‘Morning, Mackenzie,’ said the pharmacist, the bell jingling as he walked in the door. Fishing lures and glass floats dangled from the ceiling and caught the light. She opened the safe and pulled out his Webster pack, pressing the two pills and a sublingual strip into his hand, which he had to put in his mouth in front of her.

‘Want some water today, darling?’

He liked the pharmacist for lots of reasons, but mainly because she was nice to him.

‘Not today, thank you, ma’am.’

One antidepressant. One painkiller. One opioid replacement, called Suboxone – he’d become hooked on that, in prison. Well, he had been the one who was dealing it to the others in prison, but still . . .

‘How’s your day been so far?’ he asked.

‘It’s been good, thank you, Mackenzie. You’re not out on the boat today? You heard the weather report?’

‘Yes, ma’am. No boat for me.’

‘Oh good.’ She nodded, a crease of concern between her brows. ‘I know how you like to take risks.’

Risks like drug dealing.

Risks like returning to Shacktown even though he’d been warned what would happen if he did.

Risks like getting his hopes up that he might have a normal life one day.

He laughed. ‘Not anymore. I’ve taken enough risks for one lifetime. They didn’t pay off.’

And he meant it.

He hoped it came across like he meant it.

He smiled, then limped towards the door. Lately the pain in his knee seemed to be getting worse, but the process for getting more painkillers was too much work for someone like him. As it was, he could only have his daily dose at the pharmacy – they had to be kept in a safe, under lock and key and restriction and regulation, and he wasn’t allowed to take them home.

‘Have a good day, Mackenzie,’ called the pharmacist.

‘Thank you, ma’am, you too. Let me know if you need me to get anything in for you . . .’

They both laughed. It was a bad joke. A drug dealer joke. That wouldn’t look good for him in court.

Once he was outside, he grimaced in pain. Being reformed hurt – the old Mack could’ve sourced better painkillers by other means.

Don’t think about that. Chin up.

He looked again at the sky. Rippled clouds were forming with speed. The faintest drone filled the air, something visceral and haunting that raised the hairs on Mack’s neck.

With his morning ritual complete, and nothing to do until his 8 pm curfew, he could head home and get out of the wind. He set out in that direction, ducking around a gaggle of tourists in big sun hats who were crowding the entrance to the surf shop.

If only he had a job that wasn’t dependant on Big Mane and his boat.