Lincoln stumbled as Lewis gave him a shove into the infirmary. "Dr. Tancredi?" Lewis said.

"Exam one," she replied, rushing by without even looking at him. "Name?"

"Burrows. Lincoln," Lewis replied.

The doctor stopped. Lincoln noticed her eyes flicker as she looked up at him. "I'll be in there in a moment. Un-cuff him, please," she said. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and then she was rushing away again, into a different exam room.

Lewis grumbled, "Un-cuff him…un-cuff the death row inmate. Sure doc." He pushed Lincoln into the exam room and stood there, staring at Lincoln. Lincoln looked away. He stared out the barred window, seeing the blue sky. Thinking about his brother.

Michael had looked all right. Yes, he was bruised, and had obviously been beaten, but he seemed okay. Lincoln clenched his fists again, wishing he could beat that piece of scum who would dare to mess with his brother. Eventually, though. Eventually.

He'd still only heard rumors about what had happened to Michael. Rumors, and T-Bag's disgusting bragging that had turned his stomach, made him furious, made him want to kill, made him want to vomit. But considering how Michael looked…T-Bag couldn't be telling the truth. No way his brother could have been used like T-Bag claimed and still be walking, still be awake and in this world. Lincoln had seen how Michael had shut down as a kid, and even later, how he could just force everything out and just not be there. No reaction, no nothing. It was scary as hell to watch, but Lincoln understood why he did it. Something about that Low Latent Inhibition thing, and how he could just retreat inside himself. At least, that was how Michael had explained it.

Suddenly, the door to the exam room swung open, and Lincoln's head turned to face it. The doctor came in, holding a chart. She looked at him, and then at the guard. "Officer Lewis, please un-cuff him," she said, her voice no nonsense.

"He's a death-row inmate," Lewis said.

"He'll be fine," the doctor said. "Un-cuff him."

Lincoln saw Lewis hesitate. It made him angry. He would never hurt this woman, the doctor who he could tell his brother had a soft spot for, even though he'd never admit it. Hell, he wasn't much for violence against women anyway, unless they struck first and were armed.

"I'm not gonna hurt her, Lewis. She's gotta fix my hands; how the hell's she supposed to do that if they're cuffed at the small of my back?" Lincoln said, trying to sound reasonable.

The doctor nodded, and finally, shaking his head, Lewis removed the cuffs. Lincoln rubbed at his wrists, which had blood all over them.

"You can wait outside," she told Lewis. Surprisingly, the man walked away, letting the exam room door slam behind him.

The doctor gave him an apologetic half-smile that surprised him. When was the last time he'd seen one of those? Years ago; probably when he was a teenager. He smiled back, almost without thinking.

"Take a seat, Lincoln," she said, gesturing towards the exam table. Lincoln sat on the edge, feeling kind of silly. He looked down at his hands; the bleeding had slowed but covered his hands and wrists.

She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a clean washcloth and wet it. "I'm just going to clean off your hands first," she said. She took his hand and started to wash it, and he was struck by how small her hands were, compared to his own giant mitts.

"You saw Michael this morning," Lincoln said. This was his chance to get information from the source, after all…it didn't look like he'd see Michael again any time soon. The doctor startled, looking up at him. "Is he okay?"

He saw her eyes flicker slightly, much like Michael's did when he was trying to make a decision. He let his hand actually close around hers. "Please, doc. I only got to see him for five seconds. He didn't tell me anything. Is he alright?" He could hear the desperation in his voice.

"You saw him? How did you see him?" The doctor sounded concerned.

"Patterson was taking him to the SHU," Lincoln explained. "Is he okay?"

"Patterson said he was taking him back to Gen Pop," the doctor replied. Her eyes caught Lincoln's for a second, and he saw something there. So this little thing Michael had for the doctor wasn't exactly one-sided? That was interesting. Except, he had to find out more immediately important things right now. He saved it for later.

"Michael wasn't fighting him or anything. Patterson let him stop and talk to me for a second," Lincoln replied.

The doctor blinked rapidly. She handed him the washcloth. "Clean the blood off your hands; don't re-open the scabs. I'll be right back."

She disappeared out the door in a flash, leaving him alone. He wiped at his bloody hands, turning the institutionally bleached cloth an orangey, pink color, dotted with bright red. He wondered what she was doing, what she was checking on. Michael, obviously, but he wished she'd share some information with him.

He looked at his now-clean hands. A little blood still oozed from a few of his knuckles; he dabbed at it occasionally, waiting for the doctor to come back.

Finally, she did. She looked more relaxed, Lincoln noted. "Is he okay?"

"He's not in the SHU. He's back in Gen Pop," the doctor replied.

But that didn't mean anything at all to Lincoln. "But is he okay, doc? Please."

"I can't share information about another inmate, Lincoln," she replied.

"He's not just another inmate; he's my brother!" Lincoln's voice rose, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. The doctor looked at him warily.

"Please, doc," he tried again. "I just want to know if he's all right."

The doctor took his right hand and examined it, bending his fingers gently. "Nothing looks broken," she said, moving to the other hand.

"It's not. I just tore open some skin. Did that scumbag really do what he claims to my brother?" His voice was low, but the intensity of his question was harsh. It surprised him, even.

The doctor's eyes met his own. He kept the eye contact, praying, wishing, hoping she would just answer him. Finally, she shook her head.

"No," she replied. "I mean, I don't know what he's claiming, but—"

"I'm sure you can imagine," Lincoln replied, his teeth clenching so hard they squeaked.

She sighed. "Yes, I can. And no, he didn't."

Lincoln felt his body droop slightly with relief. Thank God. Michael was all right. Lincoln nodded. "Thanks, doc."

The doctor began wrapping his hands in gauze. She didn't reply at all.