The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 3: I Guess I’m Ready
Isla and I had gotten up early and were heading to the prison. We’d swung by my work to pick up one of the company vans. My company has a policy about not using personal vehicles for work-related travel—a lawyer thing, I think. We needed the van anyway; today was the last day at the prison, and I had to haul back all the CPR manikins and related equipment.
The good news was that Isla was with me. Not so she could help me load up the van, but because I had company for the drive there and back. It was nice having her with me.
“Boots?” I asked, glancing at her outfit. I was hoping the comment might draw her out—get her talking. She’d been quiet all morning, ever since we left the house.
I knew the conversation from the night before was still sitting heavy on her. And now, with the idea of having restraints locked onto her inside a maximum-security prison looming ahead, the silence made sense.
Still, I tried.
Isla nodded, still looking out the window. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Thought they’d help protect my ankles. You know ... from the cuffs.”
She turned and gave me a half-smile. “Didn’t know how to dress for a restraint fitting. Not exactly the kind of thing a girl gets fashion advice on.”
I smirked, catching the sarcasm. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess not.”
She was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, neatly tucked into worn blue jeans, the sleeves rolled once or twice, and sitting halfway between her wrists and elbows. Sunlight streamed through the windshield, highlighting the clean lines of her shirt and catching the texture of the denim. She sat in the passenger seat with one arm resting on the door’s armrest, the other draped loosely over her thigh.
Her jeans hugged her legs with the ease of old familiarity, the hems falling just enough to mostly conceal the black engineer boots underneath. The scuffed, solid leather hinted at long roads and a quiet kind of resolve—functional, unshakable, and bold without trying to be. A black leather belt, worn and weathered like the boots, pulled the look together with understated grit.
The outfit was simple but stylish. And she was right—the boots would probably help protect her ankles from the leg cuffs.
I tried again to get her to talk.
“You look nice,” I said, keeping my tone light.
She didn’t look at me. Still staring out the window, she replied, her voice quiet and flat. “I know this outfit doesn’t scream ‘dumb bondage bitch.’” She paused. “But I didn’t want to be in a slutty dress, pantyhose, and fuck-me heels ... I just wanted to be comfortable.”
The words landed hard, sharp, and bitter around the edges.
“Not that I own any of that stuff anyway,” she then added.
I glanced over at her. I could see the tension in her jaw and the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap. She wasn’t angry, not exactly. Just ... bracing for something.
I tried a few more times, but she wasn’t interested in talking. Not this morning.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long—we reached the prison sooner than I’d expected. Traffic was lighter than it had been earlier in the week. Fewer drivers were on the road—it was Friday, after all. Out here, the highways always thinned. If you were driving this stretch now, it meant one of three things: you were heading to work at the prison, visiting someone inside, or being transferred in or out.
Whatever the reason for the lighter traffic from the first half of the drive, I wasn’t complaining.
I pulled into the prison parking lot and drove to the vendor area closest to the doors of the building next to the check-in center. Yesterday, I moved the equipment from the staff training room, which was tucked behind the operations wing, to the building we are near now.
While the training room was secure and out of reach of the inmates, it was still inside the prison grounds, which meant an escort, locked doors, and checkpoints. I knew this would make today easier, though I wasn’t sure if Isla would be with me. That wasn’t the reason for moving the items yesterday—I just didn’t want to deal with all the security protocols while making multiple trips to move the equipment. Even though I could probably manage it in two trips with a cart, it was still a hassle.
Isla had left her purse in the van but had taken her driver’s license, which I grabbed to check us in while she was in the restroom. Officer Claire met me at the center, just as she had all week. When Isla returned, I introduced them, she handed us visitor badges, and led us to the adjoining building, holding the door open as we loaded the van. As I’d hoped, we managed it all in one trip.
With the equipment loaded, I grabbed a folder with all the CPR certificates from the back seat. Isla and I then followed Officer Claire back to the visitors’ center, and she led us to a small office behind the check-in area—a space accessible only to prison staff. Inside, she and I carefully reviewed each certificate, making sure everything was accounted for. When we were done, she placed the folder on a desk for the administrative staff to process on Monday.
Then she turned to Isla with a friendly smile. “Noah tells me you’re an actor.”
Isla smiled and nodded—already slipping into the part. I knew she didn’t want to be here.
“Yeah,” she said, her tone light but practiced. “A struggling one, anyway.”
Officer Claire grinned. “He said you’ve been to auditions for prison shows. That you know people that have been in those shows? Like Orange Is the New Black?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve had a few auditions,” Isla said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Lately, it feels like everything somehow involves being tied up.”
She gave a small, dry laugh, then added, “Prison shows are still big, I guess.”
She paused, then continued, “A friend of mine was supposed to be in an episode—just one scene, playing one of the women being transferred to another prison. She was an extra. No lines or anything. They ended up cutting the whole scene in post.”
She shrugged, but I could tell she was doing her best to keep it casual, to distance herself from talking about the acting. It was a sore subject for her.
Officer Claire’s eyes widened, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Still must’ve been fun,” she said, her voice a little too bright. It was obvious she was captivated by the idea of meeting someone connected to one of the shows—or by the thought of maybe connecting with others who had been in them.
“I think it was,” Isla agreed, her voice softening as though she were replaying the memory in her mind. “Or at least, that’s what it sounded like.” She paused, her gaze shifting briefly to a set of handcuffs sitting on a file cabinet. “She said the worst part was being in restraints all day. Apparently, the crew just kept her cuffed between takes. Once wardrobe had her in that jumpsuit, the cuffs went on—and stayed on. They said it was easier than constantly taking them on and off. There were so many extras, I guess.”
She shook her head. “She told me it felt kind of surreal. She spent the whole day in this huge warehouse-like studio, surrounded by other actors. Women just sitting there, walking around, all of them locked in full chains, just waiting for their scenes.”
“I guess I never really thought about that—the logistics of filming a show like that,” Officer Claire said, her brows lifting slightly. “It must’ve taken forever to keep putting those on and taking them off all those extras. But honestly, in prison, once the restraints are on, they stay on—at least until you reach your destination and you’re back in a secured area. Sounds like your friend got a pretty authentic experience.”
She then shifted the subject slightly, her voice still casual. “I’m sure Noah mentioned—we’ve got some old restraints from the seventies you can take with you. That way, you can get used to being in them—for upcoming roles ... or for whatever other reasons you might need to wear them.”
Isla offered a faint, polite smile. She’d caught the phrasing—’need to wear them.’ She understood what the officer meant, but it was still a strange way to say it. Oddly specific. A little too casual, as if the idea of someone spending time in restraints off-screen—or off-duty—wasn’t unusual at all.
“He did,” Isla said. “That’s really generous of you. Honestly, we don’t want to trouble you. If it’s a hassle, really, we don’t need them. Just the offer means a lot.”
Officer Claire waved it off. “It’s no trouble. No one’s going to miss a set. If I’m lucky, I can even consolidate a box or two—one less thing to move or trip over. And if it helps you get more auditions ... become a huge movie star...” She smiled.
Isla nodded, her smile still polite. I could tell she was doing her best to decline without outright saying no.
“So, they’ve really been here since the seventies?” she asked, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “Just ... sitting in boxes?”
The officer nodded. “Well, the eighties. That’s when they stopped being used. So, yeah, they’ve been here ... just collecting dust in storage.” She gave a slight shrug. “But don’t worry—they’re built to last. They’re better than the ones we use now.”
Isla raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely,” the officer replied with a half-smile. “If it weren’t for all the regulations, we’d probably still be using them.”
“Regulations?” Isla asked. “Like ... about what?”
“Their use,” Officer Claire replied, beginning to walk, gesturing for us to follow. “Like I said, we had to stop using them in the eighties. At least, that’s what some of the older officers had told me before they retired. It was around the time all that stuff came out about the asylum.”
“The asylum?” Isla echoed.
“It was really more of a women’s prison,” Officer Claire explained. “Not ... not like this one. More minimum security, I guess—kind of like a prison hospital. About thirty minutes from here. I think it was run by some doctor ... Hargrove? Something like that. Anyway, the story goes that women were brought to his house for ‘evaluation’ and then transferred to the hospital, where they were basically committed. Once they were in, that was it. Most of them spent their lives heavily drugged, strapped into straitjackets.” She paused, her expression darkening. “And then ... there was the other stuff. The really horrible parts.”
Isla looked at her, brow furrowed. “You mean the women, they were—?”
She didn’t finish the question. Officer Claire quickly stepped in, cutting her off before she could.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, nodding. “That’s what the older guards told me. There were stories—kids being born, sent off to orphanages, records going missing. No real oversight. It was ... bad.”
She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. “Anyway, once the place was shut down and everything came to light, a lot of laws changed—especially here in New York. More oversight. Stricter rules.”
Did anything ever happen to those people? The ones who did all that stuff? Isla asked.
“No,” Officer Claire replied, her tone flat. “The closest they got was the doctor and his nurse. The doctor died before he could go to trial, so that was the end of it. His wife claimed she had no idea what was going on. And the nurse ... well, they tried to prosecute her, but she also claimed ignorance.”
She paused for a moment. “In other words? They pinned it all on the dead doctor.”
Her expression then darkened. “She lived right across the street from his house. People talked. There were stories about women being brought there in the middle of the night. No paperwork. No records. Just squad cars pulling up, headlights off, women in chains coming out of the back seats.”
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