“Lucky me.”
That earned a small smile from him before he tore the prescription from his pad and handed it over.
“Try to avoid unnecessary stress,” he advised.
I looked at him flatly. “You got a different life I can borrow?”
He chuckled softly under his breath while I stood and headed for the door.
“Konika.”
I paused and looked back at him.
“Be careful.”
Something about the way he said it made a chill crawl down my spine.
A few minutes later, I was back in my car heading toward the pharmacy near my apartment with another migraine slowly creeping in. At this point, the pharmacist probably thought I was addicted to the pills, given how often I came in. I was going through them faster than I could keep up.
By the time I pulled into the lot, my head was pounding hard enough to make me regret every bright light I passed. I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat, locked my car, and headed inside.
The line moved slowly, giving me too much time to look around. I studied every face out of habit, but nobody stood out to me.
When it was my turn, I stepped up and slid my ID across the counter. The pharmacy technician, a thin, White guy with tired eyes and a name tag that read “Derek,” barely glanced at me as he typed my name into the computer.
“Holiday?” he asked, still not looking up.
“That’s me,” I said.
He turned away and disappeared into the back.
I used the time to scan the store, checking exits, noting where the security cameras were positioned, and mapping out the quickest route to the door in case I needed it. Old habits died hard, and paranoia was the only thing keeping me alive.
Derek returned with a small white bag and set it on the counter between us. “That’ll be forty-three seventy-five,” he said, his voice flat and disinterested as he started typing on his register.
I pulled out my wallet, counted out the bills, then slid them across the counter. He took them without making eye contact, punched a few more keys, and handed me my change along with a receipt.
“You take these with food,” he said, finally glancing at me for half a second before looking away again. “And don’t mix them with alcohol. Shit can get dangerous.”
I nodded, taking the bag. “I know. Thank you.”
“Alright then,” he said dismissively, turning his attention to the next customer.
The moment I turned to go, I misjudged my step and clipped the edge of the display beside me. The plastic handles bit into my fingers as I steadied my balance, but I pretended it didn’t hurt.
Nobody seemed to notice or care that I’d nearly taken myself out, and I was thankful for that. I lifted my chin and prepared to walk away with my dignity intact.
However, before I could take a step, a familiar voice said, “Still clumsy, I see.”
That voice. Deep and smooth, with a rasp underneath, froze me mid-step. It was one I hadn’t heard in— I couldn’t remember how long.
I turned slowly, real slow, thinking that maybe my brain was misfiring. Nah, that wasn’t it. It was pulling sounds out of thin air the way it does those flashes of memory. This couldn’t be real.
But it was. It was sooo real.
“Booda.” I mouthed his name.
He was real. And was standing near the shelf beside me, looking like time hadn’t touched him at all.
