Chapter 2 - The Counter at Ninth Street
I got behind the wheel of my black SUV and navigated through the congested afternoon traffic toward Ninth Street Pharmacy, the closest compounding medical pharmacy to Grover Street.
The windshield wipers beat a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the glass.
Inside the pharmacy, a warm bell chimed as I walked up to the dispensary counter. An elderly pharmacist in a white coat looked up from behind a row of amber medicine bottles.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I need to check the status of a prescription under the name Toby Reeves," I said, keeping my tone polite yet firm. "Specialized pediatric inhaler."
The pharmacist typed the name into his terminal, his brow furrowing slightly as he reviewed the screen.
"Yes, Toby Reeves. The prescription was called in by Children's Memorial this morning. It’s an advanced aerosol steroid suspension. It’s filled and ready for pickup."
"How much is the copay?"
"Patient has no active private insurance," the pharmacist answered, pointing to the register display. "Total cost is $342.50."
I reached into my breast pocket, pulling out a clip of cash. "I'll pay for it now."
The pharmacist paused, looking at me with professional scrutiny. "Are you the child's father?"
The question hung in the air for a second.
"No."
"Legal guardian?"
"No."
The pharmacist shook his head regretfully, stepping back from the counter. "I'm sorry, sir. State regulations are strict on controlled pediatric formulations. Unless you are the legal guardian or authorized on the intake file, I cannot release the medication directly to you."
For the first time in ten years, the power and influence I possessed could not bend a simple legal safeguard meant to protect children.
"I understand," I said calmly, sliding four hundred dollars across the counter. "Keep the cash in the register under Toby Reeves’ file. When his mother, Jenny, arrives, hand her the medication and tell her the balance was cleared under the hospital's emergency community assistance fund."
The pharmacist looked at the cash, then looked into my eyes. He nodded with quiet respect. "Consider it done, Mr. Vitelli."
May you like
I grabbed Jenny's cracked phone from the passenger seat and set my navigation to 742 Callaway Street.
The rain was falling harder now, turning the asphalt into slick, dark mirrors under the gray Chicago sky.
