Free Song of the Blackbird (Albatross Prison #1) by DB Michaels

the man still was downright overbearing. “Don’t worry. They’ll be in isolation until then. So no one else can catch it, even if it’s norovirus.”
    “Not good enough,” he insisted. “We need to know today. Last time, several dorms got sick and an inmate almost died.”
    “We’ll isolate all new cases.” Drat. Maybe she’d misjudged him. He seemed to care for his inmates after all. “Public Health is on board. We only have a few patients so far.”
    “Headquarters won’t like it. They want this thing resolved now.”
    “Headquarters?”
    “Sacramento. They’ve been calling me all morning, wanting answers.”
    Something in Emma’s chest deflated. She should’ve known . He didn’t really care about the patients. No, not at all. Mr. High and Mighty was more concerned about his image, about how he looked to his bosses. “Well, tell them whatever you want. But we won’t know for sure for a few days.” She left and went down the hall to room four.
    Pathetic. She was pathetic. One warm, incredibly nice hug (if she could even call it that), and she was about to forgive him for all his sins. Maybe she needed more human contact. It’d been a year since she’d dated John, and he’d been her only serious boyfriend. Her medical school and residency schedules had been too packed to go out much.
    “Hey, Doc.” A heavily tattooed, angry-looking man on the bench raised his beefy arm. “When are you gonna see me? I’ve been here since nine o’clock.”
    “Yeah. Me, too.”
    “We’ve been waiting for hours. We didn’t even have lunch yet,” someone else added.
    “Sorry, gentlemen.” Emma checked the time. Two twenty already. No wonder they were upset. But the diarrhea cases had to come first.
    She spied the stack of yellow gowns and gloves outside room four and donned both of them before entering the room. The four patients were in their respective beds, watching TV. General Hospital, of all things. Grown men watching soap operas? She’d never believe it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.
    “Aw, Doc,” the youngest patient said when she switched off the TV. “That was the best part. We’re about to find out who the father is.”
    “Sorry. I need to talk to you. I’m Dr. Edwards.” Emma adjusted her gloves. “When did you start having diarrhea?”
    It turned out their symptoms began two to three days ago. Some had abdominal pain and vomiting. Some hadn’t. They resided in different dorms but all had attended the same substance abuse program together. After examining them, Emma asked for stool samples whenever they went again. She flipped the TV back on, disposed of her gown and gloves, and walked out, relieved that at least the men’s symptoms weren’t too bad. Back at the nursing station, she washed her hands and wrote orders for stool cultures and strict contact isolation.
    “Where’s Vincent?” she asked a middle-aged nurse sitting at the main desk.
    “He’s left already. His shift’s from six to two.” The woman slurped down some won ton soup from a plastic bowl. “You must be the new doc. I’m Ms. Marcs.”
    Emma’s stomach grumbled. The sizzling soup smelled heavenly. Her packed lunch lay in the cabinet in Urgent Care. She could get it and wolf it down in two minutes, but the grumbling escalated outside. She downed a cup of water from the dispenser instead and prayed for patience.
    “Mr. Ransom?” she called out.
    The heavily tattooed man stood up. “About time, too.”
    He was almost twice her size, topping her by over a head. She ushered him into the office and closed the door. Goosebumps popped up on her arms. He looked aggressive. Tattoos littered not only his face but also his neck and ears.
    “Have a seat,” she said, trying hard not to look at the curse word tattooed across his forehead. His hair was oily and slicked back with some slime, his arms huge, bulging with muscles. “I’m Dr. Edwards. I’m covering for Dr. Pan. You saw the nurse recently?” She