"I’m here for the prescription. For David Thorne," Elias said. His voice sounded thin, even to his own ears.

The question had pounded in his head for three days, ever since his father’s breathing had turned into a rhythmic, rattling struggle. The hospice nurse had mentioned it—the "comfort pack"—but the paperwork was stuck in some bureaucratic purgatory between the doctor’s office and this fluorescent-lit altar of relief.

Elias sank into a plastic chair. He watched the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking with agonizing precision, realizing that while you can buy many things, mercy still required a signature.