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I looked at the schedule, happily realising that there was only one more regular inmate to see, before it was open hours and then time to go home. The regular inmate wasn't a regular- not yet anyway, but he had an appointment, and wasn't just walking in. In my experience, these are the ones which became regulars. The brief human contact helps. Ever since I lost him. Ever since I lost everything. It helps to have one consistent thing in my life, even if it is a conversation with a thief or murderer or drug dealer. Deep down inside they are regular people, they just went down a hard path.
I hadn't bothered to look at the patients file, I only had minutes in between each appointment. So when the man walked through the door, and whispered my name, panic flew through me. The soft, loving yet confused voice asking "Allison?" In an Australian accent I love.
My head whipped around. "Robert? What the hell are you doing here!?" I asked, my voice frantic and filled with worry. For him and me. The man I had been trying to avoid was here, standing in front of me in an ugly prison uniform.
"I got transferred. What are you doing here?" He asked, equally as confused.
"I got a job here."
"As a doctor in a male prison?"
"I never saw that one coming."
"I never thought I'd see my ex-husband walk through these doors. What do you mean a transfer? Why the hell are you here Robert?"
"I didn't chose to come. I just got on the bus the man with the gun told me to get on. I've decided I should probably start listening to the people with guns and sharp pointy things."
"Why are you in prison Robert?" I asked, my voice firm, with a sprinkle of worry.
"I helped an old friend out." He said sadly, his eyes no longer filled with love and hope and happiness like they were those years ago, but broken and sad and lost.
I took a deep breath in. "What can I do for you today?"
"I need my insulin."
"You're not diabetic."
"I am now. Got diagnosed two years ago. Type one."
"Really? And you didn't know the signs? Even though you're apparently one of the best doctors in America?"
"You'll have to sit down." I said coldly. I rummaged through the door, getting the machine to check insulin levels.
"Are you mad at me?"
"What's there to be mad about?" I lied through clenched teeth.
"Obviously something."
I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. Professional environment. I kept repeating it in my head. He's just any other patient.
"I'm sorry about everything that happened Cameron. I really am."
"Oh, it's Cameron now?"
"That what I always call you."
"Little pinch Robert." I said, attempting to put the needle into his stomach, but he jerked away.
"Oh, it's Robert now is it?"
"It's Robert when I'm pissed at you." I shoved the needle into his stomach maybe a bit to forcefully. He winced. "Sorry about that." I said sarcastically.
"So why aren't you doctor in some fancy hospital? Why are you working in a men's prison?"
"Hours are good. When we were with House, it was all day every day. Now, it's a normal nine to five job. Pays not bad."
"The pay is no where near as good as if was when you worked for House. I know that. And I thought you was happy with the busy job. You didn't mind that being all you do. You liked it."
"My priorities changed."
"Priorities? What priorities?"
I didn't want to talk about my priorities. Not to him.
"All done. You're fine."
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that. Three times a day. And every day for the next three years and five months."
"What the hell did you do Robert? To get three and a half years?"
"Four years and seven months actually. But I've served a year and two months."
"My god Robert."
"I did what needed to be done to help a friend. I will happily serve my four years and seven months because I know I did good."
"I'll see you tomorrow before breakfast." He said, getting up and winking at me.

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