A car met me at a gas station on Carnegie at 7:15 the next morning and took the bottle.

It came back eleven days later.

A benzodiazepine, in a quantity the toxicologist described as “several times a therapeutic single dose,” in a substance I have never been prescribed in my life.

When Ruiz called me with it he said, “I need to tell you something and then I need you to sit down.”

“I’m sitting down.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill you at that table,” Ruiz said.

“That’s not what that dose does.