Page 33 of Endangered Species
Her mouth lifted at the corners. “He’s not in a coma, he’s just sleeping off some prison wine. He’ll be fine. Why are you beating up…concrete?” she asked, using a pair of tweezers to pull a piece of the wall from his wound.
“No talking,” Perkins snapped.
She gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled her stool back enough to stand up, marching to the corrections officer, who stood a full foot taller than her. “Perkins… That was your name, right? Listen here, I get that you’re new and probably not familiar with how things work around here, so let me clue you in. Out there, in the cells, you get to be the warden’s loyal foot soldiers, doing as you please. But here, this is my domain. Pamala-land, if you will. Here, I make the rules. I do as I please. So, if you’re going to continue to stand there, do so quietly before I have you beheaded.”
Perkins turned beet red to the tips of his ears, his fury instantaneous. “I’m the only thing keeping that inmate from raping and murdering you. You get that, right?”
The nurse—Pamela?—snorted. “I have drugs in here that would drop an elephant in thirty seconds flat. You getthat, right?”
“Whatever, bitch. It’s your funeral.”
She made her way back to her stool and, once more, returned to her task. “So, you were telling me why you were beating up the walls.”
“I wasn’t, though. Telling you,” Cy reminded her.
She gave him a smile. “But you wanted to. So, why not unburden yourself? I’m bored. Coma guy isn’t really spilling the tea. Come on, humor an old lady.”
“You’re not old,” Cy said, realizing it was true. She had silver hair and a hard look, but her face was unmarred by any signs of aging, her skin creamy and plump looking.
She shrugged. “Humor me anyway.”
Cy shook his head at the woman’s stubbornness but found himself talking anyway. He didn’t tell her everything. He left out much of what was happening, focusing more on Rosie and her plight than on him and Nicky, but the woman smiled whenever he said Nicky’s name, like she knew his secret, like it was impossible to ignore how in love with him Cy was.
“I can take her,” Pamela said quietly, out of earshot of Perkins.
“What?” Cy asked.
She finished securing Cy’s bandage in place. “Rosie. I can keep her until you make other arrangements. It’s not her fault she was caught up in this.”
Cy gaped at the woman. “Why would you do that?”
She gave a furtive glance towards Perkins, then slipped her phone from her pocket, turning it to show him a picture. Three dogs sat on the couch wearing Christmas pajamas and Santa hats. She pointed at a German Shepherd. “That’s Marshall. He’s a retired K-9.” She pointed to a small pitbull with missing ears. “That’s Mama. She’s old. We rescued her from an abusive home situation.” Finally, she pointed to a furry brown dog so small Cy could have tucked it into his pocket. “That’s Goliath. He’s the alpha. He’s also a rescue.”
“So, you just rescue dogs?” Cy asked.
“Actually, yeah. My wife and I are typical California lesbians.” At Cy’s confused look, she gave a quiet laugh. “You know, vegan, hippies, rescue animals, our first date was a U-Haul. We’ve been rescuing animals for twenty years.”
“I don’t know if I’m ever getting out of here,” Cy said. “I don’t know if I can find somebody willing to take her if they add to my time. She’s a good girl. I don’t want them to put her to sleep because of me. Just because she flunked out of the service program.”
“Just let me handle it. Worst case scenario, I end up with yet another dog. My wife is used to that by now.” Cy didn’t even know what to say. It seemed impossible that a random stranger would want to do something like that for him or even for Rosie. She pulled something from the drawer. “I can only give ibuprofen until Dr. Mitchell writes orders, but I do have standing orders for some sleep medicine. I’m going to give you both so you can get some rest. Okay?”
Cy took what she offered, some small part of him relieved enough to close his eyes and relax. He still had no idea where Nicky was or if he was even okay, but at least they wouldn’t put Rosie down. Cy drifted off into a restless sleep where he ran through a maze constantly searching for Nicky but never finding him. Was this what torture felt like?
Webster woke with a start, jolting upright, his head just barely missing the bunk above. He was coated in sweat, his heart racing from the nightmarish images fading from his memory. The cold air made him shiver, and he swept his damp hair from his face. He rose from Cy’s bunk, relieving himself and stripping out of his wet clothes, changing into a fresh uniform before tugging Cy’s sweatshirt on, pulling it to his nose and inhaling deeply.
Cy always smelled like home to Webster. Just his scent recalled some of the best times of his childhood. Cy making them grilled cheeses while they watched Saturday morning cartoons. Cy shuffling Webster up into the attic to show him the kittens he’d rescued from the sewer. The only good childhood memories were the ones Cy had given him. He supposed the same could be said for his time in here. As much as he hated this place, he loved Cy, loved being in his arms, loved kissing him, loved how much Cy loved touching him.
Webster had no idea what time it was, but he couldn’t go back to sleep. He was wired, like his body was readying him for something bad. Maybe he was feeling the effects of the nightmare he couldn’t recall. Maybe it was some kind of trauma response or intuition. Regardless of the cause, his lids felt permanently glued open.
Instead, he sat on Cy’s bed, wrapped in his blanket, hoping he was okay. Would Webster even know if anything happened to him? The prison gossip usually came from the yard, but did they get information from the SHU? Did the guards talk? The other inmates? Would he even know if Cy was hurt? If he died? The thought of not seeing Cy, not touching him, holding him, was like a knife in his windpipe, making it hard to breathe.
The scraping of a key in the lock snatched Webster from his morbid thoughts. Four enormous guards entered Webster’s room, each seemingly bigger than the last, dressed in tactical gear, like Webster was about to start a one man riot. He didn’t recognize any of them. “What’s going on?”
“You have a meeting,” the closest officer said. He had muscles barely contained by his black t-shirt and his blond hair was in a high and tight haircut favored by most of the corrections officers.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Webster said, frowning.
Another officer stepped forward, hand on his weapon. “We gonna have a problem, inmate?”
