The clinic was in a converted garage on Detroit's east side. The sign outside said "FREE CLINIC" in letters that had peeled off one at a time until only "E CLIN" remained. Inside, Dr. Mark Sullivan counted pills. Twelve left. The prescription required thirty.

The boy named Marcus sat on the exam table, swinging his legs. He was twelve years old. His asthma was getting worse. The pollution from the abandoned factories was making everything worse.

"Dr. Sullivan," Marcus said. "Do I have to die?"

Mark didn't look up from the pill count. "No, Marcus. You don't have to die."

"But the medicine —"

"I know." Mark put the pills back in the bottle. He capped it. He handed it to Marcus. "Take one every morning. Don't take more. It won't last until next week, but it'll keep you breathing."

Marcus's mother stood in the corner. She didn't cry. In this neighborhood, crying was a luxury. "Is there anything I can do, Doctor? I'll work extra shifts. I'll —"

"There's nothing you can do, Maria. I know."

That night, Dennis Cole came to the clinic. Dennis was a big man with a big face and eyes that had stopped believing in anything five years ago.

"Mark," he said. "I need to talk to you."

They went to the back room. Dennis sat down. "Senator Hayes is voting against the urban renewal funding tomorrow. If he does, your clinic loses its grant. Marcus loses his medicine. Everyone in this neighborhood loses everything."

"I know."

"I have a way to stop him."

Mark looked at him. "What way?"

Dennis reached into his jacket and pulled out a small vial. "Potassium chloride. Looks like a vitamin supplement. You put it in his nightly medication, and Hayes has a cardiac episode. The vice senator takes over. She's progressive. She'll restore the funding."

Mark stared at the vial. "You want me to poison a senator."

"I want you to save this neighborhood. There's a difference."

Mark closed his eyes. He thought about Marcus. He thought about the twelve pills. He thought about the thirty that didn't exist.

Two days later, Marcus died.

Mark went to Dennis. "Where do I find him?"

Dennis gave him a schedule. Hayes took his medication at 10 PM every night. The potassium chloride would be mixed with the lisinopril. One pill replaced with one poisoned pill. Hayes would die in his sleep. It would look natural.

Mark prepared the poison. He acquired the potassium chloride from a hospital supply company — easy, as a doctor. He replaced one of Hayes' pills with a poisoned one. He waited.

Three days passed. Hayes was alive. Mark read the newspaper: "Senator Hayes Reports Minor Dizziness, Expected to Recover." The poisoning had failed. Wrong dosage. Wrong drug interaction. Hayes had survived.

Mark called Dennis. "It didn't work."

Dennis was quiet. "I know."

"Why? What went wrong?"

"Nothing went wrong, Mark. The Freedom Coalition never had a candidate ready. We used you to destabilize Hayes so Patricia Voss could win the primary. She's corporate-backed. She'll cut the funding anyway."

Mark felt the world shrink to the size of the vial in his hand. Empty.

He called Dennis again. Voicemail. He called a third time. Voicemail.

Mark sat in the garage clinic after hours. The fluorescent light buzzed. On his desk: the empty poison vial. In his other hand: an empty pill bottle. He looked at both of them. They were the same. Both empty. Both useless. Both meant for something that would never happen.

Maria came to the clinic the next morning. "Doctor? Is there any medicine for Marcus?"

Mark looked at the shelves. Empty. He looked at the vials. Empty.

"I'll see what I can do," he said.

He meant it. He knew he couldn't.

---

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