She stopped. “By the book, it’s ma’am,” she answered evenly. He turned slowly.
The smile was barely there. “Of course, ma’am.” “Just a nice name.”
“Olivia. My mother’s name was Olivia.” She said nothing, just watched him. “You look especially sharp today,” he went on quietly.
“No dark circles under your eyes. Means you’re sleeping fine.” Olivia rested her hand on her holster.
“One more word out of line and you get ten days in segregation.” Greek raised his hands. “I’m done.”
“Just one thing, Officer Carter. We won’t be here forever. You will.” “Think about that.”
She turned and walked out. In the hallway she ran into Luke, a younger officer. “What’s going on in there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Everything’s fine.” But inside, something had shifted.
Not fear. Anger. Cold anger, like the steel of her father’s knife in the drawer of her nightstand. That evening she sat in the duty office, looking at the clock.
Time: 11:40 p.m. Luke was snoring in the next room. Olivia took out a notepad, opened to a clean page, and wrote one word.
“Greek.” Then below it: “Tank.” And then: “Scalpel.”
She closed the notebook, sat a minute, then stood, walked to the mirror, and looked herself in the eye. “Keep it together, Liv,” she said quietly to her reflection. “Just a little longer.”
She switched off the light and stepped into the hallway. Somewhere deeper in the unit, a bunk creaked. Somebody was awake.
Olivia kept walking without looking back. The morning of December 13 started with a short call to the duty desk. Olivia picked up the phone without taking her eyes off the report she was finishing.
“Carter.” Major Collins’s voice was rough, like he had not slept. “Olivia, Tammy’s in the hospital.
Heart attack.” “No medical officer till the end of the week. You’re covering the infirmary.”
“Checkups, injections, dressings, whatever you can handle.” Olivia set down her pen. “Understood.”
“When do I start?” “Yesterday. Two inmates in Unit Four have fevers, one burned his hand in the shop.
Go now.” She stood, pulled a white coat over her uniform, grabbed the medical kit, and went.
The infirmary smelled like iodine and old bandages. Two younger officers were already waiting. “Ma’am, these three,” Luke said, pointing to the bunks.
“Fever, cough.” “And Ruden from Cell Nine cut his hand. Says it was an accident.” Olivia walked over to Tank.
He sat on the edge of the bunk, left hand wrapped in a dirty rag, blood showing through. “Hand,” she said shortly. Tank held it out. Olivia unwound the rag.
Clean cut, about two inches long, shallow but precise, like it came from a blade, not broken glass. “How’d it happen?” “Glass on the floor, ma’am.
Cleaning up. Stepped wrong.” She cleaned the wound and put in stitches. Four neat ones.
Tank did not flinch. “Hurts?”
