Franky thought the beating she took from Bea was bad enough, and there are still times when she wakes up drenched in sweat, remembering what it felt like to have a box cutter digging into her jugular. Still, at least that was something resembling a fair fight, and even though it came with a hefty dose of humiliation – especially when she realised she was just collateral damage on Red's revenge spree - knowing Bea was a worthy opponent made the brutal sting of defeat just about bearable.

This time, though, she didn't see it coming. When six of Cindy-Lou's disciples cornered Franky on her way out of the shower room, Franky knew there was no escape, and they spent the next ten minutes making it abundantly clear that they couldn't stand to see her walk away scot free - not when their personal Jesus was six feet under. It didn't matter that she wasn't the one who gave Cindy-Lou the dodgy gear, the fact that she was a dealer with a get-out-of-jail-free card and she was leaving the junkies behind to rot obviously didn't sit too well with them. They tag-teamed her with an unrelenting barrage of kicks and punches, but Franky didn't stop trying to claw her way to safety until they finally succeeded in knocking her out. Being stamped on like a cockroach and called a colourful array of insults should be second nature to her by now, but sometimes Franky thinks there isn't enough ink in the world to cover all of her scars. Every muscle in her body is screaming out for respite, and she wonders if it's even worth trying to piece herself back together again.

She knows none of this is Bridget's fault, but right now she can't face the therapist's words of encouragement, or some cliche-ridden pep talk. Bridget's taken away Franky's edge, chipped away at her defences, and now Franky's ability to block all of this shit out is severely compromised. She wants to curl into a ball and cry, but where the hell is that going to get her out there in the real world? All of this "getting in touch with your feelings" bullshit is starting to take its toll, and Bridget's promises of a better life seem pretty far-fetched when she's lying cuffed to a bed feeling like she's been levelled by a steam-roller.

She tries not to think about the crushed look on Bridget's face when she ordered her out of the room, because no matter what she might be feeling in the heat of the moment, and no matter how much she relishes the push-and-pull between them, Franky knows this will never last. Being smacked upside the head seems to have given her a renewed sense of perspective on the situation, and she knows screwing Bridget now will just make it that much harder when the therapist inevitably realises that they have nothing in common aside from visceral attraction. A couple of months ago, Franky thought she could live with that. Now, she's not so sure.

She should have learnt her lesson after everything that happened with Erica, because when the Governor rocked up with an engagement ring on her finger, Franky realised she would never be anything more than a stop-gap. She's the girl from the wrong side of the tracks, someone the classy chicks want to get down and dirty with, but she'll never be marriage material. Like she once said to Kim, there's no point in making plans, because they always fuck up, and she must have been delusional to believe that she and Bridget could ride off into the sunset together without someone showing up to throw a spanner in the works.

Franky knows her release date is just around the corner, but after several lengthy conversations with her Parole Officer, it's pretty obvious that the meagre funds she has left in her bank account aren't going to fund her existence. After she was sentenced, she managed to rake in a few bucks from a tabloid exclusive, although she lived to regret it when she saw the headline: "If You Can't Stand The Heat, Get Out of the Kitchen: Crazed Chef Tells Her Side of the Story from Behind Bars" - but she blew most of the cash on keeping her belongings in storage, and now she only has enough left to cover a couple of months' worth of rent. She isn't going to be able to walk into a well-paid position, not with her record, and she's starting to wonder if all that awaits her is a grotty bedsit and another mind-numbing, minimum-wage job.

Couple all of that with the prospect of being wheeled back into Wentworth looking like a human punching bag, and Franky's feeling pretty fucking sorry for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, but instead she gets to watch Cindy-Lou's cronies smirk at her while she can't do a damn thing about it. And who knows? Maybe Queen Bea will exact revenge on her behalf, leaving everyone with the impression that Franky's so pathetic, she needs someone else to fight her battles for her.

"Hey! I need some more pain relief in here," she yells, hoping that the Nurses will administer another dose of morphine. It's the closest thing she'll get to a sedative, and right now, losing herself to oblivion is a hell of a lot better than facing reality.

When the door opens, she's not expecting to see Bridget standing there, and the therapist looks uncharacteristically dishevelled, like she's about to come apart at the seams. Franky can see that she's been crying, and something heavy settles in the pit of her stomach when she takes in Bridget's rumpled clothes and the loose tendrils of hair that have worked their way free from her ponytail.

"I thought you would've pissed off a long time ago," Franky observes, trying to force some contempt into her tone.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Bridget asserts, in a voice that's tight with tension. "But I'm afraid the Nurse says you're not due another round of painkillers for a couple of hours."

"Well, that's just fucking great. I'll just sit here and suffer then, shall I?"

"I'm sorry," Bridget tells her, and her face is furrowed with concern, "I wish there was something more I could do."

She moves to stand beside Franky's bed, and her purposeful stride is a lot more hesitant than usual. Franky wishes that she wasn't immobilised by the handcuffs, because when Bridget reaches out to caress the one part of her face that isn't fifty shades of purple, all she can do is jerk away and turn her head to the side. Bridget doesn't take the hint, though, she just opts to stroke Franky's hair instead, and her touch is so painstakingly gentle, Franky bites her lip to keep from whimpering. She's used to the rough and tumble of prison life, the beatings and the fist-pumps and the high-fives; the hurried and frantic sex that's geared towards release instead of intimacy, and Bridget's tenderness is almost too much for her to bear.

"God, look at you," the therapist despairs, lightly tracing the butterfly stitches that are traversing the gash across Franky's temple, and Franky's lips curl into a bitter smile.

"Yeah, not so pretty now, am I? I'm not sure if you got the memo, Gidget, but I'm pretty much indisposed, so if you were hoping to get some action next week - " Franky attempts to wiggle her fingers for long enough to get Bridget's attention, trying not to cry out with pain, "I'm afraid a few of the vital parts aren't in working order."

"Come on, Franky," Bridget retorts in a hushed, but forceful whisper, "This was never just about sex."

Franky wants to raise her eyebrows, but it hurts too damn much to try.

"Really?" she counters incredulously, "Because I asked you if you were in love with me and – unless this concussion's fucked up my head more than I thought – I'm pretty sure you said "no.""

Bridget shuffles back and forth on her feet, avoiding Franky's accusatory stare, but then she squares her shoulders and meets Franky's gaze with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Yeah, well I lied, OK?" she blurts out, with unflinching honesty. "I lied."

Franky wasn't expecting that, and it takes all of her acting skills not to look affected by Bridget's heartfelt revelation.

"Oh Gidget, I'm touched," she says, in a facetious tone that suggests she's anything but, "And I'd love to return the sentiment, but considering I know fuck all about you, I think it'd be a little bit premature."

Franky sees the crestfallen expression on Bridget's face, and it gnaws away at her resolve, but she reminds herself that self-preservation is the only weapon she has left at her disposal, and even though it pains her to keep pushing Bridget away, she knows it'll hurt a lot less in the long run. She tries not to think about everything Bridget's done for her – risking her job and her reputation to fight her corner when everyone else had written her off - and she goes in for the kill.

"Let's face it Gidget, you'll get bored of me in a couple of months when you've played out this kinky little fantasy of yours, so why don't you do us both a favour and go and find yourself a real girlfriend? Or, you know, maybe I should be wondering why no-one's snapped you up already?" Franky taunts, feeling almost as uncomfortable as Bridget when she watches the therapist start to squirm.

"I bet you're one of those people who acts like Billy Big Balls at work, like you've got everything under control, and then you go home to your sad little life and cry yourself to sleep at night, right?" Franky deduces, even though she knows what she's saying is total bullshit. Bridget's one of the most together people she's ever met. "I mean, falling for a prisoner, that's pretty fucking dysfunctional, right? Is that why you wanted to become a shrink? So you could try and forget how messed up you are and pick at other people's problems instead?"

For a second, Bridget looks like she's been slapped in the face, but she quickly recovers her composure.

"Franky, did the other inmates attack you because of your relationship with me? Is that why you're lashing out at me like this?" she asks, and Franky doesn't understand why she still cares; why she's trying to find some logic in her irrational attack.

"The last thing I wanted was to compromise your safety or your standing with the other women - you have to know that," Bridget informs her earnestly, and Franky wants to scream with frustration, because Bridget's making this too hard. She wants the therapist to walk away and never look back, but she's not heartless enough to let her shoulder the responsibility for this.

"Don't flatter yourself," Franky says acerbically. "Cindy-Lou's crew had it in for me long before you came along. I used to be their supplier and, when I couldn't deliver the goods anymore, let's just say they decided to bite off the hand that used to feed them. I mean, you saw them circling me like a bunch of piranhas before, right? They've been waiting to jump me for months. But if you breathe a word of that to Miss Bennett - " Franky warns her, even though she knows how ridiculous she must sound, making idle threats from the confines of her hospital bed.

"I won't," Bridget assures her quietly, "She could veto your parole if she knows that you were involved in drug trafficking."

"I wasn't just involved, Gidget, I was the fucking King Pin," Franky proclaims, in an arrogant tone that practically invites Bridget to do something about it, "I used to run that place and I would beat down any bitch that stood in my way - "

"OK, that's enough!" Bridget snaps, holding up her hand, "Don't put me in this position again, Franky."

"But I thought you wanted to know all about my sordid past?" Franky retorts, and now she's found Bridget's vice, she quickly changes tactics. "I might not have been tried for all of my crimes, Gidget, but believe me when I say, my hands are plenty dirty. I'm a drug dealer, a murderer, a bully - "

"Franky - " Bridget protests, but Franky's determined to shatter all of the therapist's illusions once and for all.

"You wanna know why Kim's so fucked up? It's because I spent two years using her for sex and then I just threw her to the dogs. All take and no give, that's my speciality," Franky informs her, trying to sound unrepentant, when really she can feel the shame starting to eat away at her. "And Boomer...Boomer was the most loyal friend I've ever had, and I stood back and watched while someone shut her hands in a steam press for what felt like a fucking eternity. I listened to her screams and I smelt her flesh burning and I didn't even try to stop them," Franky spits out, trying to fight back her tears, "And because she wasn't around to protect me anymore, I whored myself out to the highest bidder, because I will do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means selling my soul to the fucking Devil. So yeah, you've landed yourself a real fucking catch here, Gidget."

Franky's tears finally spill over, and she lets out an anguished yelp when the salt water trickles down her cheeks, scalding the raw cuts that are littered across her face. She can hardly bring herself to look at Bridget, because she can already imagine the disgust and disappointment that must be clouding the other woman's features, but when she finally works up the courage to seek out the therapist's gaze, the only thing she sees there is empathy and sorrow.

"Boomer was the one who found you, you know?" Bridget tells her softly, as though Franky hasn't just confessed to being a heinous excuse for a human being, "She was distraught when she saw the state of you, but she managed to carry you all the way to the medical wing. Vera almost had to slot her because she refused to leave your side. She still thinks the world of you, Franky."

Franky sucks in a shuddering breath, and she isn't sure whether it's a disbelieving laugh or a relieved sob.

"Yeah, well I'll be fucked if I know why. Liz only lagged on us because the gear I was bringing in was some seriously toxic shit, and Boomer took the fall for my fuck-ups. But it wasn't their fault, it was mine. It was mine."

"Franky, I know you," Bridget informs her compassionately, "And no matter what shit you might have been sucked into while you were in that place, no matter how many skeletons you've got lurking in your closet, I still believe that you're a good person underneath it all."

Franky wants to scoff at Bridget, she wants to tell her that she's a fucking idiot, but the therapist's devoted words make something inside of her break.

"Then why does shit like this keep happening to me? Why won't someone up there cut me a fucking break?" she asks plaintively, and she hates the fact that she's crying like a bloody sook again. It hurts like hell, because her ribs can't take the strain of her chest heaving with convulsive sobs, and Bridget's face melts into an expression that looks a lot like love as she reaches for Franky's hand.

"How about you start by cutting yourself a break?" she suggests, brushing her thumb back and forth over Franky's hand, "And stop trying to drive away the people who care about you. Because I'm not going anywhere, Franky," she concludes decisively, "And you can try and convince me that you're the fucking Godfather if you want, but I won't buy it."

Franky knows how dangerous it is to believe a statement like that, as much as she'd like to, but it doesn't stop her from burying her face in the crook of Bridget's neck when the other woman leans over to press a delicate kiss against her forehead.

"I don't want to go back there," she whispers into Bridget's shoulder, and Bridget pulls back a little, regarding her with troubled eyes.

"I know," she says sympathetically, "But let's not think about that for now. You should try and get some rest. I'll stay until you fall asleep."

Franky shakes her head, wincing.

"Nah, I fucking hate hospitals. There's no way I'm sleeping in this place unless someone knocks me out with a tranquilliser dart."

"I could never sleep in here, either," Bridget admits, picking at a piece of lint on Franky's bedsheet.

Franky looks at her quizzically, and Bridget offers her a sad smile.

"My Dad had terminal cancer and he was practically a live-in patient here during his last few months. They used to let me stay with him overnight sometimes, but I could never get past the smell of the place, or the bleeps of the machines, and I was always scared that if I let myself sleep, he wouldn't be alive when I woke up in the morning."

"Shit, Gidget, I'm sorry," Franky murmurs, although there's a small part of her that can't help but feel intrigued by the fact that Bridget's finally opening up to her.

"What...what about your Mum?" she asks tentatively, half expecting Bridget to shut her down, but Bridget just shrugs nonchalantly.

"She's still around, but we're not especially close. She never really approved of the whole "lesbian" thing," she admits, with a crooked smile.

"She'd shit a brick if she saw you with me, then," Franky remarks, and Bridget laughs out loud.

"Oh yeah, she'd have a conniption fit," the therapist agrees, "But I stopped giving a damn a long time ago. Thankfully, I'm an only child, so she never had the opportunity to play me off against any siblings."

"So you're pretty much a lone wolf, then, huh?" Franky asks her, and it wasn't what she expected at all.

"I have a couple of close friends who live in the city, but yeah, I like to keep myself to myself for the most part," Bridget concedes, but then her face lights up in a goofy grin, "Although I do have a dog called Jasper, who doesn't listen to a damn word I say and likes to piss on the carpet every morning before I leave for work, just to spite me. I pay one of the kids in the neighbourhood to look after him when I'm not around, but he really knows how to put me on a guilt trip. I got him from the local rescue shelter - he'd been there for nearly a year. Nobody wanted him because of his behavioural issues, but I couldn't say no to that face."

Franky bursts out laughing, and even though her jaw is throbbing, she can't stop her smile from getting progressively wider as she listens to Bridget talk about her life.

"So you've got a habit of picking up waifs and strays wherever you go, huh?" she teases, and Bridget winks at her.

"Only the cute ones. Oh, and for your information, the reason why I'm still single at the grand old age of 42 is because I don't believe in relationships of convenience, or settling for someone who isn't the right fit. I had my fair share of fun when I was younger, but now I'm working 12 hour days, I don't have time to mess around. And besides, I reckon I can afford to be picky. I'm not a dried-up old hag just yet, in spite of what Kim Chang might think," Bridget says, with a rakish grin, and Franky regards her in amusement.

"So I meet your high standards, do I?"

"Well, that depends..." Bridget teases, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "I haven't put you through your paces yet."

Franky snorts, surprised by Bridget's audacity.

"You wouldn't take advantage of an injured woman, would you, Doc?"

Bridget just shakes her head, smiling.

"You should get some rest; maybe that'll assist in your recovery," she points out drily, but Franky doesn't ever want this conversation to end.

"So if you're not dolling yourself up and going out on dates, how do you spend your evenings, Gidge?"

"After I've taken the dog for a walk and fixed some dinner, I usually curl up with a glass of wine and a good book," Bridget says, pulling a face as if it's suddenly occurred to her just how boring that sounds.

"Well, my curfew is at 10pm, so I guess I can learn to get used to the sedentary lifestyle... Granny."

"Fuck off!" Bridget exclaims, tapping Franky lightly on the thigh, and Franky pretends that it hurts, even though her smile suggests otherwise.

"Hey, play nice! I'm in a world of pain here!"

Bridget's touch turns into a gentle caress, and Franky can feel the heat of her hand emanating through the blanket, warming her from the inside out. She can't help but think how unfair it is, though, that Bridget's being this tactile when she's powerless to respond in kind.

"Didn't you once say that there's pleasure in pain?" the therapist asks her, tongue firmly in cheek, and Franky levels her with a cocky smile.

"Hanging on my every word, are you, Gidge?"

Bridget's cheeks turn pink, and she bites her lip, momentarily turning away from Franky so she can take a seat in the chair adjacent to her bed.

"Come on, don't stop!" Franky protests, regarding Bridget with pleading eyes, "Keep talking. I could use the distraction."

Bridget regards her contemplatively for a moment, but then she nods, levelling Franky with a warm smile.

"OK. As for my first time with a woman – well, with anyone, actually - I was 18 and in college and it was like every bad trope you can imagine," Bridget informs her with a grimace, "She seemed into it at the time and I woke up full of the joys of spring, but after she sobered up, she told me that it was a huge mistake, that she had a boyfriend back home who she loved, and that it was never going to happen again – not that that's any comment on my sexual prowess," she jokes, and Franky can't resist the opportunity to goad her.

"I don't know, Gidge, if you're doing it right, they always come back for more. I mean, look at Kim, she used to be all about her meat and two veg and then boom, she met me and suddenly she's a full-blown vagitarian."

"Yeah, I get it, your milkshake brings all the girls to the yard. Maybe you should forget Law and consider a career in recruitment instead," Bridget says blithely, and Franky's ribs twinge as she convulses with laughter.

"You're killing me here, Gidge."

Bridget's expression is still laced with mirth as she regards Franky affectionately.

"Just for the record, I haven't had any complaints since."

"Sounds like it's been a while, though," Franky jests, and Bridget's mouth falls open in pseudo outrage.

"I finally tell you about myself and all you do is mock me," she complains, and Franky tries to contort her expression into one of sympathy.

"Aw, poor baby," she laments, but then she breathes in a little too deeply and their back and forth banter can't eclipse the pain anymore.

"Ow, fuck," she cusses, and Bridget abruptly stands up again, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder.

"OK, take it easy. I'm going to find a Nurse and persuade them to give you some more pain relief, OK?"

"But we can talk some more when you get back?" Franky asks hopefully, and she realises how desperate that sounds, so she tries to play it off by adding, "Unless there's some place you've got to be? I mean, I know you've got your dog - "

"Franky, I told you, I'm not leaving you," Bridget informs her intently, and Franky inwardly marvels at her ability to read between the lines.

She nods her gratitude, watching Bridget head for the door, and now she knows that they can sustain a normal conversation outside of Wentworth's walls - and that Bridget won't always be analysing her every move or trying to teach her some kind of life lesson - Franky suddenly feels a hell of a lot better.


Bridget stops by the vending machine on her way back to the ward, grabbing a black coffee in readiness for what will undoubtedly be a long night, but she nearly spills it when she rounds the corner and sees Vera Bennett standing ominously outside of Franky's room. The Interim Governor makes for a comical sentry, with her petite stature and excessively upright posture, but her sour expression still makes her look unapproachable, and Bridget finally starts to understand why the inmates have christened her Vinegar Tits.

"I've just relieved Mr Jackson of his duties," the Governor informs Bridget needlessly, and Bridget nods her acknowledgement, wondering why Vera chose to work the night shift when she could have just sent Matt Fletcher or Linda Myles instead.

"How's Doyle doing?" Vera persists, and Bridget gets the impression that she only cares because she's trying to minimise the fallout and avoid a full-blown investigation.

"She's in a lot of pain, but she's hanging in there. I've just asked the Nurse to up her meds."

"Well, I'm glad there isn't any long-term damage," Vera concedes, and she almost sounds sincere. "Did she say who did this to her? Mr Jackson said she was reluctant to open up to him, but I thought she might have been more...forthcoming...with you?"

Bridget avoids Vera's gaze, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. You know what these women are like, Vera, they won't trade their secrets for love nor money."

"Mmm," Vera murmurs, and Bridget gets the impression that she can see right through her bare-faced lie.

The Governor glances at her watch, and then taps on the clock face pointedly.

"Miss Westfall, you've been on duty for over 12 hours now. I'm afraid that I can't approve any non-essential overtime, so I'm going to have to ask you to go home."

"I wasn't planning on logging any extra hours, Vera, and I don't expect you to pay me for my time," Bridget informs her in a clipped tone, "I'm here of my own volition."

"But that's hardly appropriate," Vera points out. "You're not a family member. You have no entitlement to visit Doyle, unless it's in a professional capacity."

"Come on Vera - " Bridget starts to object, but Vera holds up her hand to quell her protests.

"After your little...display of emotion in the medical wing today, you should be grateful that I allowed you to come here at all. Your behaviour was completely out of line, and worse still, it was witnessed by an inmate. No doubt Jenkins has gone running back to her friends to tell them that our prison counsellor was inexplicably upset about Franky Doyle's predicament, and I'm sure you're aware what effect that will have in terms of the rumours. If the Board gets wind of this - "

"Vera, I know you're just trying to do your job, and I know I'm putting you in a difficult position," Bridget interjects, doing her best to sound reasonable, "But I meant what I said before – I'll have my letter of resignation on your desk tomorrow morning. Just let me stay with her until she's released from hospital, OK? Who's going to know?"

"You would do that?" Vera asks incredulously. "You would give up your job and a six figure salary for a lowlife thug like Franky Doyle?"

The Governor stares at her with a mixture of pity and contempt, but Bridget regards her unflinchingly.

"I think your assessment of Franky's character is woefully misguided, but yes, I would."

"But why?" Vera demands, still visibly perturbed. "Can't you see that Doyle's taking you for a ride? She's already sweet-talked you into singing her praises at her parole hearing, what's to stop her from treating you like a cash cow until she finds her feet?"

"I've been in this profession for 20 years, Vera, I'm not naive. I know when I'm being played, and that's not what's happening here," Bridget asserts, steadfast in her conviction.

Vera studies her for a moment, and then she shakes her head despairingly.

"Well, I hope you're right, Miss Westfall, for your own sake."

"I'll take my chances, but thank you for your concern," Bridget says, with no small measure of sarcasm.

She moves to re-enter Franky's room, but Vera grasps her arm, pulling her aside.

"Look, maybe I didn't make myself clear the first time. This has gone far enough. I can't let you back inside that room."

Bridget stares at her uncomprehendingly, but she isn't about to back down without a fight.

"Vera, she's cuffed to the bed and beaten black and blue, what do you think's going to happen? I'm just trying to stop her from going stir crazy, that's all."

"I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be ethical of me to endorse whatever it is that's going on between you two," Vera persists, and Bridget can tell from her stony expression that she won't be able to persuade her otherwise.

"Jesus Christ, Vera, you picked one hell of a time to grow a backbone," Bridget snaps, but she obligingly lets go of the door handle.

"Hey, Franky!" she hollers, "Miss Bennett's decided that we've had enough quality time together for one day. She won't let me back in."

"Miss Westfall - " Vera hisses, glancing up and down the corridor to see if Bridget's outburst is garnering any unwanted attention.

"Tell the miserable bitch to fuck off, then!" Franky yells back, and Bridget tries desperately hard not to laugh.

"Watch it, Franky," Bridget chastises her through the door, "I don't want you getting called up on any more verbal abuse charges, OK? So please try and be civil to Miss Bennett while I'm gone."

"Then you'd better tell the Nurse to forget the morphine and bring me some fucking Valium."

This time, Bridget can't hide her smile, although it quickly fades when she realises that she's going to have to walk away and leave Franky to fend for herself when she expressly promised the inmate that she wouldn't.

"I'll see you soon, yeah? You stay strong and remember that you're on the home stretch now. Five more days, Franky - that's nothing in the big scheme of things."

This time, there's no answer, and Bridget bites her bottom lip anxiously. She can only imagine the tumultuous thoughts that must be racing through Franky's head right now, and she knows that in the inmate's current condition, five days are going to feel like a lifetime.

"Bridget, I really am sorry," Vera tells her, and the fact that she sounds genuinely apologetic barely registers amidst Bridget's anger.

"Yeah, well, tell that to Franky. She's the one who got beaten to within an inch of her life. She's hurting, Vera, physically and mentally - and now she gets to process everything on her own."

Bridget shakes her head in disgust, and then she turns on her heel and walks away. She barely makes it to the car park before she's reaching for her phone, and she sinks into the driver's seat of her Porsche, dialling the number of Franky's Parole Officer.

"Isabel, I'm so sorry to call you this late," she apologises, praying that the other woman won't hold it against her.

"Don't worry about it, hun, I'm a night owl. I haven't even started to wind down yet," Isabel assures her, and Bridget breathes a sigh of relief.

"Is it about Franky?" Isabel asks intuitively, "I heard about what happened to her this afternoon. We had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow, too - I've got a couple of job interviews lined up for her and I think I've found a flat that might be in her price range. It's not a palace, by any means, and she's proving to be a fussy bugger, but it should do her for now. That's if the poor kid's even well enough to make her release date."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. She's in a bad way, Isabel, and I'm worried this might tip her over the edge. I think if she has to go back to Wentworth, she's going to lose it, and I know we'd both hate to see her undo all of her hard work," Bridget observes, taking a deep breath. "Do you think there's any way Judge Burns might move forward her release date? I mean, she's already approved her parole, surely she won't object to taking 5 days off her sentence, given the circumstances?"

"I doubt it, Bridget," Isabel says regretfully, "It sounds like Franky isn't in a fit state to look after herself and she hasn't got anyone to take care of her. No friends, no family – or at least, that's what she tells me."

Bridget hesitates for a moment, and then she decides to take a huge leap of faith, hoping that her assessment of Isabel - who seems like someone who can look past bureaucratic red tape in favour of doing the right thing - isn't completely wrong.

"But what if there was someone? Would you consider making an appeal to the Judge on her behalf? I just... I hate seeing her shackled to that hospital bed looking so damn sorry for herself. She was finally looking forward to getting out - gearing up to start her new life - but this has put a major dampener on things and I don't want it to affect her mindset, or her momentum. She needs this, Isabel, so if you can pull any strings, I'd be eternally grateful."

"Bridget, are you saying what I think you're saying?" Isabel asks her, sounding more intrigued than appalled, and Bridget smiles into the receiver.

"Let's just say I have it on good authority that Franky has a place to stay and that she'll be well looked after."

"I'm going to have to make a record of her forwarding address, though," Isabel warns her, and Bridget nods her assent.

"Well, as of tomorrow, I won't be working for Wentworth anymore, so it won't be a conflict of interests," she informs her colleague.

"Shit, Bridget, you're packing it in? I'm really sorry to hear that," Isabel laments, "You were bloody good at helping these women to get their heads screwed on straight."

"And you're bloody good at helping them to stay that way," Bridget counters, making Isabel laugh.

"I see, so now you're resorting to flattery?" Isabel discerns in an amused tone, but then she goes silent for a moment, leaving Bridget hanging in suspense until she eventually proclaims, "Oh well, what the hell, I like the kid. She's got spunk and smarts, which is more than I can say for most of the women in there. Now, I'm not making any promises," Isabel cautions her, "But leave it with me and I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Isabel," Bridget breathes, looking up at the night sky and wondering if there is a God after all. "Thank you so much."