Chapter 7
Hope
I'm halfway to Ward B when Rick Dutton decides we're friends.
He's one of the Ward C guards, been at Greenridge longer than most and he's never spoken to me before today. He falls into step in the west corridor, uninvited, and matches my pace.
"Ms. Turner." He smiles. "Settling in all right?"
"Fine. Thank you."
"Good. Good." His boots hit the linoleum louder than mine.
Everything about Rick is louder than it needs to be—his voice, his footsteps, the way he takes up space in a corridor wide enough for three people and somehow makes it feel like one.
"You know, I've been meaning to talk to you. Just a friendly heads-up."
"Go ahead."
"The reports you're filing." He puts his hands in his pockets, relaxed, just two colleagues having a chat. "Some of us have been here a long time. We know how the building works. I'm not saying your reports aren't thorough. They are. Everyone says so."
I've heard that word before. Nolan used it. Kent used it. It never means what it sounds like it means.
"But thorough reports make enemies," he says. "And enemies in a place like this? Long memories."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Dutton?"
He laughs. Too loud for the corridor. "No. God, no. Just friendly advice." The smile gets wider. "Colleague to colleague."
We keep walking. His shoulder drifts closer to mine. He doesn't adjust.
"Dane," he says. The smile hasn't moved. "Dane Ryan. Friend of mine. Good guy. Two kids. He's in physio now, can't lift his right arm above his shoulder. They're saying he might not come back."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah. So are we." He stops at the intersection and I stop too. His eyes hold mine a beat longer than the conversation needs. "Just something to keep in mind. When you're writing your next report."
He turns left toward the staff room. I turn right toward Ward B.
I pull out my notebook. Date, time, hallway. Rick Dutton, unsolicited commentary re: reporting practices. Tone conversational. Threat implied.
Every facility has a Rick Dutton. Someone who's been there long enough to think seniority is a credential.
His opinion about my methodology won't change a single sentence I write.
The thing about Dane is fair enough. The man's hurt and his friend is worried.
That's being human. But my reports documented the conditions that led to the incident. They didn't put Dane in physio.
If Rick can't see the difference, that's not my problem.
In Ward B, George is at his desk when I knock. He's working on a new section of his Dust Bowl manuscript—six pages since last week—and his pencil is sharpened down to a fresh nub.
"Morning, Mr. Palmer."
"Ms. Turner." He straightens his glasses. "You're later than usual."
"Got held up." I pull the chair over and sit. "How's the writing going?"
"The Okies crossed the state line into California yesterday." He taps the page. "Had to look up the highway numbers. The library sent me a road atlas from 1934. Wrong year, but close enough."
His medication log is clean. No adjustments, no side effects flagged. One of the few charts in this building that looks like someone is paying attention.
"Any changes I should know about?"
"New guard on the night shift," he says. "Young kid. Polite. Didn't catch his name though."
The rest of the morning is steady. Room by room.
Chart by chart. Bryan's jaw is still locking up from the antipsychotic and nobody's adjusted it.
Yoon has a new letter for the governor, this one about the heating.
Thomas King's pupils are still pinned tight and nobody's reviewed his lorazepam, even after I flagged this, twice.
I'm in the break room pouring coffee on Thursday when Rick's friend Josh Cain leans against the counter.
Two nurses at the table. A Ward B orderly at the sink. Josh waits until I've got my mug before he speaks.
"Hey, Ms. Turner. Quick question." He keeps his eyes on his coffee. "The reports you send to the court liaison, do those go through clinical review first, or do they go straight out?"
One of the nurses looks up.
"They go to the court liaison," I say. "Standard process for independent monitoring."
"Right, right." He sips. "It's just—I was chatting with Dr. Kennedy, and he mentioned your observations don't always line up with his clinical assessments. Wanted to make sure you're covering yourself. In case someone asks."
The nurse is still watching. The orderly has stopped running the water.
"My observations are based on what I see during sessions," I say. "Dr. Kennedy's are based on his clinical framework. We're looking at the same patient from different angles."
"Sure." Josh lifts his mug. "Different angles."
He takes his coffee and walks out. The nurses go back to their conversation. Nobody says anything to me.
Josh Cain, break-room inquiry re: clinical alignment, witnesses present.
Rick stands in front of you and tells you what he thinks. Josh stands next to you and says it to the room. He's smarter about it, but review panels and federal judges have come at my methodology harder than Josh Cain with a coffee cup.
The following week, Gage starts meeting me at checkpoints.
Monday, I'm heading for the east corridor, the shortest route between Ward A and admin, and he's there, falling into step beside me.
"East corridor's closed," he says. "Pipe issue."
I don't question it. He's head of security. We take the long way through the main wing, past the staff offices and the physio room and the medication dispensary with its sliding window and permanent queue. Two nurses in the hall. A custodian mopping near the fire exit. People everywhere.
The detour adds three minutes. He walks at my pace, not his, shortens his stride without mentioning it. I don't mention that I notice.
"Busy morning?" I ask.
"Same as always."
"You say that every time."
He glances down at me. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Because it's true."
The next day, the east corridor is closed again. No reasons offered. On Wednesday we take the south stairwell. He goes first, holds the fire door at the bottom, waits. His sleeve rides up when he reaches for the handle. A rose tattoo on his forearm, military ink around it, faded with age.
He catches me looking. Pulls the cuff down.
"Sorry," I say. "Nice tattoo."
"Thanks."
The door shuts behind us. He doesn't elaborate. I don't push.
Thursday, he meets me at the break room door and walks me to the Ward B checkpoint without being asked. Lifts his chin at a passing guard. The guard returns it, eyes flicking between me and Gage.
"You don't have to walk me every time," I say.
"I know." He doesn't break stride. "But I want to."
He holds every door and waits until I'm through before he falls back in beside me.
I've worked with men who talk to fill space, who can't walk next to a woman without narrating the trip.
Gage is comfortable with quiet. So am I.
We walk side by side through the building without speaking and neither of us finds it strange.
On Friday I pass the east corridor on my way to the staff bathrooms and it's open. Two guards at the far end, no pipe issue, no tape, no sign that anything's been wrong with it all week.
I realize I haven't walked an empty hallway alone in over a week.
Around the same time, Casey Robin starts showing up more often.
He's on the bench outside Ward A when I pass through in the afternoon, a Sprite from the vending machine in his hand, easy and relaxed.
"Hey, Ms. Turner."
"Hey, Casey. How are you doing?"
"Good. Real good." He shifts over on the bench. "Want to sit for a minute?"
"Can't. I've got two more rooms in Ward B."
"You're here late today."
"Busy morning."
"Yeah, I figured." He cracks the can. "You're usually through here by eleven."
I nod and keep walking. His eyes follow me down the hall. When I glance back his face is friendly and open.
The next day he's in the same spot. Asks if I want a Sprite. I tell him I'm fine. He doesn't push. Some patients grab for your time because they're lonely, because you're new, because you look at them when they talk. Casey doesn't grab. He puts himself where I'll pass and waits to see if I stop.
"You work a lot," he says.
"It's a big facility."
"Yeah." He looks toward the checkpoint, then back at me. "You should take a break sometime. You look tired."
I laugh. "You sound like my brother."
He grins at that, wide and warm.
A couple of days later he catches me at the Ward A checkpoint.
"Hey, Ms. Turner. You like blueberry muffins, right? From that place on Fifth?"
I stop. "How'd you know that?"
"You mentioned it last week. To one of the staff." He shrugs. "I was sitting right over there."
I think back. Lane at the checkpoint, asking where I got the muffin I had with my coffee. I told him. I didn't realize anyone else was listening.
"Good memory," I say.
"Yeah." He smiles. "I pay attention."
By the end of the week he's moved beyond the bench.
Near the Ward B checkpoint one morning, reading a magazine against the wall.
Near the vending machine at the turn toward admin the next.
Always in common areas. Always where people are.
Engaging with his environment instead of sitting alone in his room, which is textbook improvement.
When a patient starts seeking out social contact, even passive contact, it means the medication is doing what it's supposed to.
In my notes: Casey Robin, Ward A. Consistent presence in common areas and transitional corridors during monitoring hours.
Engagement with environment improving. Affect bright and appropriate.
Demonstrates attentiveness to social cues and peer/staff conversations.
Positive indicator re: medication compliance.
Nice kid. Whatever they've got him on, it seems to be working.
I finish my last round in Ward B and head for the parking lot.
The sun is dropping behind the ridge and the air hits me the second I push through the main doors, sharp enough that my breath fogs.
Gage's truck is on the wrong side of the lot.
He parks in the east section every day. Third spot from the end, near the dumpster enclosure. His truck is impossible to miss—lifted, mud on the wheel arches, a dent in the tailgate that's been there since my first week.
Today it's in the west section. Right next to my car.
He's leaning against the driver's side door when I come down the steps, arms folded. He pushes off when he sees me and matches my stride.
"Heading out?"
"Yeah." I dig in my bag for my keys. "You're parked over here today."
"Moved it at lunch."
He doesn't say why. I don't ask.
At my car, I pop the locks and toss my bag onto the passenger seat. Gage stands by the back bumper. His hands go to his pockets. Back out. Back of his neck.
"Hope."
I turn. "Yeah?"
"Has anyone bothered you?"
His eyes are fixed on mine. Shoulders drawn up tight. Whatever he's holding isn't sitting well.
"Bothered me how?"
"Anyone in the building. Giving you a hard time."
I think about Rick in the corridor. Josh in the break room. The way conversations stop when I walk past now.
"Yes and no," I say. "But it's nothing I can't handle."
His mouth pulls tight.
"Why are you asking?"
His hand drops from his neck. "People talk. I hear things." His voice goes lower. "I want to make sure you're all right."
"I'm good, Gage. Thank you for checking in with me."
He nods. He doesn't believe me.
"If someone gives you trouble," he says, "you come to me. That's what I'm here for."
"I will."
"I mean it, Hope. Drive safe," he says.
"Always do."
I get in my car, close the door, and start the engine. In my mirrors, he's still standing there. Watching me pull out.
I'm smiling before I've cleared the lot.
He's a good man.
The drive home is twenty minutes of empty highway and the last of the daylight behind the ridge. By the time I pull into my spot the smile has faded but the warmth hasn't.
I kick off my shoes by the door, drop my bag on the counter, and open my laptop. Forty-seven unread. Staff memos, court liaison updates, a reminder about the facility fire drill next month. Then, buried in the middle:
From: M. Nolan, Administrative Director CC: Dr. David Hudson, Facility Director Subject: Monitoring Report Language
Ms. Turner,
Following our previous conversation regarding the tone of your monitoring reports, this is a formal reminder that all documentation submitted under the court-mandated monitoring program should align with Greenridge's established clinical framework.
Language that could be perceived as adversarial or accusatory undermines the collaborative relationship between independent monitors and facility staff.
Please ensure future reports reflect a constructive and professional approach.
Regards, Malcolm Nolan
I read it twice.
CC'd to Hudson. Following our previous conversation—the one where he told me disproportionate was too strong and I told him it was the right word.
They're covering themselves.
My tone isn't the problem. The dosing charts are the problem.
The word disproportionate stays.
I put the kettle on, pull a mug from the drying rack, and spoon in the instant coffee, the same brand I've been buying since undergrad because it was on sale once and I never switched.
The kettle clicks and I pour. The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and home.
I carry the mug back to the couch and sit with it warming my palms.
The email can wait until Monday.