“Did you know people sell these?” K took a tablet from the orangish vial on the counter and held it between two fingers the way you inspect a small bug. “They call it ‘hillbilly heroin.'”

“Yeah, but I need those,” I said. “You know–for pain.”

K wasn’t listening. “One of these can go for, like, $20.”

I rolled my eyes: “Can’t you find something else to sell illegally?”

“No,” he retorted. He snatched my perscription and left.

I sank into despair, knowing that my doctor would never buy the story I needed to sell him.

……….

K came to my door a few days later, smiling widely.

“Can  I have my medicine back now?” I asked.

“I sold them. We need more.”

“That’s not going to happen. There are rules to guard against this exact thing.”

“Yes it is.” Then I noticed the hammer in his hand.

“Wait,” I screamed. I pleaded. But K insisted it was the only way. I backed away. Then he pulled a handful of money from his pocket, thrusting it into my hands. “This is your half.”

He raised the hammer.

I closed my eyes and envisioned prostitutes and Rolexes. I don’t remember what happened after that.