I pulled them out, the paper rough against my palm as I stood under the bright vanity light.
It was a receipt from the corner pharmacy on Broad Street, printed on that thin, shiny thermal paper that always curls at the edges when handled.
The time stamp at the top read eight-ten PM, just ten minutes after I had handed her the forty dollars in our hallway.
My gaze climbed down the faint blue print to the itemized total, my eyes adjusting to the small, blocky font.
One bottle of ibuprofen, two hundred count, for six dollars and ninety-nine cents sat at the top of the list.
Directly below it was a single line for a digital early detection test kit, priced at twenty-four dollars and ninety-nine cents.
The total, with the local county tax, came to thirty-four dollars and twelve cents.
I stood frozen beside the wicker hamper, the cold water faucet dripping once into the porcelain sink with a sharp, hollow sound.
