I looked at the prescription label, but the ink was smudged and unreadable, worn away by the friction of being carried in Vanessa’s purse. I could make out Noah’s name, but the date of the refill was completely gone.
I turned the device over, searching for the small counter window on the side of the plastic.
The number in the digital window read zero-three.
Three doses left in a device that should have been full.
I shook it, but there was no weight to it, only the faint, empty rattle of a nearly depleted canister.
From the living room, Noah let out a short, wet cough, followed by that same dry, whistling rattle.
I looked down at the small digital screen on the side of the device, my finger resting on the plastic actuator.
The red low battery light flashing on the side of the plastic medical dispenser.
I placed the medical dispenser next to the breadbox and stared at the digital counter, the zero-three still visible in the dim light of the kitchen.
The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that makes you notice the small imperfections in the drywall.
