About twenty minutes later, Gregor came out, with Quinton hobbling along beside him, using a cane to bear his weight.
He was pale, and lines around his eyes and mouth indicated the pain he was in.
I got out of the car. “I’ll ride in the front with you, Gregor. Sweetheart, I think you need the room to stretch out your leg.”
“All right, Mother.”
Gregor held up a bottle, gave it a little shake, and tossed it to me. I caught it in my left hand and studied the label.
Vicodin, 750mg. I met his gaze.
“Yeah, I know.” Gregor shrugged. “A little girl wrote out the prescription. We’ve been at the pharmacy all this time.” He opened the rear door and helped Quinton get into the car.
The doctor prescribing this had no idea the amount of pain my son could endure, but I was still pleased he had an
