The Good Doctor

Michael couldn't help but notice when the good Dr Tancredi was around. He sometimes spotted her walking down the path beside the break yard to the parking lot, and he'd smile at the way she would just happen to glance over at him, locating him easily amidst the sea of blue shirts. When he met her eye, she would react ever so casually and let her gaze slide on past him. But he knew she was looking for him, just as he always looked for her.

So he noticed when she approached the fence one morning and had a brief, whispered exchange with C-Note. Michael couldn't be certain, but it looked as though she had passed him something between the wires. It struck him as very odd that she would approach any prisoner outside the infirmary, let alone get close enough for him to touch.

Another thing that struck him as odd was later that day, when C-Note came sauntering past his table in the dining hall and, without warning, turned and stabbed Michael in the arm with a plastic fork. The yell of pain and surprise that Michael let loose turned every head in the room, and fortunately a CO dived in before he could be subjected to any further cutlery-related assaults.

Dr Tancredi breezed into the infirmary a moment after Michael had perched himself on the examining table. She smiled brightly at him, and gently but firmly tugged at the hand he had pressed over the wound on his bicep.

"Ouch," she said. "What happened here?"

"Fork," Michael replied grimly.

"You do seem to be getting yourself into an awful lot of trouble," she said. She made a cute, pouty face. "You poor thing."

"Yeah, well," he replied with a shrug and a brave smile. "It's a jungle out there."

"You'd better take off that shirt," she said cheerfully, and turned around to give him some privacy.

Michael thought her manner was a little strange today, but refrained from commenting. He unbuttoned his light blue overshirt and slipped it off before peeling off the white long-sleeved tee he wore underneath. A slight shiver went through him as the doctor turned back toward him with a saintly smile, her eyes skimming over his chest and shoulders.

Her touch was cool and gentle as she patiently cleaned, stitched and dressed the wound. He felt her breath warm on his shoulder as she leaned in close, concentrating on her work. Occasionally her fingertips or knuckles would skim over the bare skin of his back or chest. It was interesting that these accidental touches seemed to fall just after Michael flinched or let out a tiny gasp of pain.

As he dressed, Michael could have sworn the doctor was humming a happy tune to herself. And there was definitely a dreamy look on her face as he bid her goodbye. It was only as he was being escorted back to his cell that something else occurred to him: she had never asked who his assailant had been.

A few days later, as Michael was on his way to see Dr Tancredi for his insulin shot, he passed a prisoner he recognised from gen pop but didn't know by name. The guy appeared to be tucking a wad of bills into his shirt pocket, and as they passed in the corridor he gave Michael a menacing leer. Michael frowned, trying to remember how he might have rubbed this person up the wrong way when they had never even spoken.

He made the prisoner's acquaintance the very next day, out in the yard. Michael was crossing the lawn to speak with Westmoreland when he was grabbed roughly from behind by two pairs of burly arms. He struggled and kicked at the men on either side of him, but they held him firmly in place as the con he had seen leaving the infirmary walked into view. He stepped in close and without a word of explanation punched Michael hard in the thigh. No, not punched; as Michael looked down he saw what appeared to be the handle of a screwdriver poking out of the guy's fist.

Even faint with pain, Michael noticed the way Dr Tancredi was standing by the infirmary window and watching as the CO helped him hobble in through the door. She had her hands behind her back and was bouncing a little on the balls of her feet as though anticipating a pleasant treat.

"Oh dear, what do we have today?" she asked as the CO helped him onto the examining table. As soon as her patient was in place, she shooed the CO out of the room.

"Screwdriver," Michael replied with a frown. He glared at her from beneath his furrowed brow. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Prison's a dangerous place, Michael," she said with a smile. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes as she approached him. "Those pants are going to have to come off, I'm afraid," she trilled.

"What the hell is going on here?" Michael asked, eyeing her warily. "Have you been paying prisoners to—"

"Off!" Dr Tancredi snapped. She held up a large pair of scissors and snipped at the air threateningly. "Or I cut them off."

He shrank back from her, and got to work unbuttoning his fly. He wriggled out of his pants as the doctor gathered the items she needed onto a trolley. She was actually whistling this time.

For the next two days Michael's every moment was occupied with his escape plan, and in his single-mindedness he was able to forget the dull throb of his most recent wounds. He reluctantly continued to visit Dr Tancredi for his insulin shots, but to his relief her behaviour appeared to have returned to normal.

Then, on the third day, Michael found himself cornered yet again on his way in from the yard. A couple of thugs he recognised from T-Bag's entourage were standing by the doorway, watching as he came closer. One reached into his pocket and pulled out a stubby little knife.

"Hey, fish," the other man said. "My friend here's got something needs sharpening. You want to give him a little help with that?" He gave a grin that showed off the many gaps where teeth used to be.

The one with the knife leaned closer to his buddy. "You sure she said the ass?" he muttered.

Michael froze on the spot, then turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.