States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

classic Florida mantra: No shirt. No shoes. No problem. Instead, it reads: No Weapons. No Phone. No Cameras.

Those waiting are in various stages of deterioration. It’s obvious some are too far down the road to survive much longer, their bodies shriveled, teeth mostly gone along with any hope for a better tomorrow. Today, along with whatever they can swallow, snort, or shoot, is all they have, all they will ever have. There are a few bright faces, young, for now. They too will look as old as time soon, the light in their eyes extinguished by what will become their single-minded obsession—the next fix.

On the side wall there are three bulletproof-glass windows: Check In—Cash Only, MRIs—Cash Only, and Prescriptions—Cash Only. Dozens of people are lined up in front of each, not one of whom is standing still. All biting nails, scratching skin, sniffing and sighing, every second getting closer to their next high. Behind the glass are women wearing scrubs decorated with pictures of Winnie-the-Pooh characters. Yellow background for Pooh, pink for Piglet, and blue for Eeyore.

I join the Check In line. The attendant takes two hundred fifty dollars in cash from each patient and drops the bills into a large red garbage bag labeled BIOHAZARD. A heap of identical bags is piled behind her chair.

“You have appointment with doctor, miss?” asks a young Asian woman in the Piglet scrubs seated behind the glass.

“No, but I’d like to see a doctor.”

“Not today, sweetie. We too busy.”

“I just want to get some information. I was thinking about making an appointment, but—”

The woman shoves a clear plastic bag through a slot under the window. “Here, information. Cash only, no insurances, fill in forms before come. Next please.” She flicks her wrist for me to step aside. I grab the bag and step back.

A cheer rises from the crowd when a woman wins a car on The Price is Right, playing on an ancient TV mounted high in a corner. A security camera is bolted to the top of the TV. I count seven other cameras.

I sit and tip the contents of the bag onto my lap. A photocopy of an ad from South Florida Weekly, a free local newspaper, saying, Chronic Pain? Stop Hurting and Start Living!, along with a list of all Florida Center for Pain locations: Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Delray Beach, Riviera Beach, and Orlando. Coupons offering a free first visit and twenty-five dollars cash for bringing in a new patient. The final item in the bag is another ad, this one for a fifty percent discount on an MRI at Mobile MRI.

On the far side of the room, a crowd has gathered around something. Shouts of “Out of the way. Out of the way!” burst from the center of the group. Four paramedics from the Fort Lauderdale Fire Department charge in and load a woman onto a stretcher, a twig of an arm dangling off the side.

I approach one of the medics who is packing away equipment. “That was scary. That happen a lot in here?”

The medic slings a heavy pack over her shoulders and shakes her head in disgust. “Every damn day. We’re over here every damn day. Overdoses, fights, you name it, it happens here in Zombieland every damn day.” She trots away to catch up with her colleagues toting the stretcher.

I sink onto a chair beside a sleeping woman, head tipped back, mouth open, no doubt one of the few moments in her day when she’s not trolling for her next high. In her lap, an open purse, a pill bottle visible on top, its contents a brownish color through the amber plastic. I don’t need to see the blue to know they’re oxycodone.

It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Just one pill. She’d never miss it. At least not until long after I’m gone. A moment of relief, the feeling that all’s right with the world. It would be easy.

No one will ever be the wiser, will they? Tomorrow will be just as good a day as today to rebuild my life as today. I deserve a break, a few moments of euphoria, don’t I?

Easy maybe. But also, wrong. So wrong.

I stand and shake myself so hard the woman awakens.

“One day at a time,” I say under my breath, a non sequitur which results in the woman clasping her purse to her chest.

“You okay, honey?” she asks.

I nod and walk away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand—how to defend Zoe.

I clasp my shaking hands and close my eyes. When I open them, Serena and a stocky man are emerging out of the restricted area. He hands her a duffel bag. It’s the albino guy from the Sinclair house.

I stuff the paraphernalia back into the bag and take off after them.

At the exit, I tap Serena on the shoulder. “Excuse me, you’re Serena Price, aren’t you?”

Serena keeps walking, the man’s beefy arm around her waist.

“If I could talk to you for a minute. I’m Zoe’s lawyer. You guys were friends.”

The man deposits his bulk between me and Serena. “Who she is ain’t none of your business.”

I grab my phone at the entrance and chase after Serena, the man having disappeared back inside the clinic.

“If I could just ask you a couple of questions, I’ll get out of your hair.”

Serena keeps walking. “Crazy bitch killed Brandon. No way I’m gonna do or say anything that could help her. I’m not telling you nothing.”

“But you guys were friends.”

Serena tucks the duffel under her arm.

“Why are you at a place like this?”

She clicks her key fob in the direction of her white BMW.

“You know anything about Brandon Sinclair selling drugs?”

Serena whips around, her eyes spearing me like dual daggers.

“How about you?” I point at the duffel. “What you got there?”

She shoves me aside and drops the duffel in the trunk. “Get away from me.”

“From what I hear, you were pretty close with Brandon. Maybe too close, is what I hear. I bet that’s something your parents might