Neha Kulkarni looked up. The girl turned her head. Up close he saw raindrops on her eyelashes, and that she was not as calm as she was trying to look; the tips of her fingers, flat on the counter, were white.
"I'm Dennis Albrecht," he said to the pharmacist, and took the leather folder off his belt and opened it so she could see the badge. He was not on duty. He did not have to do it. He did it anyway, because he wanted it on the table. "I'm the chief of police here. I'm sorry to step in. I'd just like to understand the situation before this goes out the door, if that's all right."
The pharmacist looked at the badge, and then at him, and he saw relief go across her face and then something more complicated after it. "I was just—" she said. "Her mom sent a note. It's non-controlled. It's insulin."
"I know it is." He turned to the girl. He made his voice as easy as he could. "Hi, Ruthie. Is it Ruthie?"
"Yes."
"Ruthie, where's your mom tonight?"
"At home." She pointed, not at the window, but in the general direction of the street. "Across the street."
"And she sent you over here by yourself? In the dark, in the rain?"
"It's sixty-one steps," the girl said.
He wasn't sure he'd heard her. "It's what?"
"From our stairs to your door. It's sixty-one steps. She can see the whole way."
"Okay." He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Okay. But I'll be honest with you, Ruthie, because I think you're a smart kid and you'd know if I wasn't. Kids don't just pick up medication alone. Not usually. Not at night, not with their mom's wallet and her card and a box of needles. When I see that, I've got to ask some questions. That's my job. It's not because I think you did anything wrong."