{ "item_title" : "Refills Remaining", "item_author" : [" Rowan March "], "item_description" : "The label reads REFILLS REMAINING: 3. The patient has been dead for six weeks.Four nights a year, Ada Coe closes the counter at Grady Drug - the only pharmacy for forty miles of Presa County, Texas - and reconciles the quarter by hand, every line in the day-book checked against every bottle on the shelf. She has kept that ritual for thirty-odd years, and it has never handed her a thing she could not file. Tonight it hands her Edith Casson: four prescriptions, thirty-day supplies, refilled together on the first of every month - and Edith Casson buried since August, Ada standing at the graveside in her good coat. Two fills have gone out since the funeral. The initials on the first belong to Ada's technician, who worked the queue that morning like any other morning. The initials on the second are Ada's own.Nobody told the computer. That is the whole of the mechanism: a profile nobody closed, a queue that prints what it knows, a store that fills what the queue says the county needs. Ada's initials were on the file before she knew there was a file to be on. And the account does not read like an oversight. A dying woman's refill dates drifted quietly into step across her final year, until four medicines landed on one tidy day a month. The pay was cash, every time, exact. Nothing is missing from Grady Drug - not a capsule, not a cent. Ada has counted the account every way she was ever taught, and it is perfect, and perfect is what is wrong with it.In Alamito the kindness is total, and the watching comes with it: the town keeps one polished sentence for every family on its books, and everyone at the counter has known Ada her whole working life. Reporting the account means reporting the store - her license, her technician's clean hands, the name over the door that was her teacher's before it was hers. Closing it quietly means deciding, alone, over a label, that a number is all this ever was - and never learning what the number was holding up. The state's calendar turns on its own time; a pharmacy's record is the one thing in Texas that always gets read eventually. The machine has already made Ada part of it. What it cannot do is choose for her.Three refills remain, and the first of the month is coming.A complete, standalone psychological thriller. No cliffhanger.", "item_img_path" : "https://covers2.booksamillion.com/covers/bam/9/79/818/707/9798187078721_b.jpg", "price_data" : { "retail_price" : "13.99", "online_price" : "13.99", "our_price" : "13.99", "club_price" : "13.99", "savings_pct" : "0", "savings_amt" : "0.00", "club_savings_pct" : "0", "club_savings_amt" : "0.00", "discount_pct" : "10", "store_price" : "" } }

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