Inside the liquor store, Lawrence wiped his loafers and shook the rain from his coat sleeves. Half a pizza was waiting in his refrigerator at home. After a week of tests, hours spent coffined inside the MRI machine, he’d planned to pick up a six-pack, but now that he was here, surrounded by the phalanxes of bottles, he headed for the whiskey.
He chose a decent bourbon, then squeaked across the linoleum to the counter. There were three people ahead of him. The woman at the front was taking her time, examining the shelved cigarettes as if they were prizes at a fair, while the clerk watched, as bored as a carnival hand.
