“Hang on, I gotta make a call.” Walking out to Aaron’s SUV, Duke tried calling his father, who was his business manager, but there was no response. “Pops,” Duke said, leaving a message. “Call if you get this. I need you to drop some money at the clinic out in Mount Eden. I’ll explain tonight.” And I don’t need any of your bullshit, he wanted to add, but didn’t. He’d deal with his father later.

Aaron opened the car door for him, bowing like a butler. “Where you want to go, bro?”

“There’s a bar a couple blocks from here.” Duke pictured a row of tequila shots.

“We not going to some whack dive bar.”

“Fine. Let’s go to that place Roland’s always talking about, not too far from here. The Peacock.”

“And then I’m supposed to drive you home? From Mount Eden to Fordham? How is it I’m always the designated driver?”

“I’ll take an Uber, you big fat baby.” Duke smiled, knowing his agent would never allow him in a stranger’s car. He was not going to let his star player out of his sight, not until Duke was safely back with the team. “Come on.”

Angel had to leave the pharmacy before she found herself on the five o’clock news, wanted for murder.

The squat woman at the counter had tried to help, but after wrestling with the computer for a couple of minutes she told Angel, “Ma’am, your insurance is declining this prescription. They say they don’t cover this medication.”

“They covered it two weeks ago!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Fine. How much is it?”

“The albuterol and inhaler are sixty dollars, if you get the one with only twenty doses. But the doctor wanted you to get the sixty-five-dose inhaler, plus a backup inhaler, and some Claritin.” The counterwoman waited while Angel, cursing, dug out her wallet. She had just enough money for the small inhaler.

She pounded her thigh in frustration, guilt, and the unending river of anger. Dr. Collins had said Jose was completely recovered and that it was fine to send him home with Gabriela, that the treatment he had given the boy should last until tomorrow. Should.

She’d get Claritin after work, with her tips. And she’d bleach down the apartment walls again. Something was making his asthma worse. She’d been arguing with the landlord about the mold in the apartment for almost a year. He couldn’t care less. For now, she could only clean and hope Jose didn’t have another attack.