She waited four seconds for me to speak, but I kept my teeth pressed together.

“The full out-of-pocket price for the inhaler is forty-two dollars,” she said.

“Send it to the Lane Avenue pharmacy,” I said.

“I’ll go get it on foot.”

I opened my dark vinyl coin purse on the nightstand and counted the money inside.

I had one twenty-dollar bill, two tens, two singles, and eighty-four cents in loose change.

I pulled on my raincoat, tucked the cash into my cardigan pocket, and walked three blocks through the chilly, damp drizzle to the pharmacy window.

The clerk behind the glass set the small foil pouch on the counter.