The pharmacy was uncharacteristically busy, and it was the first time in months – hell, maybe years – that he’d encountered a line: two people in front of him, three behind.

Wallace didn’t mind the wait. He had a cup of coffee and nowhere important to be.

The woman behind him, though, was another matter entirely. He smelled her before he heard her: cigarettes and booze, stale and sour, radiated off her and assaulted him.

Wallace frowned and took a small step forward. The woman edged up behind him, and began muttering complaints under her breath.

Wallace turned around. She looked like she smelled. Heavily-lined face. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Bleached blond hair, grown out and streaked with a nest of gray. Mouth sores. Meth teeth.

“Do you mind?” Wallace said.

“Fuck you, pal.” Her voice was a deep rattle.

Something in Wallace snapped. He dropped his cup, and in the time it took to fall and explode on the tiled floor, he punched her right in the mouth.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the wisest move.