"I'm going in for the medical," I said, unbuckling. "Twenty minutes. Mark."
I stepped out into the damp air. The icy wind bit through my dress shirt, I had discarded the ruined jacket, but I welcomed it. It sharpened my edges.
The bell jingled when I opened the pharmacy door, a cheerful sound that felt obscene given the gravity of my headspace. I moved through the aisles with the efficiency of a shark.
Aisle 3: First Aid.
I grabbed heating pads. Adhesive warming patches. Cooling patches. Ibuprofen. Acetaminophen. Rehydration salts.
Aisle 5: Personal Care.
Unscented body wash. Soft cotton pads.
I paused at the shelf stocking suppressants. The branding was familiar. The colorful boxes promising 'freedom' and 'control.'
I stared at them. I remembered the shattered bottle on the kitchen floor. I remembered the way her body had fought itself, twisted in agony because she had tried to chemically mute the song of her own blood.
Never again,I thought.
I bypassed the suppressants. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of prenatal vitamins, not because she was pregnant, but because the nutrient density was higher for recovery.
I reached the checkout. The cashier, a teenage Beta girl snapping gum, looked at my pile of goods, then up at my disheveled hair and intense expression.
"Rough weekend?" she asked, scanning the items.
"Project management," I clipped out. "It's demanding."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Then a continuous, frantic vibration.
I froze.
Tessa.
I yanked the phone out.
It wasn't the Sat-Phone number. It was Gretchen. Again.
MISSED CALL: GRETCHEN (AGENCY)
MISSED CALL: SIMON (PACK)
Then a text from Simon.
GET BACK TO THE CAR. NOW.
The tone of the text wasn't boredom. It was panic.
I threw a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
"Keep the change," I snapped, grabbing the plastic bags before the receipt could print.
I turned and sprinted out of the store.
Daniel was already at the SUV, abandoning a cart full of groceries in the middle of the parking lot. He was running, his heavy boots slamming against the pavement.
"Anders!" he shouted, pointing at the vehicle.
I reached the car at the same time he did. Simon was in the back seat, holding his phone up, his face drained of all color, looking like he was about to vomit.
