They both showed me their official identification with satisfied smirks.
I cleared the coffee table, discovering my last bottle of pills was now empty, almost weightless. If I ever wanted to see Stella more than one more time, I’d have to resupply.
The pod that arrived was an older model, in need of maintenance, the sort that was sent to infrequent customers.
“It’s not always about getting off,” was her line. “What is it about, then?” was mine.
A half-liter of vodka and almost a two-week supply of pills disappeared into me.
If Stella was this close to an overdose, I had to leave now.