THE MAN ENTERED THE Walgreens and strode to the back of the store where the pharmacy counter was situated near the vitamins, supplements, and various low-sugar diet aids for diabetics. He saw the line and was surprised at how many people had already queued up. Usually if he came here in the morning before work—as he had that day—he could beat the late-morning rush. Luckily, the line moved relatively fast. After fifteen minutes of waiting, only one person remained ahead of him.
The man looked up at the fluorescent lights that buzzed softly but relentlessly. He counted the number of tiles that surrounded the rectangular light fixture. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. An even ten. Three on the long sides of the rectangle, two each on the short sides. The man blinked and looked down again at the young woman who chatted with the pharmacist, a bit too friendly, as she held a bagged prescription. She already had her order. Why chat up the pharmacist and delay everyone else behind her in line? The man considered clearing his throat to let the young woman know that others were waiting, patiently, to pick up their prescriptions with no intention of chatting up the pharmacist. But would she find such a signal of impatience to be nothing short of rude or entitled? Perhaps the man should wait quietly and not say anything. Or he could speak up politely in a soft, non-entitled voice, because the young woman had her bagged prescription ready to go. Just as the man considered his options, he felt a little hand grab his right hand. The man looked down.
“Hi,” said a little boy.
“Hi,” said the man.
“Timothy!” said the woman who stood near the boy. “Stop bothering the man!”
The boy clung tighter to the man’s hand.
“I am so sorry,” said the woman. “He doesn’t normally warm to strangers.”
“That’s okay,” said the man. “He’s not really bothering me.”
“Timothy, one more time: let go of the man’s hand,” said the woman.
“But Mom,” said the boy. “His hands are different.”
“Of course they’re different,” said the woman. “Your hands are small, and his are big.”
“No,” said the boy. “That’s not what I meant.”
The man suddenly pulled his hand away from the boy. The boy started to cry.
“Timothy,” said the woman, “please apologize to the man.”
The boy sniffled and covered his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” said the woman.
The man did not respond. He turned to face the pharmacist, who was still chatting with the young woman.
“His hands are different from each other,” the boy finally explained.
The woman stiffened and looked down at the man’s hands. The man shifted from one foot to the other and quickly slid his hands into his pants pockets, but it was too late: the woman let out a small, strange noise that was a cross between a gasp and a cough. The man could feel the woman staring at him, so he didn’t move and kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the pharmacist.
“Let’s come back a different time,” said the woman. “Come on, Timothy.”
The man listened to the woman’s hurried footsteps as she scurried away with her son.
The young woman and the pharmacist finally finished their conversation.
“Next,” said the pharmacist.
The man came up to the counter and gave his name. The pharmacist nodded and went back to the bins of prepared prescriptions. The man counted the bins: six across, five from floor to ceiling. Thirty bins total. The pharmacist found the correct prescription and brought it back to the counter. The man smiled. Finally, something was going to plan. But then the pharmacist studied the plastic bottle.
“I am so sorry,” said the pharmacist.
“Why?” said the man.
“We can only partially fill your prescription—about half of this medication for you—not the usual three-month supply.”
“Why?”
“There’s been a run on this medication ever since, you know…”
“Ever since what?”
The pharmacist looked down at the counter. The man waited for an answer.
“Ever since the president signed that law, you know?”
The man understood which law the pharmacist meant. But he was still confused about why that would endanger his prescription’s supply.
“And how does that affect my medication’s availability?” said the man.
“Well, there’s been a run on it, a hoarding, and some supply chain issues,” said the pharmacist. “There’s a fear that the manufacturers will stop making the drug. You know, rumors and stuff.”
“But I still need it—we still need it—even though the president signed that law,” said the man as he attempted to remain calm. He grew hot and perspiration formed on his upper lip. He knew this feeling. Panic.
“It will sort itself out,” said the pharmacist in a gentle voice, as if calming a newborn. “I’m sure all of this will blow over in a week or two, and the supply will loosen up again. Plus, there will likely be a generic soon. Anyway, you don’t have to pay until you pick up the rest of your supply.”
“Yes,” said the man. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” said the pharmacist as he dropped the plastic bottle into a small white paper bag and stapled it closed.
The man grabbed the medication and turned to leave the pharmacy. As he approached the exit, he saw the woman and her child waiting by the magazine rack. The woman thumbed through a magazine. The little boy looked up at the man, smiled, and held up his hands—fingers splayed—perhaps to encourage the man to do the same so that the boy could see the anomaly again. The man averted his eyes and quickened his stride. He felt his throat closing, and he gulped at the cool air as he left the pharmacy.
The man found his car and got in. He put his prescription bag on the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. The man thought about what the pharmacist had said, that it all would work itself out, everything would be fine, maybe even a generic was on its way to being developed. But what if the pharmacist was wrong or simply lied to get the man to leave and not cause a scene? What would he do if he ran out of pills? The man could feel his heart beating in his chest. None of it seemed right or fair. Things were going well. And he had met Faustina. But none of it would matter if he ran out of pills. The man would have to tell Faustina that without his pills—well, you know—there wasn’t much of a future. She’d likely feel sorry for the man but not enough to stay with him out of pity, just enough to offer him supportive words; then she’d probably ghost him, disappear.
The man opened his eyes and blinked. Okay, he told himself. I have enough pills for now. I have to keep going. Stop thinking about the worst-case scenario. Faustina is in the here and now. And at this moment, I need to get to work. I have a job. I have people who rely on me. And I have a new person in my life, and I will not jump to conclusions about anything. With this last thought, the man started his car, slowly backed out of his spot, and eased himself toward the parking lot’s exit. I have to keep going, he thought again. I have no choice.