Page 8 of The Bastard's Lily
I scrub the tears from my eyes, straighten my spine, and head back to the truck. The second I shut the door, I lock it. My hands shake as I turn the key, the engine rumbling to life. I take one last look at the school, just a regular brick building with peeling trim and a flagpole out front, and force myself to drive.
It’s fifteen minutes to the prison. Fifteen long minutes where my brain fills the silence with worst-case scenarios and ancient fears. I grip the wheel tighter at every stop sign. Blink harder at every shadow. And then I see it. The same matte black bike from the gas station, same wide bars, same clawed sticker on the back fender, parked near the school fence now, angled toward the exit road. Empty.
My heart tries to climb through my throat. I gun it through the light. There’s a tail of dust behind me as I push past the posted limits, white-knuckling the wheel and checking my mirrors. I don’t slow until the prison gates rise in front of me, the razor wire catching sunlight like a crown of thorns. The front lot is half full. State cars. Beat-up sedans. CO trucks with dented bumpers and old union stickers.
No bikes. I breathe a little easier. I flash my ID at the security checkpoint, wait for the gate to buzz, then pull into my reserved space near the infirmary entrance. Engine off. Keys in my fist like brass knuckles. I sit there a beat too long. Just breathing.
Just reminding myself that I am not the same girl who ran. Not the same girl who bled. Not the same girl who begged for a lifeworth living. I’m the woman who survived it. And I’ve got a goddamn job to do.
The door buzzes behind me, and I’m inside.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow tone that makes you look half-dead even when you’re not.
The air smells like bleach, sweat, and something metallic that clings to the back of your throat. I nod at the CO behind the desk. He barely glances up.
“New med ward intake’s backed up,” he mutters.
I scan my badge, push through the second security door, and follow the hallway until the infirmary comes into view—steel cabinets, frosted glass, institutional green tiles that no amount of scrubbing will ever make feel clean. I head into the locker room, strip off my soft hoodie, and pull on the stiff prison-issued scrub top. My ID badge goes back on. Hair up. Gloves in the pocket. Knife clipped just inside my waistband, hidden but there.
Calla Hale, LPN.
The weight of the badge on my chest is familiar now. Not quite comforting. But steady. I check the whiteboard—three inmate check-ins, one suture recheck, and a med refill to log. Another day in hell. Another day closer to safety. I roll my shoulders back, flex my fingers, and head out into the ward, ignoring the distant echo of boots on concrete behind me.
The door buzzes again. That sound’s already threaded itself into my spine—louder than it should be. Like a warning I haven’t figured out how to listen to. I don’t turn around until I hear the voice.
“Guess you’re still here.”
It’s him. The older man with the torn arm and the quiet eyes. There’s a fresh bandage on his elbow now, but the way he leans against the doorframe says something else is bleeding.
“I’m surprised they let you back in,” he says, like he’s making a joke but watching for my reaction.
I keep my hands busy—restocking a tray of gauze, counting silently. “I’m full-time now. Shift rotation.”
“Hmph.” He drops onto the stool without being asked. “Figured you’d ghost.”
“Not my style.”
He grins at that, small and sharp. “You sure about that?”
I finally glance up. He’s older. Gray in his beard. But his eyes? They’re sharp. Clever. Watching me too hard. Just like before.
I point to the fresh scratch on his forearm. “What happened?”
“Kitchen. Fought a can of chili. It won.”
I don’t laugh, but my lips twitch. “Let’s clean it before it gets infected.”
We lapse into silence again. Familiar now. Comfortable in a way that’s deeply uncomfortable. Like a question hanging between us, waiting to be asked.
Then he says it. “You look like someone I knew.”
I go still.
He continues, like he doesn’t notice, or like he does and doesn’t care. “Long time ago. Girl with winter eyes and too much fire. Always ran her mouth and never backed down. Thought she’d end up dead or dangerous.”
I don’t say anything. Can’t.
“She was in deep with a boy she shouldn’t’ve touched,” he adds. “One of ours. That kid damn near burned the whole town down when she disappeared.”
