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James Thomas moved through the crowded streets of Country R like a man already half-buried. Brown jeans clung loosely to his thinning frame, his white shirt wrinkled with neglect, a brown hat pulled low as though it could shield him from the world's judgment. He pushed open the door of a pharmacy and approached the counter, shoulders tense.
"I need some medication," he said.
The pharmacist looked him over. "For what condition?"
"My wife has been ill for a while," James replied, his voice low, strained. "Half her body is paralyzed. She can't control herself anymore… barely sleeps, barely eats. A doctor once prescribed something."
The pharmacist exhaled slowly, concern etched into his face.
"Sir, this sounds like a stroke complicated by neurological damage. She needs to be admitted to a hospital."
James's jaw clenched. "I can't afford that. Not right now."
Before the pharmacist could respond, the television mounted behind the counter crackled to life.
Breaking news.
