Samick told me to run. Not run and hide.
Run.
The problem is, I can’t run anymore.
My breaths are still coming up short. They reach as far as my breastbone—and no deeper.
Samick has my inhaler.
I need it.
My head is too dizzy, my steps too slow, my breaths too loud.
The only other thing I can think of is to find an inhaler.
Scooting over a bonnet, I turn the light over the faces of the buildings on the side of the road.
The windows are full of glares and shadows.
Rows of shops.
Those sorts of shitty shops, like the ones on the outskirts of a city, a lot of phone repair stores that no one ever seems to use, and a rug store directly opposite me with banners clinging to thegutters claiming a closing down sale—but I bet that place has been ‘closing down’ for years.
I always thought those kinds of shops were money laundering fronts.
But usually, there’s a laundromat that comes with them… and a chemist.
I brush the light from broken windows and boarded-up doors to old, faded signs.
I crawl over the cars unevenly, my shoulders hunched with the weight of exhaustion, and I keep my light aimed at the shopfronts that I pass.
A grocer.
A Greek restaurant.
A corner store.
A doctor’s office with caged windows.
And there.
The next store over, across the blood-stained pavement.
The pharmacy.
Bars protect the windows—but not the door.
It’s wide open. Torn off the hinges.
And it’s devastating.
My chances of finding an inhaler were already slim.
Now—as I inch closer, and see the leaves and debris that have blown inside and scatter over the linoleum floor, and the looted shelves—I’d say my chances are just zero.
Doesn’t mean I can turn around and leave, though. I have to check.
I step around the dried leaves, the boxes scattered all over, the smashed glass jars, and the puddles that, as I get closer and the light shines on them, look as dark as blood.
