"Where's the Vicodin, Amy?"
"It's right over here."
"I know where it is. You know that's not what I'm asking. Where's the Vicodin?"
Amy manages the stock at the pharmacy. She makes sure everything is in place and accounted for. Nothing goes out without a prescription. Nothing comes in without being logged. Sometimes older medicines are destroyed. Nothing is out of place. People's lives depend on this.
Amy does her job very well.
"There are forty-eight Vicodin tablets missing. Where are they?"
"That's impossible. They must be here."
Amy never misplaces anything.
She is talking to the state inspector. Once in a while they come around to make sure the pharmacy is in good order. Amy has never had any trouble. They usually find something minor to recommend so they can justify their jobs, like "This sink should be labeled for no medicinal waste" or "The restroom should have a sign reminding employees to wash their hands," but she has never had a problem.
Missing drugs are a problem.
"Count your stock for me."
Amy pulls the pills out onto the counter and starts moving them to count them.
This is a new inspector. The last one had been a middle-aged woman. She seemed nice, but they had to maintain a professional demeanor, so Amy had never chatted with her. The interaction was quick and dry, so they could both go back to work.
The new inspector acted the same way, but he had found a problem. He is an older man, maybe forty-fivish, with grey hair. He isn't wearing the uniform of a pharmacist. He has navy blue slacks and a white, button-down, short sleeve shirt.
He is average height and build. A lot of men his age have started to put on a few pounds and gain a little belly, but he is still reasonably in shape. This guy must be a control freak. He won't even let his body age.
He has tortoise-shell glasses.
Amy finishes.
"Forty-eight are missing."
"Amy, where is the Vicodin?"
Amy is very young, despite her position. She is only twenty-two. The long skirt and blouse she wears create a very professional look. Her straight brown hair is pulled back, and her makeup is subtle.
Even under her conservative appearance, you can see a figure that turns heads. For almost ten years, she has had a nice hourglass shape with round, womanly hips. Ever since she developed her full chest, men have been kind to her.
"I don't know what happened to it."
"Whose job is it to know?"
"Mine."
He is staring down at her now. She can tell from his cold look that things will be difficult.
"It looks like you aren't doing your job very well."
"Wait just a second. I'm sure it will turn up."
She starts looking around the shop, but there is nowhere the pills could have gone. Everything is in it's place. There are no empty spots. They aren't in the trash can. They aren't on the counter.
"Don't worry, Amy. It is pretty clear what happened."
"What?"
"Vicodin is popular. You just needed to make a few extra dollars. How long has this been going on?"
"It isn't true! I never stole! It must be here."
"I don't have time for this. I'll prepare a report for your employer. If I were you, I would get a lawyer."
"Please don't tell the pharmacist. I'm sure it will turn up. Why should I get a lawyer?"
"Selling drugs is a crime, Amy. I have to report you to the police."
"Can't you just give me a day to find it? It must be here somewhere."
"You had your time. I'll see you in court."
"Please. I'll do anything. Just don't report me to the police."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"Show me your tits."
"What?!?"
"Show me your tits."
"I can't do that."
"Then you'll go to prison. So long."
He turns calmly, and starts heading for the door, whistling. His shoes make a click-click sound on the floor as he heads towards the door. It seems like nothing could make him happier than ruining a young girl's life.
"Wait!"
He keeps walking.
"Wait, please."
At the door, he stops and turns around.
