The Faded Quadrant
You count the pills. It is a ritual you have perfected over the last three years of quiet desperation in the basement of the Whitmore Institute for Chemical Analysis. The bottle is glass, thick-walled, heavy in the palm. The label has long since dissolved, leaving only a white scar of adhesive where the name of the drug once sat. You do not care about the name. You care about the count. Twelve...
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