Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
At three o’clock, the bell above the door of Oak Creek Pharmacy gave a single, brass chime.
Jim, our local pharmacist who had filled our family prescriptions since Emma was a toddler, was typing behind the high wooden counter.
He looked up, and his hands paused over the keyboard for three seconds before he forced a professional smile.
“Good afternoon, Rachel,” Jim said, his voice flat.
“Hello, Jim,” I said. “I am here to pick up my usual refill for the blood pressure tablets.”
He reached under the counter and retrieved the small amber bottle, but he did not set it on the counter between us.
Instead, he held it in his palm, turning it over as if studying the label.
“David called me this morning,” Jim said, looking at the bottle rather than at my face.
“My husband called about my prescription?” I asked.
“He wanted to review the dosage,” Jim said, his voice dropping. “He mentioned you had been feeling a bit disoriented lately, and he wanted to make sure we weren’t seeing any side effects from the current milligram level.”
