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The next afternoon, during a late lunch break, I head straight to the closest chemist I can find. My hands are clammy, my heart's a runaway train, and every tick of the clock reminds me that I'm racing against time.
"Morning," I mutter to the lady behind the counter, my eyes darting to the shelves where salvation—or at least a shot at it—sits in a small box.
"Can I help you find anything?" she asks, her tone gentle, but I can't miss the concern knitting her brows together as she takes in my frazzled appearance.
"Emergency pill," I blurt out, the words tasting like acid on my tongue. "Please."
She leads me to the aisle, and I grab the box like it's a lifeline. At the register, her eyes meet mine, not in a judging way, just... kind. "You know this works best within three days?" she offers, her voice low like a secret shared between conspirators.
"Three days," I echo, clinging to that flicker of hope. "Yeah, I'm... I'm within the window."
A little late, but it should do.
"Good luck, hon." She hands me the bag, and her warm smile almost breaks me. It’s a motherly smile, one I haven’t seen in years.
"Thanks," I whisper, stumbling back into the sunlight. I take the pill as instructed and pray it works.
***
Another two weeks fly by, a blur of long hours and longer nights as I fine-tune my resume and apply for jobs that pay slightly more than the food and beverage service sector pays. I get a few interviews, and fear I’ve tanked them all.
But, the next Friday, to my sheer delight, I land one—a remote transcribing job that'll hopefully be my ticket out of this mess. It's legit, steady, and doesn't involve horrid customers and minimum wage. I can work from home, too, and spend more time with Adam.
"Robin, focus," I chastise myself, staring at the jumble of timestamps on my laptop screen, trying to make sense of them. My head's pounding, my stomach's doing somersaults, and the room's spinning like I'm on the carousel from hell.
Why do I feel so weak? I stand from the chair to go toward the kitchen but feel dizzy. I hold on to the chair and wait until I regain my balance.
“You okay, Robin?” Adam asks from where he’s sprawled on his bed, reading a comic.
“I’m fine,” I brave a smile. He gives me one back, but I can see the worry in his eyes. “Just a little tired.”
“It is the weekend. You can rest, you know?”
“I’m resting, little one,” I say, walking over to him and bending over to ruffle his hair. “Don’t you worry about me. See, I no longer have to go to Starbucks on weekends. That’s as much rest as I need.”
“Uh-huh,” Adam nods. But I know he doesn’t believe me.
I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge to pour myself some cold water.
"Calling in again?" Uncle Craig sneers from the doorway, his voice a venomous drip in my ear. "Lazy. Just like your mother."
"I'm not—" I start to explain that I cut today’s shift for my new remote job, but the words die in my throat. Defending myself is a battle I will lose before it begins.
"Useless," he spits, and I flinch. The word is a bullet that hits its mark every time.
"When you lose your remaining jobs, don’t you come crying to me," he snarls, slamming the door behind him, leaving me alone to drown in a sea of nausea and defeat.
***
Adam's tiny hands, steady and sure, hand me a glass of water and the saltines he's managed to scrounge up from the depths of our barely stocked pantry.
It's a Friday evening, our quiet harbor in the relentless storm of weekdays. He's perched on the edge of my bed, his eyes wide and serious, a frown far too mature for his age etched across his face.
"Robin, you gotta eat something," he insists, pushing the crackers closer to me. “I heard you throw up. You haven’t seemed too good all week.”
I manage a weak smile, taking the saltine and gingerly nibbling on it. "My little man taking care of me," I murmur, ruffling his hair. The gesture feels like passing a torch; roles reversed, the kid brother is now the guardian.
"Someone's gotta," Adam quips, but there's no mistaking the worry that darkens his gaze.
