The driver, whose name was Emil, pulled into the pharmacy lot without being asked twice. He also did something I will never be able to repay. He kept his dash camera running, and he offered me the footage before I thought to ask.
I bought two inhalers and went anyway. Vanessa told me not to. I went because the custody hearing was at nine the next morning and because a woman who runs is a woman with something to hide. I walked in holding my daughter’s hand and a pharmacy receipt timestamped 6:14 p.m.
The table was set for six. The process server stood by the fireplace. The evaluator had a notebook open before I finished taking off my coat. And on the kitchen counter, plated and waiting, was a dish of Patrice’s walnut chicken salad, which I had told her about eleven separate times over four years.
