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The little boy, probably around two, had flushed cheeks and damp curls plastered to his forehead. He looked like he’d been crying all day.
She slid her debit card across the counter, whispering something to her little boy.
Declined.
The woman stood very still, like if she didn’t move, maybe the world would simply rewind. Then her shoulders tensed.
Her face seemed to fold in on itself, not dramatic — just quietly, deeply defeated.
“No, no, no… please,” she whispered, sliding the card again with both hands. “I need this.
He needs this. He can’t wait.”
The pharmacist, a woman who looked like she could fall asleep standing up, softened.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said gently. “But it’s insulin. I can’t release it without a prescription or payment.
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