Chapter 6 - The Pharmacy in the Rain
By four o'clock in the afternoon, the rain had turned into a slushy, grey mix of sleet and wet snow that turned the sidewalks of Flushing into slick, dirty slides.
Elena stood under the plastic awning of a small, family-owned pharmacy three blocks from the main subway station in Flushing.
Sophia was shivering against her chest. The fever had come back—not as high as the night before, but her small forehead was burning again, and she was letting out small, pitiful whimpers that tore at Elena’s heart every time the cold wind blew past the awning.
Elena walked inside the store.
The pharmacy was small, warm, and smelled of rubbing alcohol and dried peppermint. Behind the high glass counter stood an elderly Asian man in a white coat, looking over his half-moon spectacles at an inventory sheet.
Elena walked to the baby aisle, her eyes racing over the shelves.
Infant Tylenol: $14.99. Electrolyte solution: $8.99. A pack of size-one diapers: $18.50. A small box of infant formula: $26.99.
Total: $69.47.
Elena pulled the crumpled bills from her coat pocket.
One twenty. Two tens. One five. Seven ones. And a handful of silver coins she had gathered from her dresser drawer before leaving the apartment.
Total cash: $54.32.
She was fifteen dollars short.
Elena stood in the narrow aisle, holding the small bottle of infant medicine in her trembling hand, her eyes burning with hot, frustrated tears she refused to let fall.
"Can I help you, miss?" the pharmacist asked from behind the counter, his voice gentle but curious.
Elena walked to the glass counter, laying the bottle of Tylenol, the formula, and the diapers on the surface.
"I... I am fifteen dollars short," Elena said, her voice dropping into an awkward, ashamed whisper. "Please... the baby has a fever. I can leave my coat with you. Or my phone. I just need the medicine and the milk. I will bring the money tomorrow morning, I promise you."
The old man looked at her—at her wet hair, her thin sweater, the cracked leather of her boots, and the small shape bulging under her coat that was let out a tiny, rasping cough.
He looked at her cracked phone resting on the glass counter.
"Where is the child’s father?" the old man asked quietly.
Elena’s heart gave a sudden, painful squeeze. "He... he doesn't know she's sick."
The pharmacist let out a quiet sigh, picked up the scanner, and clicked the items through one by one.
"Keep your phone, miss," the old man said, sliding the items into a blue plastic bag. "Keep your coat. Put eight dollars in the box near the door for the children's hospital when you have it."
Elena’s eyes filled with tears—real tears this time, born of a sudden, overwhelming relief that made her throat close up. "Thank you... thank you so much..."
She reached into her coat, pulled out thirty dollars, and laid them on the counter.
As she picked up the plastic bag and turned toward the door, the small chime above the entrance rang.
The glass door opened.
A man stepped into the pharmacy.
He was tall—at least six-foot-two—wearing a heavy charcoal wool coat with a velvet collar. His dark hair was wet from the rain, slicked back from a high, intelligent forehead, and his face was carved from dark, sharp angles that belonged on a statue rather than a Queens street corner.
Behind him stood two other men—broad, thick-necked men with their hands buried deep in the pockets of their dark leather jackets.
The air inside the warm pharmacy seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second.
The pharmacist stopped mid-stroke with his pen, his eyes widening as he recognized the terrifying authority that rolled off the man in the charcoal coat.
Elena stepped back three paces, her heels hitting the display shelf behind her. Her hand went instinctively beneath her coat, cupping the back of Sophia’s head.
The man in the charcoal coat didn't look at the pharmacist. He didn't look at the shelves.
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His pale grey eyes locked directly onto Elena’s face.
Lorenzo Moretti had found her.
