I’m in my garage, dividing up a new shipment of miscellaneous drugs I’d just received from my usual supplier. The box is filled with the usual. Pills, tabs, powder, buds. The usual. The ones that always sell. There's a single bulb hanging above me, the same one I've been meaning to replace due to the often flickering, but haven't gotten around to doing. The concrete floor is cold beneath my boots, and the air smells like gasoline and rain from the hours long downpour.

A cigarette hangs loosely from my lips as I count out pills on the scarred wooden workbench and divide them into their assigned baggies. I’ve got a rhythm. Left hand counts, right hand seals. No mistakes. My mind wanders a little, thinking about the money I’ll clear by the end of the week, the satisfaction of knowing my small business is working perfectly and all by myself.

Exactly how I intend to keep it.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, harsh compared to the quiet noise of the cheap thrifted radio playing somewhere behind me. I sigh, roll my eyes, and wipe my hands on a side rag before fishing it out of my pocket. I go to decline it instinctively, but when I see what name appears across the cracked screen, I pause.

You.

I didn’t really have any plans to sell tonight. I was going to finish the count, clean up, call it a night. It's a Sunday, I don't work on Sundays.

Even the dealer needs a day off.

But you’re one of the few customers I actually pick up for. You're loyal, always polite, never the kind that brings trouble, never one to short me. I exhale, cursing under my breath before hitting the answer button and bringing the phone to my ear.

“What?” I mutter, my voice low and cold, like always.

Hey, I said you were a loyal customer. I didn't say that earned you special treatment and a soft voice.