After lessons, Iga would stay in her aunt's neighbourhood shop, between the parcel machine and the photocopier. She liked the smooth clatter of coins at the till and the neon sign that blinked only to her. She knew the street like the pocket of a sweatshirt: bus clocks, creaking hinges, people coming back from the gym. The usual things behaved reasonably here, as long as no one asked what she really needed. That afternoon she asked the cashier, pressing SKAN as if she were weaving the question into a beam of light. The beep sounded different at an apple for taste than at an apple for courage before talking. The label flashed on the display, adding in a whisper: one zloty, and someone's better evening free. Iga laughed quietly, thinking it was just electricity, or a radio with exceptional humour. A woman in a worn jacket walked in the door, carrying a blank sheet of paper like a carefully transported plate. - 'The list, but the ink is out,' she said, showing a sheet of paper that smelled of rain and toner. Iga slid the lamp under the counter and the letters flowed out like hot chocolate over a cold plate. Silence in a jar, courage in powder, patience in cubes, please, no commercial, thank you. Behind her back, between the flour and the toothpaste, stood the apothecary jars, as if they were always here waiting. She touched one and warmth passed through her fingers, leaving a glint on her skin, like after cold sparks. - 'Don't dose without reason,' the woman muttered, as if repeating the words after someone she hadn't seen in a long time. The bell rang again and Olek from her class rushed in, out of breath, his hair standing up like antennae. - 'Energetic and whatever for stress,' he threw out, looking around as if something invisible and cold was chasing him. The jars clanked quietly, the caps moved, like coins fidgeting in a pocket during a difficult conversation. The radio, usually playing commercials, turned down on its own and turned on a song that Olek had hated since childhood. Iga felt the shop change rhythm, as if someone had clapped and the world had caught the same beat. She reached for Courage to calm the glass trembling, but at the same time a second, determined hand reached out. Their fingers made contact on the warm jar and the cap clicked, releasing the scent of cinnamon and thunderstorm. The light flicked on and the parcel box squeaked open and the door with the number nine, the smallest one, spontaneously opened. A parcel tied with printer's tape fell to the floor, popped up, and stopped next to Iga's shoes. On the label, glowing like a phone screen, was her name, and the radio whispered: pick up now or never.