Elena moved toward the pharmacy counter.
They should have separated there.
Two strangers.
One brief courtesy.
No reason for either to remember the other by sunset.
Instead Elena would remember the next fifteen minutes for the rest of her life.
Behind the prescription counter stood Gary Whitcomb.
Forty-eight.
White shirt.
Maroon tie.
Wire-rim glasses.
A thinning patch of sandy hair brushed carefully across his scalp.
He had managed Main Street Pharmacy for nine years.
According to the acquisition files Elena had reviewed, his store was profitable but underperforming relative to local demand.
Customer retention had declined.
Prescription transfers out had increased.
Complaint volume was oddly low.
That last number bothered Elena most.
Declining retention with almost no complaints usually meant one of two things.
Either people were satisfied but leaving for price.
Or they had decided complaining was pointless.
Gary looked at Elena’s wheelchair.
Then her clothes.
Then her face.
His professional smile appeared.
“Pickup?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Elena Sterling.”
His fingers paused over the keyboard.
Not because he recognized the name.
He did not.
The acquisition paperwork listed Sterling Meridian Holdings, and Gary had never seen photographs of the people behind it.
He typed.
“One prescription?”
“Yes.”
He turned.
Found the paper bag.
Returned.
“Seventy-eight forty-two.”
Elena frowned.
“That isn’t right.”
Gary’s expression cooled slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“The prescription is generic celecoxib.”
“Yes.”
“My insurer quoted twenty-three dollars.”
Gary looked at the screen.
“Your insurance rejected.”
“Why?”
“You'd need to ask them.”
“Did the rejection give a reason code?”
Gary blinked.
Most customers did not ask that.
He clicked.
“Coverage inactive.”
“That’s impossible.”
“System says inactive.”
“My coverage was confirmed this morning.”
Gary slid the card terminal toward her.
“Then you can pay cash and call them later.”
“Elena?”
A pharmacy technician behind him glanced at the name again.
Something seemed almost familiar.
Gary turned sharply.
“Can you finish inventory?”
The technician looked away.
Elena reached into a small cream handbag hanging beside her wheelchair.
She removed a black payment card.
Gary watched it.
She inserted.
The terminal beeped.
PROCESSING.
Then:
DECLINED.
Gary exhaled through his nose.
Elena stared.
“That card has no limit issue.”
“It declined.”
“Run it manually.”
“The machine already ran it.”
“Run it again.”
Gary looked toward the line forming behind her.
Three customers now.
An elderly man.
A woman holding a toddler.
A teenager in football practice clothes.
“Ma’am, if the card declined, I can’t invent money.”
Elena’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t ask you to invent anything.”
Gary crossed his arms.
“The pharmacy closes in forty-five minutes.”
“And?”
“And other people are waiting.”
Elena looked over her shoulder.
The elderly man immediately shook his head.
“I’m fine.”
Gary ignored him.
Elena turned back.
“I have another card.”