“Yeah, except when I was running, I twisted my knee.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It hurts a lot. On a scale of one to ten, the pain is like a twelve.”

“You didn’t seem to be limping.”

“It’s not that kind of pain. Trust me, it hurts a lot. Deep inside.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So maybe you can help me out. Especially since it’s your fault. I mean, you’re the one who told me to go running.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about knee pain. Perhaps you should make an appointment with your primary care doctor?”

“I don’t have a primary care doctor.”

“Urgent care then.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s anything serious. I just need something for the pain. I was hoping you could prescribe me some oxycodone.”

“Oxy…”

“Like thirty tablets should do it. I was thinking ten mg tabs.”

“If you have a knee injury, you should see a specialist who treats that. I’m a psychiatrist. I am not trained to manage knee pain.”

“Well, you went to medical school, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

“It doesn’t matter. My knee is fine. I just need some oxycodone to get through it. Like I said, thirty tablets should be perfect.”

“I can’t just give you a prescription for a narcotic. These medications are controlled.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You prescribe stuff way stronger than oxycodone.”

“Psychiatric medications. Not narcotics. I can’t give you thirty tablets of oxycodone. I could get in trouble.”

“More or less trouble than if a video came out of you slashing someone’s tires?”

“I…”

“Like I said, thirty tablets should be fine. I won’t sell them or anything. I just want to get through this knee pain. Have pity on me, Doc.”

“I’ll give you twenty tablets. Five mg each.”

“I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”

“I could lose my license.”

“Thirty tablets. You could do the five-milligram ones if that makes you feel better.”

“Fine. But this is the only time.”

“Right. Of course, Doc. I’m not going to ask you for oxycodone again. I mean, unless I hurt my knee again.”

Chapter 30

TRICIA

Present Day

Ethan is making us lunch. I said I would do it, because he has made the last two meals, but he’s so insistent. “You’re pregnant. I have to take care of you.”

He’s making me feel silly for having waited so long to tell him about the baby.

He gets the packet of turkey out of the refrigerator. But instead of putting it on the bread, he places the pieces on a plate and sticks them in the microwave. Then he heats it up for thirty seconds.

“What are you doing?” I ask, baffled.

“Pregnant women aren’t supposed to eat cold cuts,” he explains. “They have to be heated. To kill the bacteria.”