The doctor handed him the prescription. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, um, yeah, it’s just the pain is—’

‘I understand you have some pain. The problem, Will, is that you’ve never attended this practice before. Your home address is in another state. I don’t know your medical history, have no way of knowing how many prescriptions you’ve already collected or how much codeine or whatever else you may have hoarded. And in any case, the level of inflammation does not lead me to think prescription pain relief is necessary. Over-the-counter should be sufficient to tough it out.’

Fucking hot face, fucking goddamn prickle of tears. He couldn’t speak and didn’t know what he’d say if he could. He nodded, left the doctor’s office with the prescription in one hand and the scrunched-up cup in the other.

At the pharmacy counter he swallowed his last trickle of pride and asked how much the prescription would cost. Twelve bucks. There was fifteen, maybe, left in his account and he still needed to get to Leichhardt. If he skipped the antibiotics he could buy three packs of off-brand ibuprofen for nine dollars and then he’d definitely have enough left for the bus fare. Probably.

‘Mr Harris?’ The pharmacist was tapping the counter. He was aware of the line forming behind him.

He nodded, let the woman take the script away to prepare. There’d be painkillers of some sort at Aunty Nic’s. Maybe even some good stuff. Could be Aunty Nic had a hoard of the kind the prick of a doctor was referring to. A whole pile of opioids or narcotics ready to tumble out of some high, forgotten cupboard Lena hadn’t cleared out yet.

Boarding the bus at Railway Square his adrenaline surged. When he asked the driver the fare to Norton Street, the man rolled his eyes, pointed at a machine further down the aisle. Told him to tap. Again, there was a line forming behind him and he felt the collective impatience at his taking a whole goddamn five seconds to ask a question needling his spine.

There was a time he wouldn’t have thought twice about boarding a bus without the fare. On the rare occasions an inspector boarded you’d duck, get off at the next stop, no worries. Different once you were a grown man, couldn’t easily slither through the packed aisle, jump over shopping bags and dodge prams, slip out the back door before the inspector made his way to you. Different when you had a record, and no idea which of the tiny infractions so-called civilised society might accuse you of would be overlooked, which a cause to drag you back to court.

Anyway, he tapped his debit card on the machine like he saw others doing and it chirped in the same way it had for the people in front of him which probably meant he was okay.