Chapter 9
I woke to the sound of pills rattling and knew immediately there were too few left.
Morning light came thin through the blinds and fell across the white bedding. She was already up, in the light blue uniform with the white collar, her cap straight, hair pulled back in that low ponytail. She had the amber bottle from the nightstand in her hand and she was shaking it gently, head tilted, listening.
She didn't notice I was awake at first. She pried the cap off and tipped the bottle. Four pills fell into her palm. White, small, identical. She stared at them, then poured them back in and tipped it again as if a different angle might change the count.
"Morning," I said.
She turned. "You slept through."
I pushed myself higher against the dark headboard. My chair was beside the bed where I'd left it, the brake on. The glass of water from last night was still there, half empty, a faint ring on the nightstand.
"How many left?" I asked.
She held the bottle out so I could see. "Four. I counted twice."
She set the bottle down and pulled her phone from her apron pocket, opened the calendar. Her thumb moved as she counted days.
"If you stay on one every six hours, that's one day," she said. "We run out tomorrow night. If the pharmacy needs a refill by Friday, we have to call today. It's Thursday."
I stared at the bottle. I hadn't been tracking it. I hadn't wanted to. That was the point of having someone else do it.
"I'll call the pharmacy," she said, already reaching for the bedroom phone on the dresser.
I nodded. She dialed, waited, gave my name and birthdate in a low, professional voice. She listened, frowned a little, said, "I understand," and hung up.
She looked at me. "They can't refill. No refills left on the label. It needs a new prescription."
That was the visit. The one I'd put off for three weeks. Dr. Chen had wanted to see me after the last dosage change, to check pain levels and movement. I'd canceled twice. Told the house manager I was fine, that the pills were working, that I didn't need to be driven across town to sit in a waiting room to be told what I already knew.
"It's the doctor then," she said, reading my face. "We need an appointment."
"Call the clinic," I said.
She did. She put it on speaker this time so I could hear. The receptionist was brisk. Yes, she could get me in tomorrow morning at nine, but she needed authorization. New prescription for that medication required my signature and a brief in-person check.
On cue, my phone buzzed. The house manager. A text preview lit the screen on the nightstand: Pharmacy says needs your signature. Can't authorize refill without you. Let me know appt time and I'll send car.
She picked up my phone and handed it to me. Our fingers didn't touch. She'd learned that.
I read the text again. It was plain and final. No signature, no refill. No appointment, no signature. The bottle on the nightstand with four pills in it suddenly felt very small.
"Four pills," I said out loud. "Until tomorrow night."
She nodded. "Tomorrow night we have nothing."
I looked at the wheelchair, at the bed, at the distance to the front door that the manager's car would need to cover. I thought about the exam table, the questions, the way Dr. Chen would look at my legs and then at my face to see if I was telling the truth about the pain.
"Schedule it," I said. "Nine tomorrow."
She typed a reply to the manager on my phone, then confirmed with the clinic. Her voice stayed even, but I saw her shoulders drop a fraction when the receptionist said, "You're confirmed for nine."
She hung up and capped the bottle. She set it back exactly where it had been, label facing out.
"We'll make the four stretch to the appointment," she said. "One now would mean three left for tonight and morning."
I didn't answer right away. The clock on the nightstand said 8:14. The six-hour window from the midnight dose was already closing.
She waited. She didn't push the pill toward me this time.
I reached for the bottle myself, opened it, and tipped one pill into my palm. It sat there, white and light.
"Log it," I said. "One now. Three left."
She wrote it down on the small notepad she kept by the glass of water. Her handwriting was neat and small.
After she finished, she slid the notepad back and looked at the bottle again, then at me.
May you like
"Three left until you sign," she said quietly.
I closed my hand around the pill. The countdown had started, and neither of us could refill it without me going through that door.
