The cafe was smaller, selfs served, with passengers mostly keeping to themselves. I grabbed a cup of black coffee and sat in the far corner facing the door. It didn’t take long.
The same waitress from the night before walked in with a tray of pastries. She glanced toward the seating area, saw me, then made her way to the table closest to mine. She adjusted a napkin, cleared a few crumbs, then leaned slightly in my direction.
She spoke low and fast. I only caught part of it. She said she was in school for pharmarmacology, that she’d seen my daughter-in-law adding something to my cup two nights in a row.
She hadn’t meant to get involved, but what she saw last night had made her feel sick. Then she slipped another note under my saucer and walked away. I didn’t open it until I returned to my room.
The message was short. A name, Deoxin, a warning: it could mimic natural heart failure symptoms in older adults, and a suggestion, get your blood tested soon. I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and stared at the name, Deoxin.
I didn’t know the drug well, but I knew enough. I remembered hearing about it years ago when one of my book club ladies had a grandson overdose on cardiac medication. It had been tragic, subtle, silent, like this.
The door clicked behind me. My heart jumped. It was Darren.
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