The pharmacist looked down at his screen, then back at Elias. He sighed, a sound of genuine exhaustion. "Go sit down. Let me get the doctor on the private line. I can't sell it to you yet, but I won't let you leave without it."
The cold sterility of the pharmacy felt like a judgment. Elias stood at the counter, his fingers tracing the frayed edge of his sleeve, waiting for the pharmacist to look up from a stack of digital manifests. Can you buy morphine? can you buy morphine
"I see the order," the man replied, his tone softening just a fraction. "But there’s a discrepancy with the insurance authorization for the liquid concentrate. It hasn't cleared." The pharmacist looked down at his screen, then back at Elias
"He’s hurting," Elias whispered, the words catching in his throat. "He’s just... waiting. Please." Let me get the doctor on the private line
The question had pounded in his head for three days, ever since his father’s breathing had turned into a rhythmic, rattling struggle. The hospice nurse had mentioned it—the "comfort pack"—but the paperwork was stuck in some bureaucratic purgatory between the doctor’s office and this fluorescent-lit altar of relief.
Elias sank into a plastic chair. He watched the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking with agonizing precision, realizing that while you can buy many things, mercy still required a signature.