So there was this elderly couple that I delivered medication to on a regular basis ever since getting my job at the pharmacy where I work. Two weeks would never go by where I did not at least deliver them three or four bottles of pills to their quaint apartment. The apartment often smelt of molasses and I received smiles and thanks each time I came and went. They would never pay in cash, and they would never charge their medication--only checks and more checks. The wife wore her pants too high and the husband sat on the couch like a sloth. Her name was Pearl and his was Wallace. They were old and still in love. After many months of my routine of stopping in to their same apartment in their same old folks apartment complex, a sudden change emerged. One day, after packaging one of their deliveries like normal, I was told to deliver it to the hospital. So I went, making my way through the massive building with the white walls and the nurses and the doctors moving about. Following a trek through a labyrinth of hallways and doorways, I came to their hospital room, clear on the extreme far side of the building. Pearl sat blankly in a chair and Wally (the name he went by) lay comatose on the hospital bed with tubes inserted in him and machines surrounding him. The only sound he made was the occasional moan. Pearl paid for the medication by check, like always, and I continued delivering to that same hospital room for weeks. Then, curiously, the deliveries for the couple one day stopped. I never thought much of it. In fact, I did not even notice the irregularity until today when I received a delivery for Pearl. It was to be delivered to the same apartment in the same old folks apartment complex, once again. I drove to their apartment under the winter sun which was bright. Pearl answered the intercom and buzzed me in. When I got into the apartment, Pearl was standing there to greet me like usual and her checkbook was patiently waiting on the counter. Wally was not resting on the couch, but this was not unusual; he also often slept in their bedroom and I could sometimes hear his snoring. I did not hear any snoring on this particular day. Before opening her checkbook, Pearl inquired about some routine questions pertaining to her account at the pharmacy. After I answered her questions amiably, she started again with a new tone. "But these days," she began, "there won't be as many deliveries now that Wally . . ." And she could not even finish the sentence. She broke down in a flurry of tears. For a moment, I was confused. The thought had not even crossed my mind that Wally was dead, however stupid that may have been of me. She cried and cried, attempting, unsuccessfully, to carry on in communing with me. The tears just kept coming and coming and, in hindsight, I remembered noticing her red-rimmed eyes as I entered just minutes beforehand. I never have been very proficient in these types of situations, but I did my best to mutter some useless condolences. The circumstance was equally awkward as it was somber. She charged the medication to her account before I escaped. If someone cries like that when I'm dead then I will be pretty happy in the ground.