Terminal

“That’s okay. Lots of people in this town don’t have health insurance.” His voice was still friendly, but his smile had drooped a few notches. “Will you be paying by cash, credit, or debit card?”

“Um, none of them right now,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me how much it was going to be. That way I know how much to set aside for next week.”

He paused, studying me. “Well, eighty milligrams per day, taken twice daily— that comes to six hundred and fifty dollars per month.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Six hundred and fifty bucks? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“You’re lucky, pal. Just be glad that your doctor didn’t put you on one hundred and sixty milligrams. That would be even more expensive. On the street, they call OxyContin the poor man’s heroin, but there’s nothing poor about it.”

“What do you mean, ‘on the street’?”

“OxyContin, if taken properly, is released slowly into the body. It’s a time-release capsule. But drug addicts circumvent the time release by crushing the pills and inhaling or injecting the powder. It gives them a heroin-like high, supposedly. The cops blame it for part of the rise in crime across the country here lately. Between that, and the fact that there’s no generic version, the prices stay high.”

“Well, this is bullshit, man. I can’t afford this.”

His smile completely vanished.

“Look, buddy, I don’t set the prices. If that’s not affordable for you, then talk to your doctor. There are generic versions of other painkillers that he can prescribe.”

“How cheap would they be?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere from three to five hundred a month.”

“Nothing cheaper?”

“Not unless you want to walk over to aisle six and get yourself a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen.”

“Well, I guess that settles that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Look, don’t take it personal, okay? I’m sorry for bothering you. Just been trying to figure out what I’m going to do, and this may have helped me make up my mind. Thanks for your help, Casey.”

“Whatever you say. Hang in there.”

Without another word, I turned and left the counter. I’d promised Michelle that I would get my prescription filled. As far as I was concerned, I’d tried. Now there were no doubts in my mind about what I had to do. The bank robbery was the only way, even if just to pay for my painkillers.

Before I left the store, I remembered that I was down to three cigarettes. I strolled up to the customer service booth and flashed the girl behind the counter my best flirtatious smile, the same one that had finally won Michelle over.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Boy, I really hope so. I put a five-dollar bill in the soda machine outside and not only did it not give me a soda, but it won’t give me my money back either. I think it must be broken or something.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“No it ain’t. Do you have one of those little envelopes that I can fill out for a refund from the vendor?”

She didn’t, of course, and I knew that. The store automatically refunded your money on the spot, then squared up with the vending company later on. But I played stupid.

“I can take care of it for you right now, sir.”

“You can? Awesome! That would be great. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but five bucks is five bucks, you know what I’m saying?”

She nodded in sympathy, filled out a little piece of paper, had me sign it, and gave me a crisp, new five-dollar bill. Easy money, and soon, there’d be more where that came from. I climbed back into the truck, drove across the street to the discount tobacco store, and bought a fresh pack of smokes. I walked out with a buck in change, enough for a soda later on. Then I went to the library, second on my agenda for the day.

* * *