The Inmate

by Freida McFadden

Just when I think this situation can’t get any more uncomfortable, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. A second later, Dorothy peeks her head in. She is still wearing those half-moon glasses, and she peers at us over the rim, somewhat accusingly. “What’s all this commotion?” she demands to know. Shane is struggling to sit up, but he’s having a hard time of it, between the knock on the head and the shackles. I straighten up to look Dorothy in the eyes. “Officer Hunt caused Mr. Nelson here to fall, and as a result, he had a significant head strike. He definitely has a concussion. I’d like to admit him to one of the beds in the infirmary for observation tonight.” For the first time, Hunt looks like he cares about what just happened. “Dorothy, that is absolutely not true. I was just assisting the inmate to his feet, and he tripped. It was entirely unintentional.” Dorothy’s shrewd blue eyes look Hunt up and down, then rake over the rest of the room, taking in the entire situation. I hold my breath—this woman is not known for advocating for the prisoners.