“I have all the doctors I need, Eleanor,” he said, his voice a little sharper than usual. “Don’t you start mothering me too.”
He reached across the table and touched my knuckles, his fingers surprisingly cold.
“I will see you on Friday,” he said.
I walked out to my Buick first, my keys already in my hand. I started the engine, letting it warm up while I adjusted my rearview mirror.
Through the glass, I saw Garrett walk to his dark sedan. He did not get in immediately; he stood by the driver’s door for a long moment, his hand resting on the roof as if he were catching his breath.
When he finally slid behind the wheel, he did not start the ignition.
I watched him through my side mirror. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, amber-colored plastic bottle.
His hand was unsteady as he unscrewed the cap. He tipped his head back, placed a tiny white pill under his tongue, and closed his eyes.
He sat perfectly still for nearly two minutes, his face pale and drawn against the dark leather of the seat.
