The summer of 2003 was unbearably hot in Georgia. The kind of heat that glued shirts to skin and made every breath feel thick. Emily had grown used to it. What she wasn't used to was how thin her mother's breathing had become. Every wheeze rattled like broken glass inside her chest, each one weaker than the last.
Their mother's cardiologist had been clear: don't skip the clopidogrel. Without it, her already failing heart didn't stand a chance.
So that morning, Emily took her younger sister, Mia, by the hand and headed for Everett's Prescriptions in downtown Macon. The streets felt… strange. Too many sirens. Too many people crowding the sidewalks. Rumors spread like wildfire—something about attacks, strange fevers, bites that wouldn't heal. But Emily shoved it aside. Her focus was singular: get the medicine, get home, save Mom.
The line inside Everett's stretched out the door. Sweaty bodies pressed close, murmurs rising in fearful waves. Some argued. Some cried. A woman ahead of them shouted that her husband had been "attacked" in their driveway, only to be met with scoffs and rolled eyes.
Emily squeezed Mia's hand tighter.
"We'll be fine," she whispered. "Just a little longer."
Two hours later, Emily finally reached the counter, prescription in hand. The pharmacist looked exhausted, red-eyed, but he filled it without complaint. The orange bottle of clopidogrel rattled with its precious contents, the sound of salvation.
By the time they stepped back outside, the sun was already dipping low. Shadows grew longer. More police cars screamed down the highway.
"Em," Mia said softly, her voice trembling, "why are all the cops out?"
Emily didn't answer. She didn't know.