The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 12: Yeah, Put Them On
People moved past us in waves. Some didn’t notice us at all. Others slowed, their eyes catching on the silver glint of steel at Isla’s wrists and ankles, then quickly looking away.
We didn’t speak. We just kept walking and Isla bore it all in silence.
Every stare, every whispered word, every shifting expression that flickered across a stranger’s face—she took it in, carried it like weight across her shoulders. And still, she walked forward.
We’d barely made it past the kettle corn stand when the voice called out behind us.
“Excuse me, sir—ma’am.”
We turned.
A sheriff’s deputy was striding toward us, sunglasses low on his nose, one hand resting lightly on the radio clipped to his vest. His other hovered near his belt—not threatening, but not exactly casual either.
“I need to ask you two a few questions,” he said, tone clipped. “You can stay right where you are.”
We stopped. People around us slowed, then circled wide, giving the conversation space. A few lingered close enough to eavesdrop, pretending to browse food trucks while blatantly listening.
The deputy’s eyes swept over Isla.
Her wrists were cuffed in front of her, a polished steel chain looped to the lockbox cinched at her waist. A matching chain dipped down to the cuffs at her ankles. The entire setup looked professional. Official. Real.
Because it was.
“What’s going on here?” the deputy asked carefully. His eyes narrowed at the restraints. “Is she in custody? I’ve had three different reports of a woman being led around in chains.”
We began to explain, but it quickly became clear the deputy wasn’t following. We realized the entire discussion was going to devolve into a back-and-forth of questions and answers. So, without saying another word, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the letter, and handed it to him.
He took it, eyes scanning the page slowly. Isla stood stiffly beside me, gaze low, jaw tight. The crowd didn’t disperse. If anything, more people were starting to gather, watching from a distance, curiosity sharpening into suspicion.
I heard the murmurs start—low at first, then growing louder. Loud enough to catch, just careless enough to sting.
“She must’ve done something serious.”
“Bet she tried to run and she has to wear those shackles now.”
“Why would you come to a public place like this if you’re wanted?”
The words landed one after another, casual and cutting. The way people talk when they think they’re just stating facts. When they’ve already decided who you are based on what they see—and what they think they know.
To them, the cuffs meant guilt. There was no space in their minds for nuance. No room for the idea that someone could be struggling, trying to survive something messy and unfair. To them, she wasn’t a person. She was a headline they hadn’t read yet—but already had opinions about.
So, Isla stood still, face blank, but her fists clenched. I saw her fingers trembling.
The deputy turned his mouth to the radio, eyes still fixed on us. He’d already asked for Isla’s ID, and I’d handed over her driver’s license without a word. He took it, studied it for a moment, then stepped a few feet away—close enough that we could still hear every word.
Lifting the radio to his mouth, his voice was steady and professional.
“Dispatch, this is Deputy Keller at Fairground Gate Two. I have a subject for verification—last name, Kumar. First name, Isla. Date of birth...” He paused briefly, reading the details off the license. “Requesting status check and any active warrants.”
He released the button, the faint crackle of static filling the tense silence as we all waited for a response.
Around us, the cuffs, the radio, the deputy—it all kept drawing more eyes. We were well into the fairgrounds, but still in the main path of the entrance—where everyone had to pass, whether arriving or leaving.
We were surrounded by strangers. Families with strollers, children pointing without shame, adults shooting suspicious glances. A little girl whispered something to her mother, who immediately pulled her close, as if Isla might suddenly lunge.
One woman leaned toward her friend, voice low but not quite low enough.
“Is she even a U.S. citizen?” she muttered.
I felt Isla go still beside me. Her face remained calm, unreadable, but her hands—secured in front—tightened more.
Then the dispatch voice came through, crisp and professional:
“Deputy Keller, this is dispatch. Subject Isla Kumar is flagged in the DOCCS as an escapee and classified as high-risk. Request confirmation of identity and current custody status. Per protocol, transport restraints are mandatory for this subject. Advise if additional units or backup are required. Report when secure and en route.”
The deputy’s face remained neutral, but his voice was firm when he turned back to Isla.
“Ma’am, you’re wanted by the DOCCS. They’re showing you escaped custody,” the deputy said, his tone steady but authoritative.
“I’m going to have to bring you in.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Around us, murmurs rippled through the crowd—some curious, others judgmental. Isla didn’t flinch. She just gave a small, resigned nod.
I stepped forward, trying to get ahead of the situation.
“There should be notes in your office’s records that back up that letter,” I said, nodding toward the paper he was holding. “We were told this ahead of time—that a quick check would only confirm what you already know. Yes, she’s listed as wanted ... yes, she’s marked as a high-risk escapee who has to be kept in restraints.” I gestured toward Isla. “That’s why she’s in them now. We know she has to wear them—”
Isla shook her head gently, cutting me off. Her voice was quiet, but steady. She could see the officer wasn’t convinced, so she took the more direct approach.
“Officer, could you please have them check again? There should be additional notes,” she said, her voice steady but urgent. “That letter—it’s real. If it weren’t, trust me, I wouldn’t be here, in a public place.” She glanced down, then added, “If you’re worried I’ll run ... I can’t. I’m in these, and the keys are in our car, back in the lot. I couldn’t get out of them even if I wanted to. Please ... just have them check again.”
The deputy keyed his radio once more, but it was clear he didn’t fully believe us.
“Dispatch, please verify the notes on record for Kumar. Confirm any relevant case files or officer statements attached.”
As the radio crackled, the murmurs around us grew louder.
“She’s an escapee? No wonder she’s in those cuffs.”
Another voice chimed in from nearby, sharp and low, “She should be locked up for real—not just wandering around the fair like this. There are families here.”
Isla’s jaw clenched again as the whispers turned into pointed stares and harsh judgment.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Finally, the radio crackled again.
“Deputy Keller, this is Dispatch. Code 7-Alpha-Charlie. Proceed with caution.”
The deputy’s eyes flicked toward us, then back to the radio.
He spoke quietly, “Copy that, Dispatch.”
He looked over at Isla and me, voice lowered but firm.
“Alright, we’re going to step to the side now. Still in view, but out of the main path.”
We moved about 15 feet away from the crowd. Some curious onlookers lingered, but most gave us space—perhaps realizing that if they came closer, it would be obvious they weren’t just standing around or casually passing by.
“Ma’am, you’re officially wanted by the New York Department of Corrections. I need to proceed with custody protocols.”
His tone was professional, but there was weight behind it—an edge that made it clear: this was serious.
“There are notes in her records,” I said quickly. “Did they not see them?”
He didn’t answer directly. “All I’ve been told is that the situation requires care—so maybe there is something to it. Maybe the letter is legitimate. But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s still wanted,” he said. “I’ll be taking her in. If this is a misunderstanding, it can be sorted out at the station.”
Then he turned to me. His expression was neutral, but firm, as he unclipped the cuffs from his belt.
“I need you to turn around,” he said. “You’re being placed under arrest for suspicion of harboring an escapee.”
I froze. “What?”
“You’re with a wanted fugitive. Until we can confirm the circumstances, I’m required to detain you as well.”
I turned around slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in. I placed my hands behind my back, feeling the cold metal of the handcuffs before the deputy snapped them shut around my wrists.
There was a faint click as he double-locked them—something I recognized only because I’d helped put Isla in hers.
I stood there, while people around us stared—some curious, but most judgmental. Isla’s chains glinted in the sunlight beside me, the two of us bound.
The deputy stepped away, radio pressed to his mouth. His voice was low but clear. “Dispatch, Deputy Keller, both subjects are in custody—one escapee and one associated.”
Isla glanced at me, then looked behind me toward the deputy.
“Hinged,” she said quietly.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied, not really sure what else to say. Figured she was just letting me know they were the more restrictive kind—in case I couldn’t figure that out on my own.
She turned her gaze toward me, eyes steady but unreadable—not sympathy, but something else. Something I couldn’t quite place.
The deputy motioned for us to follow. We fell in step beside him, the weight of the cuffs and chains heavy with every move. He told us another car was on its way to take us both to the station.
We said nothing. It felt pointless—the story had already been told.
As we walked through the fairgrounds, eyes followed us. People whispered and stared, their expressions a mix of shock and judgment.
We passed the ticket booth again, where the young group from before still lingered, their gazes fixed on us as we moved by.
Out front, the patrol car waited in the lot, its lights off but presence looming. Within minutes, a second cruiser pulled up beside it.
It was clear—we were being taken in separately. And that’s exactly what happened. I was placed in one car, Isla in the other.
I glanced over at her through the window. She caught my eye and gave a small, fragile smile. But beneath it, I could see the fear lingering—quiet, but real.
The ride to the station was tense and silent. The officer driving me tried to break the quiet with small talk—casual questions, polite attempts to make conversation. But I didn’t respond. Not a word.
I knew enough from being around them to understand the unspoken rule: keep it as brief as possible, and otherwise don’t speak. Meaning, if asked directly—name, date of birth, that kind of thing—I’d answer. But beyond that, say nothing. The officer seemed like a decent guy, just doing his job. Maybe he was trying to gauge me, trying to read between the lines. It didn’t matter. I stayed quiet.
The radio crackled again, breaking the silence inside the patrol car.
“Unit eight, this is Deputy Keller. We need you to return to the fairgrounds. Situation update coming through—details will be provided when you arrive. Over.”
The officer driving glanced in the rearview mirror, his expression shifting from routine to cautious. He reached for the radio, confirming he’d received the message, then eased the car into a slow U-turn.
He sighed and looked back at me.
“Assuming you know what that was about?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Beyond the fact that we’d already explained everything to Officer Keller—and that we were telling the truth—there was nothing more for me to say.
I wasn’t angry—just figured that if they were sending me back to the fair, it meant they’d figured it out. Or at least Keller had, and this officer would find out soon enough.
So, I stayed silent.
When we got back to the fair, Officer Keller was standing with Isla outside his patrol car.
The officer who’d driven me helped me out, and I stood there, still cuffed, facing Isla. We exchanged a small, tired smile. She was holding it together, but I could see it in her eyes—glassy, right on the edge.
The officers spoke quietly between themselves, but the weight of everything hung heavy in the air.
Finally, Officer Keller turned back to us. “Alright, turn around.”
He unclasped the handcuffs from my wrists—the cold click echoing softly in the stillness.
Then, shaking his head in disbelief, he handed me the folded letter.
“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice low. “I’ll be honest—I didn’t believe it at first. But it checks out. Dispatch escalated the issue, and he confirmed everything. The letter’s legit. It’s all been ... verified.”
He let out a slow breath, like he was trying to wrap his head around it all.
“Of all the things I’ve seen in this job,” he muttered, “this one’s definitely up there.”
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