"Hi," said the pharmacist. "Can I help you?"
"I'm picking up for Lauren Dalby," the girl said. Her voice was clear and a little too loud, the voice of someone who has practiced the sentence. "D-A-L-B-Y. Her birthday is March third, nineteen ninety-two. She lives at one-fourteen-and-a-half Front Street, apartment two-B."
Denny noted that she'd given all three, name, birthday, address, before being asked. He noted the half in the address. He noted that she had read the sign, or had been told what the sign would say.
The pharmacist typed. Denny watched her face as the profile came up. He watched her eyes move across the screen and stop.
"Okay," Neha Kulkarni said slowly. "I do have something ready for Lauren. And who are you?"
"I'm her daughter. Ruthie Dalby."
"How old are you, Ruthie?"
"Ten."
"Is your mom here with you? Is she out in the car?"
"No. She's home. She can't come."
The pharmacist did not say anything for a moment. She glanced at the laminated sign taped to her own counter as though it might have changed since she last read it. Denny had seen that look on a lot of people. It was the look of somebody new in a place, holding a rule she did not write.
"Okay," the pharmacist said again. "Ruthie. Usually we like an adult to pick up. Can you tell me why your mom can't come?"