Cyrus stood in the kitchen of the apartment he moved into in the ghetto of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The landlord had asked that no pets be brought in, but Cyrus decided that his favorite St. Bernard was too good to be left out, and brought her inside. Just inside the door sat a 12 gauge shotgun, Cyrus had been hearing awkward noises outside of his house, and didn’t want to take a chance with anything. As he went through the house, the sound of little footsteps could be heard. A smirk came over Cyrus’ face as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, but all that the camera could catch was a shadow leaving the room. Cyrus turned around, and sat down on a couch, scratching the inside of his thigh. He grabbed a remote, looking at the television. Without pressing a button, the television turned on, and Cyrus sat back, watching Sports Center.

His cell phone began to vibrate, Cyrus picked it up, sighing.

“Hello?”

His voice was soft and unappealing, as though it hadn’t been used in a while.

“Cyrus? Cyrus O’Haire?”

“Yeah… who is this?”

The man on the other side of the phone line paused.

“I’m your doctor, Cyrus.”

Cyrus shut the phone. He looked back at the television and started to laugh, as though nothing had happened. Then, the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

The same tone.

“I’m not going to try to—“

The phone once again clicked shut. Again, the sound of footsteps as Cyrus turned to the kitchen, but nothing was seen. The phone rang again.

“Cyrus, listen for just a couple seconds.”

Cyrus went to close his phone… but something stopped him.

“You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“Good. I’m Dr. Nguyen from the hospital, I looked over you while you were in there. Now, I pulled some strings and got you out of here, being as you and I both know that you shouldn’t have been here in the first place. But, it’s on one condition.”

Cyrus perks up, listening to the man.

“What’s that?”

“Well, unless you follow a strict routine of taking a prescribed ‘experimental’ drug, you’ll end up right back here, in a box so tight a fart couldn’t get out.”

Cyrus sighs.

“Drugs… I don’t need drugs.”

The doctor pauses.

“Cyrus, I know. But it’s what these guys want you to have, and, well… I have to comply. But if you do this, you don’t need to keep that shotgun next to your door.”

Cyrus looked at the gun… then spoke.

“How’d you know that was there?”

“Just do this for m—you. Trust me. You won’t have to worry about the police showing up at your door, taking you to a prison, rather than back here. And the pills, while they cost a lot, do make you feel pretty damn good, trust me. I’ve seen people on them.”

Cyrus shook his head.

“Where do I get these drugs?”

The doctor paused.

“Got a pen and paper ready?”

Cyrus took the address down, reluctantly.

Little did he know, this would be the beginning of a long string of pain, caused by said medicine…