I leave the flat, fumble with the keys, insert them into the lock and twist. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pull the keys back out of the door without dropping them but somehow I manage and I fling myself down the stairs, taking them two by two. My briefcase unlatches and bursts open, spilling out documents , cigarettes and a couple packets of gum all over the steps like a crazed mosaic. A white tube cascades to the ground, the pills inside rattling like maracas, the word Diazepam flashing. I have to take a deep breath to steady my racing pulse before reaching down to scoop the items back into my bag. I hold the white tube for longer than is necessary, before sliding out a pill and tipping it down my throat. Three left. I slip it back into my pocket. I can’t afford to leave the apartment even a minute behind schedule.
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