"At all," she confirms, and we're both smiling when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps on the front door of the pharmacy.
My mother's head comes up. She looks at the clock on the wall, then at the little service window that separates us from the customers in the shop.
"It’s after hours," she says, shocked that anyone would be here this late.
"Someone probably needs something real quick," I say.
"Then they should have come before eight o'clock." She's already pushing back from the desk, pulling off her reading glasses. "I'll tell them?—"
"I've got it," my father's voice carries from the front. He's already moving, I can hear his footsteps on the pharmacy floor.
"Eduardo." My mother raises her voice toward the door. "Just ignore them."
"It'll only take a minute," he calls back.
My mother gives me a pointed look. "He can't help himself," she says as she rolls her eyes. "Someone could knock on that door at midnight and he would answer it. You know this. I know this. The whole town knows this."
"It's why everyone loves him," I say.
"It's why I have gray hair," she says, but she's smiling as she puts her reading glasses back on.
We go back to closing up. My mother hums something under her breath, the same song she's been humming since I was little. I file the last of the day's prescriptions and listen to my father's voice at the front of the store, low and polite, saying something I can't quite make out.
Then a different voice answers.
I don’t recognize his voice. He’s not a regular.
And underneath their distant conversation, I hear a sound. Thin, metallic rattle.
Tnk. Tnk. Tnk.
My mother's humming stops.
We look at each other across the small back room, then I glance out the service window. I can’t see anything from this angle other than the display of get-well cards.
"I'll go check.” She pulls off her reading glasses and sets them on the desk. She smooths her hands down the front ofher lab coat, lifts her chin, and pushes through the door into the main pharmacy floor, clearly about to tell whoever this is to leave.
I stay where I am, listening.
I can hear my mother's voice, clear and professional, asking if she can help. My father says something, his tone still easy. And I can hear the other voice, lower now, saying something I can't make out.
The metallic sound has stopped.
I look at my phone on the counter, and slowly pick it up.
Everything is probably fine.
It's probably someone who needs cold medicine or forgot to pick up a prescription and thought they could catch us before we locked up.
Perfectly normal.
But then my mother's voice changes.
It rises, making the hair on my arms stand up before my brain has caught up to why.
"You need to leave," she says firmly. "Right now."
