Gary told himself he was doing enough.

That was the phrase his brain kept circling back to, like it was a legal defence rather than a feeling. Enough pills. Enough rest. Enough attention paid to instructions, even if he occasionally skimmed the details and ignored the bits that sounded inconvenient.

He sat at his kitchen table, antibiotic packet open beside a mug of tea that had already gone cold. One tablet was missing from the blister pack. The next one stared back at him accusingly.

“I’ll take it later,” Gary muttered, as if the packet cared.

The pain had eased. Not gone, but softened enough that it felt negotiable. That was dangerous territory for Gary. Negotiable pain was how he ended up with problems that grew teeth of their own.

His phone buzzed with a message he’d been half-expecting.

How’s today feeling?

Gary stared at it for longer than necessary. Honesty would be easier in the long run, he knew that. But honesty also meant admitting he’d already bent the rules a little. Missed a dose. Delayed making the follow-up call. Told himself tomorrow would be fine.

Better, he typed. Think it’s settling.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just aggressively selective truth.

He put the phone down and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. The ache was still there, like a reminder tapping politely instead of shouting.

Gary had choices now. Real ones. He could tighten up, admit the wobble, and do this properly. Or he could keep skating along the edge, pretending half-measures counted as commitment.

He knew which one he usually chose.

Be honest about slipping and ask for help → Page 67

Hide it, pretend everything’s fine, and carry on → Page 68