The pharmacy counter never closes. That's the deal. 2 AM, Christmas morning, during a hurricane — somebody needs their insulin, and I'm the one who hands it across the counter.
I used to think this wasn't a real career. My grandmother's card-game circle had a lawyer, a teacher, a nurse. When they asked what I did, my mom would say 'he works at a pharmacy' like she was apologizing.
Last Tuesday a man came in at 3 AM with a feverish baby. No insurance card, shaking hands. I found his prescription, called his doctor to clarify the dosage, and walked him through it twice. He looked at me like I'd pulled his child from a river.
I went home and sat with the old piggy bank on my dresser, the one missing its rubber stopper from the bottom. Coins fall right through if you're not careful.
My grandmother told me once, at one of those card games, that I had hands for healing. I thought she was just being sweet because I was the only grandkid without a degree.
She wasn't being sweet. She was being accurate. Not every kind of healing happens in a white coat under a name plate. Some of it happens under fluorescent lights at 3 AM, behind a counter that never closes.