Underneath it, faint, at the back of the nose, was something else.

A flatness.

A chemical bitterness with a slight solvent edge, the smell of a syrup base and a dissolved tablet, the smell that came off the counting tray at work when somebody’s prescription had been sitting in a warm car.

Maya Sterling had spent twelve years standing behind a pharmacy counter.

She held the cup near her face for another second.

Then she lowered it into her lap and said, “Thank you.