stumbled in. Most inmates would be howling in pain from a wound like this, especially without an anesthetic. But he lies perfectly still, only the occasional tightening around his eyes revealing his discomfort.
I've been the night nurse at Pine Haven Correctional for eleven months now. Long enough to learn which inmates to fear and which ones keep to themselves.
I've seen this one before—tall, muscled, with intricate tattoos covering most of his visible skin.
Dark hair kept short, regulation style. Multiple scars telling stories of past fights.
But I don't know his name or his story. I've treated him once before for a split knuckle, but he barely spoke then.
He's watching me now, his dark eyes surprisingly clear despite the blood loss.
I keep my face professional, hiding my fear.
Not of him, strangely enough, but of the chaos outside this door.
The sounds of the riot echo through the building: shouts, crashes, occasional screams. The infirmary door isn't secure. Anyone could walk in at any moment.
"Almost done with the deep layer," I tell him, my fingers working methodically despite my racing heart. "You're doing well."
He grunts in response, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His skin is too pale. I need to get fluids into him soon.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and I hold my breath, praying they stay on. Stitching by emergency lighting would be a nightmare.
"Why are you still here?" he asks suddenly, his voice low and rough. "Why didn't you run when this started?"
I tie off another stitch before answering. "Run where? The exit is through that riot. Besides, this is my job."
"Your job isn't to die for inmates."
I meet his eyes briefly. "My job is to save lives. No matter whose."
"You're good at this," he observes.
"I should be. I've had plenty of practice in here." I reach for fresh gauze to wipe away blood that's welling up around my work. "I need your name for my report."
It's a lie. There won't be any reports today, not with the prison in chaos. But I want to know who I'm treating, who I'm risking my safety for.
He hesitates, then says, "Thompson. James Thompson."
"I'm Rebecca. Rebecca Johnson."
A crash somewhere down the hall makes me jump, the needle jerking in my hand. James doesn't flinch.
"They're getting closer," he says.
My hands start to tremble slightly. I force them to steady. "I need to finish this."
"Then hurry." His eyes flick to the door. "We can't stay here."
"You can't move yet. You've lost too much blood."
"We don't have a choice, Rebecca."
My name in his mouth sounds strange. Intimate somehow, despite our circumstances.
I finish the internal stitching and move to the external layer. The wound is long, requiring dozens of neat, tight stitches. Under normal conditions, I'd take my time, ensuring minimal scarring. Now, I work as fast as accuracy allows.
"Why were those men after you?" I ask, partly to distract myself from the sounds drawing nearer, partly out of genuine curiosity.
"I told you, I don't know." He winces as I pull a stitch tight. "I've never had trouble with the Irish before. I keep to myself in here."
"You said you're getting out in three days?"
"That's the plan. If I survive today."
Another crash, closer this time, followed by angry voices. I work faster, my fingers flying.
"How much longer?" he asks.
"Two minutes. Maybe less."
He nods, then does something unexpected. He reaches up and gently brushes a curl away from my face where it had fallen across my eye. The gesture is so casual, so human, it makes me freeze for a few seconds.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "It was in your way."
I swallow hard and focus on the final stitches. "Almost done."
I tie off the last stitch just as the infirmary door bursts open. I yelp, spinning around to face the intrusion.
Two inmates I don't recognize stand in the doorway, both bleeding from minor wounds. Their eyes scan the room, landing first on me, then on James.
"Well, look who survived," one of them says, his voice carrying a thick Boston accent. "Walsh is gonna be disappointed."
James stiffens beside me, recognition flashing across his face. "Walsh?" he mutters, almost to himself. "Tiernan Walsh?"
"The one and only," the second man says with a smirk. "Sends his regards."
I watch as James processes this information, his expression shifting from confusion to realization.
"Those watches," he says under his breath. "That was years ago."
He tries to sit up, grimacing with pain. "Stay behind me," he instructs me quietly.
I should be terrified, and part of me is, but anger rises unexpectedly in my chest. This is my infirmary. My space.
"This is a medical facility," I say, stepping forward instead of back. "If you need treatment, wait your turn. Otherwise, get out."
The men exchange surprised glances, then the taller one laughs. "Brave little nurse. But we ain't here for bandaids, sweetheart. We're here for him."
James is on his feet now, swaying slightly but positioning himself between me and the door. The stitches I just placed are already straining, a small trickle of fresh blood seeping through.
"You're going to tear your stitches," I hiss at him.
"Better than getting us both killed," he mutters back.
The two men advance into the room. One holds a makeshift knife similar to what must have cut James. The other has a length of pipe torn from somewhere in the prison.
"Look," James says, his voice remarkably steady for a man who's lost as much blood as he has. "I don't know why Walsh is still holding a grudge over those watches, but this doesn't involve her. Let her go, and we can settle this."
"No one's going anywhere," Pipe Man says. "Walsh was very specific."
I scan the room frantically, looking for a weapon, an escape route, anything. My eyes land on a cabinet behind us. I know what's inside.
"Thompson," I say quietly. "When I move, be ready."
He gives no indication he's heard me, but I sense a subtle shift in his posture.
The men are less than six feet away now. Knife Man grins, revealing missing teeth. "Don't worry, nurse. We'll make it quick for you. Him, not so much."
I lunge backward, yanking open the cabinet and grabbing the emergency fire extinguisher mounted inside. I pull the pin and squeeze the handle, aiming the spray directly at their faces.
White chemical foam blasts toward them. They curse, momentarily blinded, stumbling backward.
James moves immediately, despite his injury. He grabs a metal tray from the counter and swings it hard, connecting with Knife Man's head with a sickening clang. The man drops like a stone.
Pipe Man, wiping foam from his eyes, swings wildly. James ducks, the pipe whistling over his head. The movement tears at his stitches; I see fresh blood blossoming across his prison shirt.
I keep spraying the fire extinguisher, creating a barrier of foam between us and the attacker. James picks up the fallen knife and faces Pipe Man.
"Last chance," James says. "Walk away."
Pipe Man spits foam and blood. "Walsh doesn't accept failure."
He charges. James sidesteps with surprising agility, considering his wound, and drives the makeshift blade into the man's thigh. Pipe Man screams, dropping to one knee, the pipe clattering to the floor.
James kicks it away, then leans down, his face inches from the injured man's. "Why now? Those watches were years ago."
Pipe Man laughs through his pain. "Revenge is revenge."
Before James can respond, shouts echo from the corridor. More people are coming.
"We need to go," I say, dropping the now-empty fire extinguisher. "Now."
James straightens, grimacing. Fresh blood has soaked through his shirt completely. I grab a pressure bandage from the supply cabinet and press it against his wound.
"Hold this tight," I instruct, then quickly gather essential medical supplies into a small bag. Antibiotics, painkillers, clean bandages, antiseptic.
"There's a service corridor," I tell him, moving to a door at the back of the infirmary. "It leads to the administrative wing. If we're lucky, it's still secure."
James limps to my side, one hand pressing the bandage to his stomach, the other still gripping the bloody knife.
"Why are you helping me?" he asks quietly.
I pause, hand on the door. It's a good question. By all logic, I should be hiding, waiting for the guards to regain control. Not escaping with an inmate I barely know, who's clearly in someone's crosshairs.
"Because you tried to protect me," I answer honestly. "And because I took an oath to preserve life."
His eyes hold mine for a moment, dark and unreadable. Then he nods. "Lead the way, Rebecca."
I push open the door to the service corridor, praying we're making the right choice. The narrow hallway beyond is dimly lit by emergency lights, deserted for now.
"Stay close," I whisper, and step into the unknown, a convicted criminal at my heels and chaos at our backs.