It was near closing time, the kind of slow, quiet hour where the store felt more like a waiting room than a business. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence, and I was already mentally halfway out the door, thinking about getting home, reheating leftovers, and calling it a night. That’s when she walked in—hair slightly disheveled, jacket thrown over pajamas, a toddler pressed against her shoulder like he didn’t have the energy to hold himself up. I didn’t think much of it at first. Pharmacies see people on their worst days all the time.
She came straight to the counter, placing a small white bag down with shaking hands. “I’m here to pick up a prescription,” she said, her voice tight, like she was holding something back. I pulled it up in the system, confirmed her name, and rang it through. It wasn’t a large amount—nothing outrageous, just the standard cost for a course of antibiotics—but I noticed the way she swallowed before inserting her card, like she already knew what was about to happen.
