At four, the chemist only opens the hatch

The third of the night rings at ten past four: a father with a prescription for children's ibuprofen.

Rocío, the pharmacist on night duty, does not open the door. She opens twenty centimetres of hatch, charges three euros twenty, repeats the gap between doses and goes back to her stool to wait for the fourth.

Outside there is a bench and a switched-off cigarette machine. And you, the fourth, who walked twenty minutes to get here because at eleven it wasn't worth the fuss.