The pharmacist put my prescription on the counter and then pulled it back. Same pharmacy for nineteen years. Same woman most of that time. She said the system had me picking up this drug since 2018, but I had only been taking it for four months. She turned the screen so I could see seven years of refills, my name, my birthday, and a doctor I’d never been to. Then she wrote something on a slip of paper and pushed it across the counter.
The slip had an address written in blue ink, nothing else. I recognized the street immediately, but I couldn’t remember ever having a reason to go there. It was on the other side of town, in an older neighborhood where most of the houses had been converted into offices years ago. I looked at the pharmacist and asked what was supposed to be there. She glanced toward the waiting area before lowering her voice and telling me she couldn’t discuss anything more at the counter. Then she added, “If I were you, I’d go before you call anyone.”
I drove there without telling anyone where I was going. The address led me to a small brick building with no sign on the front and blinds covering every window. There was a brass number beside the door, and underneath it was a name I didn’t recognize. I stood there for several minutes, trying to decide whether I was making a huge mistake. Before I could knock, the door opened from the inside. An older man looked at me, stared at the paper in my hand, and immediately asked, “How did you get this address?”
I told him exactly what had happened at the pharmacy. He didn’t seem surprised, which somehow made me more nervous. Instead, he walked into a back room and returned carrying a thick folder with my name written across the front. My hands started shaking before I even opened it. Inside were copies of prescription records, appointment notes, and forms dating back almost seven years. Every page had my information on it, but none of the doctors listed were people I had ever seen.
At the bottom of the folder was a photograph that made everything else suddenly feel less important. It showed me standing outside a building I had never seen before, holding a prescription bottle in my hand. I knew the photograph couldn’t be recent because I was wearing a jacket I hadn’t owned in years. The man watched my face as I looked at it and finally said there was one more thing I needed to know. He reached into the folder and pulled out a document with my signature on it. I stared at the signature for a long time before realizing why it frightened me so much.
