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When I open the pharmacy door, the gray-haired pharmacist looks over his half-moon glasses at me with judgment in his eyes. Didi sits slumped in an old-fashioned leather chair, her arms crossed over her chest. It looks like she’s been nabbed for shoplifting, just like when we were eleven.
“Okay, what on earth could you possibly have done?” I ask her, checking her out to see if there are any obvious outward signs of her transgression.
She jerks a thumb upward. “This guy does not want to give me my prescription.”
“Okay,” I say slowly with my hands out. “And this became a problem? A big one?”
“She doesn’t have a refill,” the pharmacist says pointedly. “And she got very snippy with me!”
“Snippy, okay,” I repeat, then shift my focus back to Didi. “So, you need to go get a new prescription, right? Are you going to the doctor to get the boot off in a couple of weeks?”
“I’m not waiting a couple of weeks,” she growls. “That prescription I gave you is perfectly good!”
The pharmacist waves a piece of paper in the air. “I can’t use a photocopy!” he declares angrily. “DEA rules!”
“Okay, so, we can go see a doctor today? Hit the urgent care in Naples?”
“Urgent care is not going to give someone like her a prescription,” the pharmacist scoffs.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Didi snarls.
“You just watch your tone, missy!”
“Okay, that is not helping!” I announce. “Everybody just needs to settle down a little bit. I’m sure we can work this out!”
I hear the bell of the front door ring as the door opens and watch Didi carefully. She bounces her free foot on the heel, glaring at the carpet.
“Is everything all right here?” comes a voice behind me.
“Yes, everything is—”
I pivot and stop, along with my heart, my breath, and all of time.
“Sturgill,” I hear myself say from a distance.
He offers me a quick, sideways smile then changes his expression instantly. His eyes go distant and he stiffens.
“Can I help with something?” he asks, his voice gentle and concerned.
“She’s been flagged,” the pharmacist says meaningfully.
Sturgill nods, walking past me to kneel in front of Didi. He takes her wrist in his fingers to check her pulse and gives her a quick once over, touching her forehead, her cheeks, the bottom of her chin.
“You’re in pain?” he asks, his voice kind.
“I broke my leg,” Didi explains meekly.
“When was that?”
“About a month ago.”
Sturgill continues his exam, finally standing and raising her hand toward the pharmacist. Then he turns toward me and smiles, tipping his head to the side.
“Can I talk to you for a minute? Maybe outside?”
“Of course,” I answer hoarsely.
I turn to walk outside, tense and alert. My mind is racing, and I wonder if he’s looking at me at all. I can’t tell from his expression if he feels affection toward me, professional interest, or even remembers my name.
