He zips the top on the Wednesday bag, sets it on Monday and Tuesday, then peels the seal apart on Thursday. Scooping up the neat pile of pills – two to bolster white blood cell creation, one to thin his plasma, one to replace the calcium the first three took, one the iron, one to quell the nausea, one multivitamin, a Zoloft to soften the sharp corners, and a Viagra for the stress of it all – and drops them into the bag.
Zip, pass, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Then he puts Monday through Friday into already packed lunches, folding down the tops of their brown paper sacks at perfect angles and parallel lines. Work lunches go into the pantry – nothing to refrigerate in his midday diet – ready to be grabbed when the time comes. Extra bags and the Saturday-Sunday pill sets go back in the drawer they came from in the kitchen.
He’s just turned to wash his hands when she knocks at the front door. They’ll take their Sunday run, settle in for a show or two, and then say goodnight.
But first he turns the sink on hot and reaches for the bottle of Dial Antibacterial.
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