The pharmacy had the kind of lighting designed to make illness feel administrative. Bright enough to flatten faces. Clean enough to imply judgment. I waited near the entrance while Celina disappeared between aisles labeled with symptoms instead of causes. An old woman argued with the cashier about expiration dates like time itself had become negotiable.

A convex security mirror hung above the cosmetics section. Cheap, but good enough to watch hands. Nearby, an entire rotating rack offered prewritten sympathy in pastel colors. Get well soon. Thinking of you. Sorry for your loss. Society eventually outsourced emotional preparedness to folded cardboard.

Every aisle offered another way to continue functioning. Pharmacies never promise solutions. They sell persistence. That's a much more sustainable business model. People just keep going. Even when the reasons stopped making sense somewhere between the aisles.

The story continues on July 26.

The Geometry of Choice: Book I of The Equilibrium Strain.

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