Ted Dekker - Sanctuary

He’d awakened in the ward eight hours after taking his beating in the hard yard, his head splitting with pain, still groggy from whatever medications they’d injected into his system, but otherwise sound. His lip was cut and swollen, and his ear had required several stitches, but none of his wounds prohibited his return to the commons.

The warden’s orders, however, did. It was for his own safety, the nurse had informed him. Basal’s policy was to segregate injured members long enough for the warden to stabilize the situation.

The infirmary was laid out like an emergency room, with six spaces separated by drawn blue curtains, each of which contained a hospital bed, an IV stand, and a sealed rolling cart that housed various instruments, none of which were pertinent in Danny’s case. Twelve recovery rooms housed longer-term patients on both sides of the hall outside the primary care facility.

In most prisons, patients who needed critical care were transported to hospitals and then returned upon recovery, but with the high quality of care available at Basal, only members with more serious medical conditions were transferred. It was yet one more way the warden limited his members’ contact with the outside world.

Danny learned that a doctor had inspected him and sewn up his ear, but otherwise the only human contact Danny had was with a male nurse, Garton Kilburn, a large fellow with unflinching eyes, few words, and no evident emotions.

“Looks like you’ll be fine,” the man said after a cursory inspection of Danny’s wounds on the first day. He wore blue scrubs over a white shirt and carried a stethoscope around his neck.

The nurse checked the leather restraints that tethered Danny by the wrists and ankles to the bed’s steel rails, standard operating procedure following a fight.

Danny lifted his right arm as far as the bindings would allow, no more than six inches. “I think it would be best if I moved around a bit, don’t you think? My joints could use some loosening up.”

The man offered him a curt nod and left him without a word, his version of whatever . Danny was their property and would be allowed to move around when they determined him either fit or deserving.

In Danny’s case, that was two days later, in the evening, long after his joints had all but frozen in place following his time on the wall and his subsequent beating. During those two days, he’d spoken only to Garton Kilburn and only on three occasions. None of the conversations had proven more inspiring than the first. The man’s function was evidently limited to delivering trays of food three times each day, freeing Danny of all but one restraint so that he could use a commode rolled in twice each day, and changing the bandage on his ear twice before removing it altogether.

Considering the nature of deep meditation, the medical staff likely attended to inmates whose bruising would raise the most eyebrows. They, as much as the correctional officers who knew about deep meditation, would have earned the warden’s trust. Connecting with their patients in a personal way that might test that trust was obviously not part of the program.

Odd, how being property of the state changed a person’s outlook on freedom and identity, Danny thought. Three years earlier, accepting this kind of treatment would have been inconceivable. The war in Bosnia had filled him with a profound need to protect the abused, and that need had extended to protecting his own life. But he’d walked into the hard yard and let Randell hit him without raising a finger to protect himself. Not once but three or four times, with enough power to kill most men.

Why? To what end?

Was he less of a man now than when he’d taken up a gun at age fifteen and avenged his family’s deaths?

Was he weak in the face of Peter’s suffering?

He’d taken a vow of nonviolence and he intended to stand by it. Judge not lest you be judged; turn the other cheek; love your enemy; rather than rebel against the authorities who stripped you of your dignity and slaughtered thousands, bow to them and pay them their tax. These were the precepts that had finally drilled their way into his heart.

But he could not shake the questions that begged him to reconsider.

Was it even possible to follow that way when boys like Peter stood in your path, begging for help?

But, no. No, he couldn’t go down that path again. It was precisely that kind of questioning that had led him to violence in defense of the helpless.

A correctional officer came for him on the second night after dinner. Danny’s muscles still ached, his joints were stiff, a dull ache still hung in his head like an iron weight. Once again he was led through the hub. Once again he climbed the stairs to the second tier in the commons wing. Once again he was ushered into his cell.

There was a change in the others this time, he thought. The member in the hub watched him with more than just mild curiosity. They wore uncertain faces, either confused by or genuinely interested in him, perhaps a little of both. The prisoners along the tier moved back from the railing without being told to.

This didn’t mean they’d found more respect for him. In all likelihood word of his beating solidified his reputation as a weak prisoner. He was prey for the predators, the kind of man who could not stand up and defend himself or his brother. A punk. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in prison to win approval, only to do his time.

Peter was in the cell with Godfrey, waiting for Danny. This was surprising, considering the danger that he might find in the commons now as a resident of the privileged wing. Clearly, the boy saw him as his savior.

“Danny!” the boy blurted, bolting off the lower bunk. Peter bumped his head on the frame, but the blow didn’t discourage him from stumbling forward and throwing his arms around Danny.

“Hello, Peter.”

“You’re back!”

“I am.”

Danny patted the boy on the back, shifting to maintain his balance. Peter’s tight hug aggravated the pain in Danny’s ribs, and he was thankful when the boy released him of his own accord.

Godfrey grinned, one hand on the bunk, the other in his pocket. “Anybody who can take a beating like that and walk out of the grave three days later is a priest in my book,” Godfrey said.

“It’s been two days.”

“Either way.”

“Simon says you’re a strong man and that I should thank God I have a strong man on my side,” Pete said.

Danny offered the boy a slight smile, but he wanted none of the conversation, not now.

Pete stared at his stitched ear. “Why did you let him beat you up, Danny?”

Once again, Danny was confounded by the irony of innocence held captive in such a brutal environment. The boy was guilty of deviating and was paying his price without really understanding either the rules or the price.

“You crazy, man.” Kearney had walked up behind Danny and leaned on the door, bright eyes twinkling. “And you still walkin’.”

“Not crazy, no. I just don’t like fighting.”

“Don’t worry, Danny,” Peter said, beaming. “It’s not like that in the privileged wing. It’s nice.”

Danny grinned at the boy and rubbed his head. “Well, I’m glad for you. They’re treating you well then?”

“I have chocolate milk in my room. And last night I had a steak. That thick.” He pinched an inch of air with his thumb and forefinger. “It was juicy.”

“Steak,” Godfrey said. “Now there’s something I would be willing to spend a day in the hole for.”

“You can come!” Peter exclaimed, eyes darting between them. “You can both come. If you’re good, you can have all the steak you want. And I have a new friend. His name is Jack.”

“Seriously, why’d you do it, Priest?” Kearney asked.