This is the same emergency pack I put on the middle shelf way back when I first moved to Copeland eighteen months ago.Archer, in all his efforts to make life perfect and easy for me, made it so I never had to think about refilling my scripts. My medication simply… kept appearing. The mental load, completely and totally removed from my mind. And I, being the selfish asshole I am, grew far too comfortable in my role as his patient.
Now I have no meds.
Frustrated, I toss all three vials in the sink, shattering at least one of them. Pressing my hand to the lip of the counter, I bring the other up and scrape shaking fingers through my hair.
Breathe through my nose. Relax. Hold it together.
I don’t remember the last time my apartment was so quiet. Cato always had the television on. He was always chattering about something annoying. Crunching on a bag of chips. Mia was often here, giggling and playing, picking her new favorite friend of the day. Daddy, Cato, or Uncle Arch. Even Chloe, the damn cat, would meow and whine, her nails scratching the floors as she wandered from one side of the apartment to the other.
Now, the silence is suffocating. The cruelly persistent buzzing in the depths of my ears, made worse by the equally oppressive heat squeezing me on every side. Even in an apartmentwithair conditioning, the old system struggles to keep up as sweat beads on my brow, pooling under my breasts, and tickling my spine.
The heat makes my blood run warmer. Faster. Which makes infusion all the more important, and my lack of meds, concerning.
I lick my parched lips and reestablish my robot persona, straightening my posture and dropping my hands, then turningaway from the sink, I scoop up my heavy leather bag and snatch my phone.
No missed calls from Archer, no texts, no changed minds.
Unlocking the screen and swiping to my contacts list, I search, search, search until finally, I stop on Doctor Kurbonov’s name. Drawing a fortifying breath, I dial and bring the phone to my ear.
Lock it down. Lock it in. You’ve existed alone for the entirety of your adult life. You can do it again.
“This is Doctor Kurbonov.” Sascha Kurbonov is a woman in her fifties and, in the past, not all that inclined toward chit chat.Thank God.“It’s long past dinnertime, Doctor Mayet, and my husband’s tolerance for such after-hours discussions remains low. But seeing as how I thought you were dead, I suppose this is one of those times I could make an exception to the rule.”
“Dead?” I cock my hip against the counter and push all my weight onto one foot. Anything to give the other a chance to rest. “Why on earth would you assume I was dead?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in quite some time.” The tinkle of a delicate teacup touching down on its saucer plays through the line. “I didn’treallythink you were dead, seeing as how you’ve become a semi-constant fixture on the news. Nevertheless… it’s been a while. I assumed you’d found a new hematologist now that you’ve settled in Copeland City.”
“No, I…” I close my eyes. And when that doesn’t help, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I haven’t found a new anything. Why would I spend time getting to know someone else when I’d already done all the work with you?”
She snickers, the sound as delicate as the woman herself. Classy, too. “Someoneis managing your condition, DoctorMayet, and that someone is not me. This led me to the conclusion that I’m no longer needed. Is there something I can help you with tonight?”
“Uh… yeah.” I lower my hand and exhale a noisy breath. “I’ve misplaced my current supply of Factor, and don’t have a script for more. I need you to send a new one over.”
“A new what?”
“Script! I just said: I don’t have my other scripts, I don’t have my meds, and I’m meant to infuse tonight. If you call in a new order to the pharmacy near my place, I can swing by in the morning and pick it up.”
“Why wouldn’t you have your new hematologist call in the script for you?”
“I don’t have a new hematologist! Jesus.” I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling. “Excuse me for my impatience, but how am I being unclear? You write the script, I fill it. I buy meds, infuse meds, don’t die. We good now?”
“Minka…” She chuckles. “You have not called me in about sixteen months. I haven’t written you a script in that long. I worried at first, since going without is a sure way to die, but seeing as how you’re still alive and as cranky as ever, theonlyconclusion I can come to is thatsomeone elseis managing your condition. This back and forth is unnecessary. Call your current provider.”
“But I don’t have another hematologist,” I whimper, my throat tightening and my heart stumbling. Because… Archer. The answer is always Archer. He takes care of this stuff, and he does it so smoothly, I don’t even realize he’s taken over until I’m in a situation he would never willingly place me in.
Normally.
“Please, can you write me a new script, Doctor Kurbonov? It’s obvious I have administrative issues to see to, but for right now, I need Factor, and you’re the only person I know to ask for it.”
“Sure.” In just one word, a single syllable, she expresses more than just a confirmation of my question. There’s concern. And smugness. There’s curiosity. But there’s professional detachment, too.
It’s entirely possible I learned my bedside manner from this woman, and seeing as how I’ve known her since my days laid up in a hospital bed as a small child, it’s probable I thought the way she conducts herself is howalldoctors speak to their patients.
No nonsense. No chatter. Little emotion.
Swallowing, I drop my gaze and nod. To myself. To my empty apartment. To my future as a spinster sometimes-aunt who doesn’t even have the wherewithal to own a cat on my own.The ASPCA likely wouldn’t allow it.“Thank you. I appreciate your time.”
“It’s my pleasure, assuming you’ve had a recent work-up, Doctor Mayet? It would be unethical for me to prescribe medication across state lines for a patient I have not personally seen in quite some time…”
