“That is not perfect,” Anders is saying early the next morning. “Casey cut the board backward.”

“I was just—” Kenny says.

“Being supportive. Encouraging.” Anders puts the board in place, and the angle is indeed the wrong way. “Well, at least it’s straight. A for effort, Case.”

I take back the board, with my middle finger raised.

As I carry it to the sawhorse, Anders says, “Casey hates the effort award. She wants the honest A-plus overachiever award.”

“Ignore him,” I say. “But yes, Kenny, you can tell me I did it wrong. I’ll survive. And I’ll do it right the next time.”

“Overachiever,” Anders calls.

Kenny comes over and helps me line up the cut. I don’t tell him I can handle it. He means well. While I’ve chopped wood, even that was a new experience for me six months ago. When I was growing up, we never had so much as a saw in our garage. My parents would say sharp tools were unsafe, but part of it was also the mentality that such tasks were meant for people who lacked a surgeon’s IQ.

Brady’s new quarters are almost done, and we’re spending every spare minute building.

I hand the fixed board to Kenny.

“Now it’ll be a half inch too short,” Anders says. “It’ll leave a gap, and Brady will get his fingers through and pry it open and escape.”

“It’s for the bathroom interior wall.”

“He’ll still escape through it. Just watch. All because you cut an angle backward.”

“Didn’t we have to take down half a wall because someone put the damn door on the wrong side?”

“You said the door went on the west wall, and you know I’m directionally challenged.”

“The sun was setting. It doesn’t set in the east.”

Jen walks by with a bucket of nails. “You two keep bickering like that, the sheriff’s gonna get jealous. Sounds like someone has a crush.”

“Only if you’re twelve,” Anders says. “Grown-ups bicker ’cause it’s fun.”

“The word you want is ‘annoying,’ ” she says.

“You only say that because you feel left out. Hey, Jen, can I have a few of those screws?”

“They’re nails.”

“I know, but yesterday I asked you for screws, and you brought me nails.”

She shakes her head.

“That’s an opening,” he says. “You’re supposed to make a sarcastic retort.”

“The only ones I can think of are puns on screwing and nailing, and every woman in Rockton knows not to mention those words around you, Deputy, or you’ll think it’s an invitation.”

“Ouch.”

“Good one, though,” I say. “A little below the belt, but it’s an A for effort.”

Kenny snorts at that, and he starts to say something when I hear “Will? Will!” and Paul races around the neighboring building, pulling up short when he sees us. “Will and Casey. Perfect. I need you both at the station. There’s something wrong with the prisoner.”

Anders takes off ahead, Storm follows at my side.

“You didn’t leave him alone, right?” I ask as Paul runs a pace behind.

Silence. Then, “He was sick, and I had to get Will, and there was no one else—”

“Is his door locked?”

“The station door?”

“Cell. Did you open his cell?”

“I don’t have the key. Eric took it. He got called across town. As he was leaving, the prisoner said he had to take a shit, and Eric said to hold it or use the bucket. He wasn’t leaving the key.”

I send up a silent thanks to Dalton.

I yell ahead to Anders, “Careful! I think it’s a trap,” and he raises a hand, as if to say he’s already figured that out. The medical emergency is a hackneyed escape ploy. The fact that it happened while Dalton was out? And after Brady tried to get him to leave the key? Yeah, this screams setup, and not a very clever one at that.

I race into the station to find Anders outside the cell. Inside, Brady is on all fours, vomiting. Vomiting hard, as if he’s going to puke up his stomach lining. His back arches like something out of a horror movie, his body convulsing before he spews more of his stomach contents onto the floor.

Paul looks at me. “Should I go find Eric for the key?”

I take mine from my pocket. Then I proceed with measured steps toward the cell. Paul stares at me, and I see that once again, we are trapped in this dilemma, where caution seems callous.

Anders looks at me, his mouth set in a tight line. He knows this can be faked. Stick your finger down your throat to start the vomiting and then act out the rest.

“Guys?” Paul says.

“Lock the back door,” I say, and then I do that with the front. As Anders holds open the back door, he says, “Out,” to Paul . . . who hasn’t moved.

“But he—”

“—could be just hoping we throw open the cell door and let him make a run for it.”

“You think he’s faking?” Paul says.

I say, “I think every second you debate whether to do as I said, you delay us helping him if he’s not.”

Anders shuts and locks the rear door as he says, “Stay here then. And don’t expect me to forget that you disobeyed an order.”

We don’t hear Paul’s protest. I’m at the cell door with my key in one hand, gun in the other. Storm stands beside me. I hand Anders the key, and he unlocks the door. Brady is still doubled over, dry-heaving now, panting hard and letting out whimpers of pain between breaths. The stink of vomit fills the room.

Anders opens the door and steps over a puddle. His gaze goes to something behind Brady. He motions to me that he’s going to bend over the heaving man to retrieve it. I stand poised while he crouches. What he lifts is Brady’s breakfast tray. He backs out of the cell to set it on the floor. Then he starts in again.

Anders makes it one step. Brady lurches. I shout “Will!” but Anders is already on him, pinning him to the floor, a slap as Brady’s body hits the vomit pool. Brady’s arms fly out to the sides, as if in surrender.

“Dog,” he rasps. “The dog.”

He points in my direction, and I’m not sure if I’m mishearing, but he just keeps pointing. Then he starts heaving again, his body jerking and convulsing under Anders.

“Lock the door,” Anders says.

I hesitate—I’m loath to lock Anders in there with Brady—but it’s only a split second. Then I lock it and train my gun on Brady as Anders rises off him.

Brady stays facedown, racked with dry heaves.

“I need you to put your hands behind your back,” Anders says.

At first, Brady just moans. Anders repeats the command, and Brady complies. Anders snaps on a wrist strap. He looks from me to the puddles to the food tray. It’s mostly empty, the water and coffee drained. If Brady just finished his meal—including two drinks—that could account for the quantity of vomit. That tray, though, also suggests he might not be faking.

“Here?” Anders says, and I know he’s asking whether we should attempt to care for Brady in the cell.

If it is poison, we need him at the clinic. He can’t even lie flat in the cell, and it’s such a mess that it’ll impede our efforts.

“He’s secured,” I say.

“Can you walk?” Anders asks Brady.

The younger man puts one foot out and begins to rise. It’s slow, unsteady, but even if he forced the vomiting, he will be weak.

Anders helps him to his feet. Then, “Paul?”

“Yes, sir.” Paul hurries over from where he’s been watching in silence. “I can help you carry him.”

“Not you. Get Kenny.”

Paul flushes. He knows Anders is saying: I don’t trust you. He bobs his head and runs out the front door. I relock it behind him. Then I move to the cell and unlock that. Anders has Brady up, supporting him. I open the door and move in to help, but Anders says, “I’ve got it. Just stand point, please.”

I step back and keep the gun ready as they walk out of the cell. A key scrapes in the front door lock. Then it stops.

“Casey? Will?”

I call for Dalton to come in, and he finishes unlocking the door. He steps through, sees Brady, and curses. Then he hurries over to help.

* * *

If there is an advantage to having parents who raised me to be a doctor, it is that I don’t need to consult our medical texts to recognize the signs of poisoning. I assess Brady as Dalton and Anders carry him to the clinic.

He has a fever. He’s struggling to breathe. His heart is racing.

Oliver Brady has been poisoned.

At the clinic, we pump his stomach. It’s only our second time using the procedure. In Brady’s case, after all that vomit, there really isn’t much to pump, but it’s all we know.

Brady is thankfully unconscious by this point. I say thankfully, because we would not have earned his confidence if he’d been awake, hearing Dalton reading aloud from a chapter on emergency poisoning treatment as Anders and I worked.

And he really wouldn’t want to hear us concur that pumping his stomach is the extent of what we can do. After the pumping, we put him on an IV to replace fluids. Then we wait.

It’s two hours before he wakes. I’m collapsed in a bedside chair. Anders sits on the floor beside me. Dalton has gone back to the station to secure the scene.

Brady wakes, and the first thing he says is, “Dog.”

I remember him saying that in the cell, and again I think I must be mishearing.

“Doug?” I say. We do have a resident named Doug . . . who also works as a chef.

He shakes his head and rasps, “Dog. Your dog food.”

Anders rises. “You think someone served you dog food?”

More head shaking, Brady’s face screwing up in frustration. “Your dog. The food. Poison. Did she eat—?” He coughs and winces as the cough sets his raw throat aflame. “Did your dog eat the food? Tried—tried to warn—”

“You were trying to warn us that your food was poisoned,” I say. “Before my dog ate the rest.”

He nods, eyelids fluttering as if even keeping them open is too much effort.

“Is she okay?” he manages.

“She doesn’t eat anything without permission. The sheriff got your tray out of there. We’ll be analyzing it for poison.”

He gives a harsh laugh, wincing again. “Pretty sure it’ll come back positive.”