Britannia, NY

It's Sunday. Well, drinking on Sundays has been legal for years, right? And Lynn can use a drink. Saturday morning and afternoon she'd worked, and Saturdays were usually devoted to the most uptight parents imaginable--the ones who refused to pull their kids out of school for any reason. Then Saturday evening and most of Sunday morning had been devoted to budget planning. It gave her a headache, but it had to be done.

So, late on Sunday afternoon, after an early dinner, Lynn heads for the bar. She takes the bus, since it's cheap (money is still at the forefront of her mind) and she's conscientious about never drinking and driving. She has to be, as a doctor. It's still early for a bar, so the place is mostly empty. Lynn slides into a stool, leans on the bar with a sigh, and orders a cheap beer. When it comes, she sits up to sip, at the same time turning to survey the room for anyone she might care to speak with.

Lynn sighs in frustration as she pulls up to the grocery store. It's been another long day at work and she just wants to go home, to the condo that's all she she can afford until she finishes paying off her student loans. Just another year or two, she thinks as she locks the door and shoves her keys in her pocket. Then she can get some new debt and her own house: a house that will have, among other things, a bigger kitchen.

But her condo's small kitchen is what brings her here today--it needs to be stocked. She walks listlessly into the store, grabbing a cart as she goes. She's tired. Maybe she'll pick up something to microwave for dinner, unhealthy as it is. The dreams she's been having don't help, and neither do the rumors of a strange man who's just moved into town; parents are anxious, asking her questions she doesn't know how to answer. People are so suspicious in a small town. She bags a few apples, then a head of lettuce, putting them in her cart.

She nods to most of the people she passes in the grocery store; if she doesn't know them by name, she knows their faces. Three of her patients are here now, two with their mothers, one with her father. They smile and wave at her. Four-year-old Lila even blows her a kiss. That cheers Lynn up, and she stands up a little straighter, smiling, but still heads for the frozen foods aisle. She's not paying attention when she gets there, and when she opens the door to reach for a frozen spinach pizza, she almost hits someone else. "I'm sorry!" she exclaims automatically, turning to make sure the person's all right.