Pills

There is a price to be paid for being contrary.

True, there are times when common wisdom is wrong,

when one must stand up and fight peer pressure.

But being bloody-minded and refusing to listen

to experts who have done the difficult work

of running experiments and thinking through

the logic of the probabilities

does not make you a genius or increase

the chances that you, unknowing, will be right.

Adolescent arrogance and self-certainty

acting out with no discrimination

usually turns out badly. And then someone—

not always you—will have to pay the price.

____________________________________________________

Do you resent intelligent people so much that you’re willing to sacrifice your children to spite them?

____________________________________________________

Pills

The overhead lights glared on the glass countertop, throwing a pallor over everything—the kind of light that makes skin look sallow. Behind the cases, amber bottles lined the shelves in tight ranks, labels white as chalk. Cameras in the corners blinked red, catching every movement.

The mother pushed forward, dragging her boy by the wrist. He coughed into his sleeve, bent almost double, as though his chest might collapse. The sound was rough, unfinished, leaving him gasping before the next spasm began. She stopped at the counter and set down a plastic bottle. She shook it until the pills rattled.

“This is what works,” she said, raising her voice so the line behind could hear. “They don’t want us to know, but this is the cure.”

The pharmacist in wire-rimmed glasses leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the glass. His face was still, his eyes shifting once toward the boy before returning to hers. His voice was neutral, informative. “The label tells you exactly what it is.”

She jabbed a finger at the strip, her nail tapping the print. But her eyes slid past the words. “I’ve done my research,” she said. “People who care about children. Not the ones you work for.”

The boy coughed again. His sleeve was wet now. His shoulders shook. He pressed against her hip, eyes lowered, body trembling with the effort to stand.

The customers stiffened. A man near the front took half a step back, widening the space between himself and the boy. A woman behind him tightened her grip on her purse and fixed her gaze on the cosmetics. An older man shifted his prescription slip from one hand to the other, then let his arms hang down, closing his eyes as though he wanted the scene to vanish.

“Ma’am,” the pharmacist said, “these pills will not treat an infection. He needs care you can’t give him with these.”

Her lips twitched. She seemed about to shout, but whispered instead: “You don’t know what it’s like . . . watching him fade.”

The fan ticked overhead, steady, unchanging. The cooler hummed at the back wall. The boy’s cough drowned out every other sound.

Her fingers tightened on the bottle. She lifted it high, shook it again. The pills rattled louder, as if noise alone might persuade.

“They don’t want us to have this,” she said.

The pharmacist did not move. The customers said nothing.

Her hand slipped. The bottle tumbled, struck the counter, rolled against the boy’s arm. The cap popped. Pills scattered across the glass. Some bounced toward the pharmacist. Others rolled toward the boy’s sleeve. A few disappeared into the seam where glass met frame, vanishing into shadow. A whitish powder spilled out. It left a pile of dust on the counter.

The boy’s hand, trembling, smeared the chalky dust. White streaks spread under his palm. He coughed, a long tearing sound. As his sleeve brushed across the glass, a pill fragment clung to the damp skin near his lip.

No one moved to touch the bottle. No one bent to gather the pills.

The mother pulled him close, muttered something low, the words too faint to hear. Her voice was uncertain now, exhausted. She turned from the counter and dragged him with her.

The door opened. Street noise spilled in—traffic, footsteps, a vendor’s cry. Then the closing door muffled them.

The cough lingered. On the glass, the chalky smear lay beneath the ticking fan.