"How much did you say that was?" Nigel asked, counting and recounting the cash in his hand. "300? Is there any way I can knock down that price a peg? I just...I dunno. Government programs, or...a payment plan?"

He stared at the fifty bucks like they'd personally insulted him and ran a hand through his graying hair. There was no way he could afford these meds. His mother needed them, badly.

The pharmacist gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry, sir, but we're not allowed to offer discounts..."

"Is there anything I can do? I can...work for you guys. Clean toilets. Something. Anything?"

"Sorry, sir."

Nigel bit back the urge to punch the glass counter. The employee was clearly already wary of him—his tattoos, his piercings, his roughed-up clothes, and the angry lines on his face from the years he'd spent doing his time. Maybe if he looked different he'd have gotten the benefit of the doubt.

He set the crumpled prescription down. "Is there something else within my budget I can substitute? Maybe some other pharmacy nearby?"

The employee just looked at him as though there was nothing she could do. Nigel stared at her, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. So this was it, then. This was the thing that was going to get him locked away for good. Breaking into a pharmacy late at night to steal some f*cking meds.

It was fine. Just fine. His mother was worth it. He was a lost cause anyway. A good-for-nothing whose only smart decision in life was to get rid of his monster of a father for good.

A better man would feel something at the memory of the b*stard lying in a pool of red, wheezing out his last breath. Nigel felt nothing but satisfaction at the knowledge that his mother would never again have to hide the ugly bruises. The knowledge that he would never again have to do the f*cker's dirty work. Nigel hoped his father was burning in hell, suffering at the hands of whatever demon he'd sold his rotten soul to.

If nothing else, there was that.

"Thanks anyway," he said, his jaw tight. "You have a good day."