Chapter 1
Rowan
"If you can't count pills faster than that, maybe I’ll need to replace you with someone who can.” Randy looms over my shoulder, his stale coffee-and-cigarettes breath hot against my neck.
I grip the prescription bottle tighter and continue counting atorvastatin tablets. Forty-five, forty-six... I lose count when his hand presses against my lower back.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, starting over.
I’ve learned the best way to deal with him is to show as little reaction as possible.
"You better speed it up. I'm not paying you to daydream." His hand lingers for another excruciating minute before he finally retreats to his office, leaving behind the stench of cheap cologne.
He'll spend the rest of the night watching sports playbacks on his phone while I do all the actual work.
The late shift at Detroit Discount Pharmacy is a special kind of hell, but it pays fifty cents more per hour than the daytime shift, and that extra twenty bucks a week sometimes makes the difference between eating and going hungry.
My feet throb inside my worn sneakers. The left one has a quarter-sized hole in the sole that I've covered with cardboard and duct tape. Every time it rains, my sock ends up soaked halfway through my walk home.
I slide my ancient phone out of my hoodie pocket, checking the time. 12:13 AM. Less than an hour before I can leave. If all goes well, I’ll catch about four and a half hours of sleep before heading to my dog-walking job.
There’s a text notification from Shady Pines Care Facility.
Monthly payment overdue. Please contact us immediately.
My stomach knots into a familiar, tight ball of dread. I've been stretching every dollar, taking extra shifts whenever I can, but it's still not enough. Gram needs specialized care for her Alzheimer's, and Shady Pines is the only place I can (almost) afford. The place isn’t ideal—staff turnover is high, and it always smells of strong disinfectant that doesn’t quite mask the odor of feces—but they keep her safe, fed, and medicated.
"It's worth it," I remind myself. "I owe her."
My Grandmother raised me after Mom took off with her boyfriend du jour when I was fourteen. Grams gave me everything she had. Now she doesn't remember who I am most days. She doesn’t remember much of anything. But I remember. I remember her lessons, her kindness, and I especially remember how she never made me feel unloved or unwanted. I refuse to abandon her the way Mom abandoned me.
If I can squeeze in another community college class next semester, I might actually finish my certification by this time next year. Then maybe I can get a real pharmacy technician position somewhere with benefits.
If. If.Lots of “ifs” for someone who can’t even pay her current bills.
Finally, after filling the remaining prescriptions and completing inventory, it’s one in the morning. Time to clock out.
“Tomorrow," Randy calls as I gather my things, “wear something more form-fitting. That sweatshirt makes you look like you shop at Goodwill.”
I don't answer. Idoshop at Goodwill.
The October chill in Detroit has teeth. As I step outside, adjusting my backpack—the right strap is held on by three oversized safety pins—I slip my earbuds in and pull up the lecture recording from the online class I missed yesterday. Pharmacology basics. The professor's voice fills my ears as I start the mile-long trek to my apartment.
"The classification of pharmaceutical compounds begins with..."
I tune out a bit, focusing instead on taking the shortcut through the industrial district. It shaves fifteen minutes off my walk, and time is precious. Sleep is precious. Every minute counts.
The streets are pretty much deserted. When I pass the normally empty parking lot of a nondescript warehouse with blacked-out windows, I notice it’s filled with haphazardly parked vehicles.
I pull out one earbud, suddenly alert. A hum emanates from the warehouse. Something’s goin on in there. It sounds like an announcer or an emcee maybe, and a cheering crowd, but it’s all too muffled to determine for sure.
Then I hear voices in the lot outside.
My instincts scream at me to turn around, find another way home. But that would add thirty minutes to my walk, and my body is already running on fumes.
Just keep your head down. Don't make eye contact. Walk quickly. Be invisible.
I've perfected the art of invisibility. It's how I’ve survived these streets.
