A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-2

Pills as White Solids
Three people ahead of me at the pharmacy. Two pharmacists behind the counter. I hand over the prescription. One takes it, walks to the back, opens a drawer, retrieves a bottle. He shakes it. He pours pills into a tray, meticulously counts them. Bagged and sealed. The printer spits out a label; he affixes it. "One tablet daily," he says. "At bedtime. No alcohol." I acknowledge. I take the bag, slide it into my coat pocket. Leaving the counter, I feel the pills rattling softly against the fabric as I walk.

First Full Night's Sleep
Exactly 10 PM. I tip one pill from the bottle into my palm. Head to the kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard, turn on the tap. Pill into mouth. Tongue dry. Water washes it down.  I leave the glass unwashed in the sink. Back to the bedroom, I lie down, close my eyes. The next thing I know: daylight. Eyes open. Light seeps through the blinds. Clock: 7:20. I sit up, walk to the window, pull open the blinds.  I stand for about a minute. Then realization dawns: I slept. From closed eyes to open eyes—no waking in between. A full nine hours. I take out my phone and mark the day on the calendar: November 17th. The Day Sleep Returned.

Effects Begin to Fade
Day Fourteen. The doctor's pills sit beside the bed.  I pry one out with a fingernail. It catches briefly in my throat when I swallow. Eyes closed after lying down, my mind floods with the office.  Only the charts on the projector screen, red arrows pointing downwards. Eyes open. Clock: 11:47. I lay down at ten. Sitting up, my heart thumps hard and fast, audible. Kitchen light off. Another bottle sits on the counter—sleep aids. Unscrew the cap, tip one out, swallow dry. The pill scrapes down, bitterness rising. I bend to drink straight from the faucet. Cold water. After lying back down, I stare at the ceiling, waiting. Eventually, eyelids grow heavy. This time, I sleep.

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