Five Minutes to Closing
(The Walgreens on Grand Avenue, five minutes before closing.)
Adaeze: Inga, right? Three boxes for your dad?
Inga: Yeah.
Adaeze: White ones are his blood pressure. Blue box is the heart medicine.
Inga: I know. He’s had them two years.
(She gets as far as the poster by the door, then stops.)
Inga: Actually, can I ask you something?
Adaeze: Go ahead.
Inga: If he misses a day, does it matter? I counted his box. Eight days missing.
Adaeze: Eight matters. The amount in his blood drops.
Inga: I thought so. He says it’s stress. He wants to be independent.
Adaeze: And you waited till closing.
Inga: I didn’t want to make a big thing of it. Then I realized nobody else will ask.
Adaeze: Medicine only works if it’s regular. Get him a pill box with seven doors, one for each day. Then he just notices the full one.
Inga: He’ll say he doesn’t need it. I can’t promise anything.
Adaeze: He’ll say that for a week. Bring the box in Thursday and I’ll write the days on it.
Inga: Thanks. I came in for the medicine.
Adaeze: Everybody does. Getting the medicine takes me thirty seconds. Taking it every day is the hard part.