Cold Box, Warm Lies

@nichey

The van’s rear doors bang open at dawn, and the cold air of the cargo bay spills out into a briny, rust-colored light. A man in a stained work coat crouches at the threshold, a penlight clamped between his teeth, and tilts the box you are clutching so the label catches the beam. He reads it twice, then spits the light into his palm. “That is not medicine,” he says. “And whoever sold it to you knows exactly where this van is.” He looks past you, at the loading bay mouth, where a second vehicle’s headlights have just swept the corrugated wall.