Page 23 of Bottle Shock
After Irene dropped that bomb in my lap, I stopped by the real estate office to double-check that I’d locked up—which I had. Small victories, considering my track record withremembering things. I was halfway to my car when the alert pinged on my phone: Your prescriptions are ready for pickup. Perfect timing. My body might be running on caffeine and fumes, but even I can’t survive without my meds. I’m down to my last dose of insulin, and I took my final ADHD pill this morning.
“Prescriptions for Scotland James,” I tell the pharmacy technician, resting my elbows on the counter.
She nods and clicks around on her keyboard before disappearing behind a shelf of amber bottles. A moment later she’s back, holding two small white bags.
“Hmm.” She scans the barcode on the first one, frowning. “According to our system, your insurance says you’re no longer covered.”
At first, I laugh—because that has to be a mistake, right? I’ve been covered through the Stage Performers Guild Union ever since I joined. Even between gigs, even when money was tight, the union kept me afloat. The one reliable thing in a career that’s anything but.
“Can you scan it again?”
She gives me a look that screamsbless your heart, you clueless child, but humors me anyway.
“Please,” I add, because begging feels appropriate.
She scans it again. This time her expression softens into something close to pity. “Sorry. Still says inactive.”
Great. Perfect. Just what I needed—another reminder that my life is basically one long game of whack-a-mole. Fix one problem, three more pop up.
“I’ll have to make some calls tomorrow,” I mumble. “How much is it without insurance?”
She types a few things into the computer. I watch her eyes widen. That’s never a good sign.
“For the insulin and the lisdexamfetamine dimesylate,” she says slowly, “it’s going to be…eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
I choke on my own spit. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Eight hundred and fifty,” she repeats, wincing like she said something offensive.
That should be illegal. I’d laugh if I weren’t busy calculating what I can cut from next month’s budget. Food? Gas? Air?
I can’t afford both. One is mind-saving; the other is life-saving.
“I’ll pay for the insulin,” I say finally, even though it feels like handing over a kidney.
The hole burned through my debit card from that one purchase scorches all the way back to the car. By the time I’m behind the wheel, I’ve gone numb.
Driving is one of those things I do on autopilot—zoning out, losing track of time, somehow ending up where I’m going without remembering a single turn. Sometimes I’ll get these intrusive thoughts—Did I run that red light? Was that bump in the road actually a squirrel?—and have to talk myself down before the panic spirals. It’s not great for my blood sugar or my mental health, but that’s the ADHD for you.
Tonight is no different. My mind drifts between the conversation with the tech, the long list of things I need to figure out tomorrow, and the vague, heavy ache of being way too old to be this lost.
And then?—
My heart slams into my ribs as my foot hits the brake.
Three cars are stopped dead in front of me. Red taillights blaze like warning signs.
“What the hell—” I mutter, blinking hard, trying to reorient myself.
Up ahead, firetruck lights pulse through the dark, bouncing off the dark pavement. Two police cruisers are parked sideways across the road, blocking the entrance completely. The air smells like smoke.
Without thinking, I kill the engine and jump out. Mysandals slap against the asphalt as I jog toward the nearest officer.
He spots me immediately and waves me back. “This area’s closed, ma’am.”
Ma’am?Seriously? I resist the urge to check for new wrinkles. If that’s not a sign I need to schedule my next Botox appointment, I don’t know what is.“I live in those townhouses.” I pointpast him to where the roofs peek out over the trees. “I need to get through.”
“Sorry, can’t let anyone in right now,” he says firmly. “There’s a fire in one of the units. It’s spreading fast. The department’s trying to contain it before it gets worse.”
