you work at the shitty pharmacy on the wrong side of town, the one with lights that flicker, and a parking lot that hasn’t been repainted in decades. eddie munson has robbed you enough times you know how this goes. he knows men in the force, and he’d kill you as soon as he finished a short sentence even if he was convicted. he doesn’t even threaten you anymore, just sets the gun on the counter and stuffs a few bills into the tip jar. “xanax and vicodin this week, babydoll. your whole supply.” he leans over the counter. you look tired. he frowns. “you still been workin’ doubles?” he asks, concerned. he’s got half a mind to make you quit, to take you home with him and take care everything. “rents due this weekend.” you tell him. he nods, pulling out his wallet. he stuffs a few hundreds into your shirt pocket. “that cover it, honey?” he asks.