June 25, 2013...

Voices echo in the vaulted ceiling of the crowded courtroom. I can hear them with unusual clarity, every one of my senses on high alert. It is hard to judge how the trial is going. There are too many proponents for either side, and anyone who might give away a clue is keeping their face carefully blank.

I walk toward the witness stand, footsteps light against the polished wooden floor. My hands tremble, and I clench my fingers in an attempt to still them. The prosecuting attorney has just called me as a witness. We knew this was going to happen. I have been prepared for the ridiculous questions they may ask me, as well as the accusations that will forever mar my character. This is the case of the century. There is no room for error.

The judge bangs his gavel and calls for order. Conversation quickly dies down, and the prosecution saunters forward. He is cool, calm, and collected. His flint-gray eyes stare into mine, and I am instantly reminded of a predator. This is a man that is desperate to win. Losing, he thinks, is not an option.

I give my sworn oath to speak nothing but the truth, and the predator lunges.

"When did you first come in contact with nonbiological extraterrestrials commonly known as 'Autobots'?"

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O N E

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July 7, 2010...

People of all sizes and colors came through the pharmacy on a daily basis. Tranquility, while by no means large, was not small enough to provide the same loyal customers and patients day after day. The anonymity was almost a blessing; there were hardly any regulars to go the extra mile for. Nobody had to endure more than five minutes of pleasantries or small talk. I didn't have to smile more than strictly necessary.

Everything worked like a well-oiled machine, but that didn't stop the job from being interesting.

My first customer on Monday evening set the tone for the rest of the night. He was a short old fellow, hunched over, and relied on a wicked-looking cane to walk. I pulled my lips back in what was hopefully a polite smile and waited for him to reach the pharmacy. He plopped a huge Ziploc bag full of fluorescent orange vials onto the counter.

"Hi there," I said. "I take it you're wanting some medications refilled?"

Naturally, the man was deaf. I didn't give him the chance to tell me to speak up – I just did.

"Did you need all of these refilled?" I asked a little louder.

"No," he shook his head. His voice sounded rough, paper-thin.

"Which ones do you need?"

"These are for my wife," he replied, pushing the bag a little closer to me.

I had already noticed none of the vials had labels on them. All of them contained at least one or two unidentifiable pills, tablets and capsules alike. Hiding a grimace, I asked for his wife's birthday.

"May... no, March 15, 1957," he murmured.

"Mariam Wellsworth? Is that your wife?"

"No! It's Joyce Cartwright!" the man said as if personally affronted.

When the system finally managed to produce her profile ("It's J-O-I-C-E, and no, we do not have a 460 area code!"), it wasn't surprising to find her birthday really was in May, after all. With my smile becoming more forced by the second, I asked Mr Cartwright the question I had been dreading ever since I spotted his Ziploc bag: "Do you know the names of any of these medications? Do you know which ones she needs filled?"

With no small amount of effort, Mr Cartwright rifled through the bag with one shaky hand. He pulled out a single orange vial, dumped its contents into his palm, and held it up to the light. "She needs this one."

"Let me see if I can have the pharmacist identify this, okay? I will be right back," I promised.

The pill was a nondescript round tablet. There were few medications dispensed at our pharmacy that I could readily identify – Prevacid, just to name one example, was a memorable pink-and-black capsule. Too many round brown tablets existed for a mere technician like me to know each and every one. Thankfully, identifying pills was not in my job description.

A few minutes later, I knew the little tablet was called mirtazapine, and it was used to treat things like depression and anxiety. Mrs Cartwright, as disorganized as she appeared to be, seemed to be keeping up with her refills. Her profile showed the drug had been dispensed faithfully to her every thirty days for the past seven months. I assured her husband the prescription would be ready in about fifteen minutes, and he went to sit down in the waiting area.

The rest of the night went downhill from there.

I already explained Tranquility isn't exactly a huge town. Between us and our three competitors, our pharmacy wasn't nearly as busy as others. We had a morning rush, when everyone is in a hurry to get to work because they are running late – heaven forbid they leave their houses a few minutes earlier than usual, so they actually have time to stop at the pharmacy. The next busy time was after the regular business day ended. Lucky me, that was when my shift began.

It died down around dinner time on most nights. From six to eight o'clock, we generally had a lot of downtime to get things like cleaning and whatnot out of the way. It was a good system.

But on that night, the phone never stopped ringing. It felt like people were approaching the counter every five minutes. It was stressful enough with two other technicians and one pharmacist, but then the day tech left at five. The midshift technician left a little over an hour later, and the pharmacy only seemed to grow busier.

Scripts went from being done in fifteen minutes to sometimes taking a whole half-hour. People's moods went from pleasant to pissed in the blink of an eye. When someone gets angry at me because their script cannot be filled as quickly as they would like, every fiber of my being gets mad right back...

But all I can do is fake a smile and say, "I'm sorry, but we are very busy right now. We'll get it filled as quickly as possible." FYI, people – getting pissed off will not get prescriptions filled any faster.

So, we had a list of scripts to fill a mile long. There were seven people waiting inside the store, four would be back in approximately thirty minutes, and two needed to be verified with the clinic.

"Call and see who this doctor is," my pharmacist said, pointing to a script with unusually neat handwriting. It was written for a Samuel Witwicky, date of birth October 10, 1990. "I've never heard of a Dr Ron Hatchet before. He isn't in our system, and there's no DEA number on here."

The phone number was unfamiliar, but it was local. A quick search through the computer system confirmed what I had already been told; this doctor was not registered. I dialed it and was amazed when someone answered on the first ring.

"Yes?" It was a terse greeting. Strange, especially if this guy was manning the phones at an office or clinic. I almost felt bad for bothering the poor man, but darn it – I was busy, too. "Who is this, and how may I help you?"

After providing my name and pharmacy, I told him the problem. "We don't have a Dr Ron Hatchet in our system. I just need his DEA number, please."

The line went abruptly silent. Between stress and frustration, I was beginning to get a little annoyed with this man. I understood how busy doctor offices could get, but that was no reason to be rude. When the line picked back up again, I opened my mouth in preparation to give the inconsiderate man a piece of my mind –

He blurted out Dr Hatchet's number and then hung up on me.

I fumed, dial tone buzzing in my ear.

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to be continued...

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Interesting Stuff: This is an idea that popped into my head a few weeks ago and refused to leave. Since I have no inspiration to work on STM at the moment, I thought, Why not? Just in case anyone was wondering, two things: Sam's birthday really is October 10, 1990, and Tranquility's area code really is 460. I'll give you three guesses to figure out who Dr Ron Hatchet really is, and the first two don't count. ;)

Legal Stuff: First, I would like to say the standard disclaimer applies to the whole of this story. Secondly, none of the patients the main character mentions are real people. Any similarities are purely coincidental. Lastly, I am not a medical professional, so please do not take any advice my characters may give as reliable information.