His coffee friends in Starbucks wished him, with no shortage of ribbing, good luck on the new job. Ned Jeffers shook his head, accepting the good natured derision. He waved and pushed out the glass doors into the dark, unseasonably warm Michigan morning. Somewhere to the east, shades of gray had begun lightening the late October sky. It was his third part-time job in as many months since retiring in late July. He looked both ways before crossing to his Jeep Cherokee, as cars sometimes flew around the blind corner from the drive-through window at late-for-work velocity.

Ned was determined to remain mostly retired, which, to him, meant piecing together enough income to avoid taking early Social Security. Worry about money, however, was only a minor flaw in the relief from the stress that had finally made his career as a software rep untenable. He just now skipped a pricey breakfast sandwich for the third morning in a row, and those added up. He even reconsidered his customary one dollar tip on a four dollar Grande dark roast. This new thing had to work. Three to four mornings a week, a mileage allowance, and he’d already invested thirty-five dollars in a background check.

The woman who was supposed to train him was so far nowhere to be seen. Would she give him a few moments to finish his coffee? He slid behind his Jeep’s steering wheel as a humid wind scattered leaves and trash across the lot, but while he slurped from his to-go cup, sure enough, Gale Warden appeared in front of his hood as if conjured.

She sat in a late model Buick Encore. Ned exited his Jeep and rounded to the Buick’s passenger side, noting it was a 1.8 liter and deciding it got good gas mileage. A magnetic sign on both doors read Mid-MichiganRxDash.com. He made a mental note to ensure he got himself a sign, then climbed in and placed his coffee in an unoccupied cup holder. He knew Gale intended to just drive but she didn’t look very business-like wearing sweatpants and an old Lapeer West hoody, compared to the previous week when she interviewed him. Additionally, he minded an open box on the floor between his legs, packed tightly with the white prescription bags, each stapled with a receipt.

“Good morning!” Gale flicked ash off a cigarette out the driver’s side window. Some kind of brace on her wrist struck the edge of the glass, spoiling her aim, and ashes blew back into her lap. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said, brandishing the cigarette at Ned. “I’m down to one-an-hour and I try to have ‘em only outside the car.”

“Long as I can crack a window,” Ned said.

“Feel free, hon.”

There was no time to find the button to let in fresh air on his side. The Buick leapt forward just as Ned drew the seatbelt across his windbreaker. The butt of Gale’s heater bounced its dying sparks in the rearview mirror on his side. She made a rolling stop at the exit of the strip mall lot and zoomed off down the street.

“Listen, Ned. I hate to spring this on you but you seem like a competent guy. Somebody that can, you know, roll with the flow.”

Ned swallowed and pushed his glasses up into a tighter fit at the bridge of his nose.

“I know this is unfair,” she went on, “but I think you can handle it. I’m gonna have to leave you on your own today.”

A sudden glow of perspiration formed beneath his thinning, freshly barbered silver hair.

“See, I’ve had this carpal tunnel surgery scheduled for months now.” Gale waggled the brace. “I got a call an hour ago that they want to move me up to this morning. Had a cancellation, I guess.”

“Well, I’m not comfortable—”

“It’s a four hour, outpatient deal. You should be done with the route by then and you can pick me up.” Gale shot him a couple of pleading glances. “Can you help me out? I picked up your deliveries already and the best route is already saved in the Intellink.” She tapped several times on what looked like an old-school, oversized calculator attached to the dashboard. A map screen took over. “There. You’re good to go. Have you used one of these?”

“I think so,” Ned said without enthusiasm. He wondered if Gale had even bothered to read his résumé, which he could’ve titled “My Life in IT.” Additionally, he knew where the surgery center was after a number of colonoscopies, so he couldn’t decline and claim ignorance.

 Gale made a left turn through a caution light and headed north on Hwy 24, still taking quick, disconcerting glances at her passenger to assess his approval.

“I guess I’ll manage,” said Ned. “There won’t be any problems if it’s not you showing up, will there?”

“Hon, our clients are mostly homebound, disabled, or they’re without transportation by court order. They don’t give one rip who brings their meds.”

“And I’m delivering Schedule II as well?”

“There have to be extenuating circumstances, Ned. Otherwise, they have to show up at their pharmacy and show ID like everybody.”

He didn’t like it, but accepted delivering the serious drugs and changed tact. “Why don’t I just take my Jeep? Then you’d have a way home.”

“Tempting, but they don’t let anyone drive home after anesthesia and your vehicle isn’t covered yet. There’s some insurance paperwork I have to do and then you need the door signs.”

That answers one question, Ned thought.

“I might have to order one. It’s looking like your predecessor isn’t gonna return his.”

********************

Ned delivered Gale to the surgery center just in time for her pre-op interview. She stepped out of the car and, before Ned could move around to the driver side, removed a small ankle holster from under a pant leg and laid the secret pistol on the driver’s seat. Ned eyed it like a dog turd on his front stoop.

“Yeah, more apologies, Ned, but I can’t very well take this in with me. It’s not loaded.”

“Okay, but I’m uncomfortable with…I just don’t want to get pulled over.”

“Oh, no, I totally understand,” Gale said. “But you’ll be fine. No worries. It’s registered and I have an up-to-date Concealed Carry Permit. I’ll just bury this in the trunk.” She plucked up the holster, the hand grip of a small-frame revolver protruding. “FYI, there’s a pouch of 9mm cartridges in the glove box. Are you familiar with firearms at all?”

“Yes,” Ned said. “So I know I’d be in deep doo-doo for a traffic stop. If the cops run your license plate, they know there’s a CPP before they approach the car.” Again, he wondered how thoroughly Gale studied his resume. One of the recent post-retirement jobs was in the hunting department at the Bass Pro Shop in Saginaw.

After closing the trunk, Gale went in the sliding glass doors without looking back.

Ned, reluctant, drove north.

********************

The village of Clifford was a rural crossroads at the top of Lapeer County. Ned muted the unnecessary prompts of the navigation system, but restored the volume when the highlighted route turned off Hwy 24. He turned east onto County Road 38 as directed, noting the Trump election signs prevalent along the road. At the Clifford village limit, a small, weathered billboard demanded: “Get us out of the U.N.,” which led Ned to imagine a profile of the populace. He idled through the pulsing heart of Clifford—a café, clapboard Baptist church, a “cool” junk emporium, and a Dollar General. Finally, on the far outskirts of the village, the Intellink ordered him into the gravel driveway of a well maintained single-wide mobile home with a front room addition. He found the porch and wheelchair ramp around on the side, mostly obscured by a very tall arbor vitae, but noted how their fresh wood stood out against the single-wide’s age.

Mrs. Perkins, a matronly lady still in her bathrobe, invited him in. Gale had advised him to not enter homes unless the person signing for the delivery wasn’t ambulatory, and it was Mr. Perkins who had to sign for this one. Gus Perkins sat in a recliner in the front room, a Detroit Tigers stadium blanket draped over his legs and an empty wheelchair parked near at hand. He signed with his pinky finger. A thread of saliva dripped from his giddy grin and swung close to the POS screen. Once Ned confirmed the signature, Mrs. Perkins took possession of the meds. “Thank you so much,” she said. “What’s your name? Is Gale ill?”

“I’m Ned Jeffers, ma’am. I’ll be assuming Gale’s route.”

“Well, you tell Gale that Gus and I will miss her. You folks are a godsend.” The storm door, sans screen and glass, clattered shut behind Ned.

He reset the Intellink which immediately showed a route back to the northwest, taking him three miles back over the county line to an address in Silverwood. All he’d heard of Silverwood was that a biker club made up some significant part of the population. Or maybe that was Fostoria, his third stop.

Silverwood didn’t have the depressed rural character of Clifford. It huddled around the convergence of three county secondary roads intersecting at pie-slice angles. Two of these roads were further bisected by an old rail spur. A peeling, hand-painted “For Sale” sign labeled a crumbling grain elevator it once served. As Ned approached what the navigation system insisted was the destination, he passed a tavern, nameless except for a neon Budweiser display. Double stacked curbstones protected the vertical, unpainted, wooden planks on the bar’s street-facing wall, decorated with the iconic MIA/POW silhouette and a fading banner that welcomed all veterans. Ned circled between the bar and a post office the size of a 1980s film development kiosk. The navigation system was thoroughly fouled and becoming annoyed, but the destination could’ve been any one of what turned out to be four different buildings in close proximity.

Ned finally found the desired address tacked to a picket fence on the tavern’s west-side neighbor. Inside the property stood an aged pole-barn-sized structure made of cement block with factory style windows high on the walls. He parked, exited the car, and approached over a pathway of cracked patio stones, which wound through a gauntlet of stained and corroding lawn ornaments. Weeds and thistles threatened to smother many of the effigies, which covered all of what may have once been a front yard. An amber light bulb in a plain socket shown above a door a curtain covering its window. He rapped gently above the door knob.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” came a hoarse voice from inside the house.

The client, a Mr. Thurlow Edwards, could barely reach the door to unlock it. He was restrained by a full-sized oxygen tank and its trailing rig of clear, plastic lines which terminated at his face. Ned stepped into the door frame and extended the POS unit.

“You, sir, are just in time,” said Mr. Edwards, wheezing. He inched closer and signed with a jittery index finger. “There. Guess that’ll pass for my mark. I was down to one last puff of my Trelegy. Hey, what’s happened to Gale?”

Ned confirmed the signature. “She’s moving to a shorter route, I believe. Reward of seniority. I’m Ned.” He extended a Covid-era fist bump into what appeared to be a kitchen area, enclosed by partitions. A gas flame hissed, blue beneath a large, aluminum tea-kettle.

Edwards returned the sanitary dap. “Katie’s still rehabbing from a minor stroke. She’ll be wantin’ to make the drive down herself, soon as she can.”

“Well, good luck to you both. We’ll be here as long as you need us,” Ned said as Mr. Edwards closed the door.

********************

Ned couldn’t quite relax as he crawled south on Hwy 24; the traffic bound for Lapeer thickened as people made their morning commutes, though he considered the fact that everyone should already be at work. Though, he decided this surge could be for doctors or dentists appointments, or retail places already beaten to the punch by Wal-Mart, Meijer, and Kroger. The parade building up behind him quickly found opportunities to pass, one vehicle at a time, on the busy two-lane. Most could not resist blaring their horns as he pushed Gale’s handicapped Encore up to fifty-two miles per hour.

Finally, the navigation system took him west on Millington Rd, then south again on Fostoria Rd. He clocked the village limit sign up ahead, but before he reached it, the Intellink steered him into a residence. The tattered double-wide’s horseshoe driveway was a two-track. Two motorcycles, clothed in Harley logoed covers, stood parked under a Quonset Hut tent shelter. Ned straddled the Encore over the frost-browned weeds dividing the two-track. This front porch was warped and aged to grey except for the handicap ramp of fresh, treated lumber.

Once parked, he plucked up the bag corresponding to the address, all of which had, so far, been packed in order. He trudged up the ramp and knocked on the delaminated door. It looked like it was meant to be an interior door but had a newer lockset with a deadbolt. Somewhere inside, a dog began baying. Heavy paws with untrimmed nails thundered against the inside, rocking the ill-fitting door in its frame.

“Just a damn minute!” a female voice shouted. “Lemme just—God dammit, Rocky! I’ll brain you with a fryin’ pan! Get your ass down to the bedroom.”

The dog yarked as if propelled along by a foot. Ned waited, turning his back on the entrance to scope out the neighborhood. Several potted aloe succulents lined the railing, many of the leaves broken off for their soothing gel. The woman who, at last, answered the door reminded Ned of a biker mama.

“Yeah?” she said. “Oh. It’s our meds mule. Sorry about the dog. Wasn’t expecting you ‘til later.” Her jeans were way too tight, forcing into prominence her flabby tummy, which wasn’t quite covered by a faded Megadeath concert tee. A leather vest topped this, spangled with swap-meet and far-flung Harley dealer pins. Ned got a strong whiff of kerosene through the open door. “Well, come on in,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got for us.”

When she turned her back, Ned saw the presumptuous Fostoria Angels monogram on her back, as well as the single ponytail—grey, unwashed, and frayed—dangling below her waist. The smell of kerosene thickened as he crossed the threshold into the front room. He saw an ancient energy-crisis-era heater glowing on the nearby dining room linoleum.

A man in a wheelchair across the room turned himself away from the pedestal television sitting on an arrangement of milk crates. “Hey buddy. Those for Greg Spurgeon?”

“Sure are.”

“That’s me.”

Ned approached with the POS device, noticing that Greg had lost part of his right leg below the knee. The gauze-bound stump had slipped from under a wool army blanket.

“Hold up, baby,” said the woman. “Don’t you sign nothin’. I think Walgreens is fuckin’ with us again.” She snatched the bag from Ned’s hand and looked at the label. “Mister, this is 800 ibuprofen! Our doctor said we’d be gettin’ oxy again.”

“Ah, hush, Amy,” said Greg, raising his voice. “You know that ain’t what he said. The doc doesn’t want me to—”

“Fuck that doctor, Greg!” she cried, choking up.

Greg took the POS device, signed, and thrust it back at Ned, who confirmed the signature and began backing toward the door. “Ma’am, I just make the deliveries. I have no idea what you or Greg is supposed to get.”

“Oh, you have no idea, huh?” Tears now inched down her pale face. “This man is in constant pain. And that phantom pain, too. Plus, he might be gonna lose part a his—”

“I’ll be okay, Amy! Listen, I’m tired a not bein’ able to shit regular.”

Ned opened the door and stepped outside. “Hey! I ain’t done talkin’ to you!” Amy shouted. “Can’t you just hold up for a minute?” She hustled out behind Ned, shoeless, heedless of the creaking porch. “Can’t you give us a break? Ain’t you…What else you got in there? Maybe he sent in two prescriptions.”

Ned turned, his back to the car. “I tell you what. I’ll take a look, but you’ve got to back off and—”

Before he could open the door, Amy hip-checked him, wedged herself between him and the vehicle, and began opening the door herself. Ned grabbed her by a clammy leather shoulder and the fat, damp ponytail. The biker mama swung around and caught him with a heavy slap to the side of his head, dislodging his glasses, and scrambled again to breach the car door. The stunned Ned straightened his glasses then doggedly grabbed Amy’s vest by the collar, but she clung to the door with an enraged strength. As they struggled, Ned’s mind wandered to the gun in the trunk and the ammo in the glove box, but he knew—

The five explosions from the porch nearly tore Ned’s head in two. Amy jumped back, stumbled, and fell. Ned scrambled over the biker mama as she tried to stand, her pants now muddied, trying to get around to his driver’s side door, but froze when he saw Greg sitting on the porch, lowering the automatic pistol he’d discharged into the low cloud cover. “Amy! Leave the man alone!” Greg shouted. “Get yer ass back in here. I swear to God, your goin’ back to rehab!”

As Ned sped away, Greg waved as if Ned were family leaving Thanksgiving dinner.

********************

Ned didn’t think he was concussed, as he’d fired rifles and handguns without ear protection before, but he thought the ringing in his ears might last the rest of the day. If this was to be his only drive for Mid-MichiganRxDash.com, then he fully intended to complete it.

He made one stop in Otter Lake then backtracked on Hwy 90 halfway to North Branch for another. Three clients lived on Hwy 24 near the crossroads of Deerfield and Barnes Lake. He headed out to Columbiaville for three stops after that. All went quickly and without incident. Two more visits up on Sawdust Corners Rd, followed by one last stop, almost back to Lapeer. He arrived at the surgery center fifteen minutes past the four hours Gale had estimated it would take him to complete the route.

Just before going in to retrieve Gale, he spied an undelivered package stuck in a corner of the box. The top half of the bag was tucked behind a flap of the box folded inside, and was further obscured by being on the side closest to him—out of his sight line. “Oh, Christ,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me.” As he reached down for the package, a stab of pain in the side of his head reminded him of Amy Spurgeon’s antics.

He shifted his glasses down on his nose for closer reading. “Dr. Ted Rawlins for G. Spurgeon,” he read aloud. “Norco hydrocodone, five milligram, twelve count.” He looked up at the surgery center’s front door and considered his options. After a few seconds, he climbed out of the car. Gale was just going to have to suffer the inconvenience of a ride back up to Fostoria. He hoped against hope that Amy would be napping when they got there. If not, he might have to send Gale in.