It’s 0217. Again. The clock glows. That little red digital thing. It’s always glowing. Sometimes I think it’s mocking me, you know? Like, “still here, eh? Still awake? Still counting down the minutes until that next dose needs to be given?” And yeah. Still here. Still awake. Still counting. The routine is… well, it’s a routine. But it’s not *my* routine. It’s this other thing’s routine. And it’s consuming everything. I used to be so good at this. Discipline. Precision. Everything laid out, every contingency planned for. A kit for everything, a protocol for every kit. You learn that. You absorb it. You live it. But this… this is different. There's no op-order for "Elderly Parent with Ten Different Meds, Some of Which Interact Horribly." No chain of command for when the pharmacy messes up the refill or the co-pay is suddenly three times what it was last month. Just me. And the pills. And the dread. The pill sorter is a battlefield. Monday through Sunday, AM and PM. So many little compartments. Each one a potential landmine. Is it the blue one with the score mark, or the other blue one that’s slightly smaller but also scored? What if I mix them up? What if I miss one? That one time… remember that one time? The eyes rolled back. The gasping. The ambulance. The sirens. I can still hear them, sometimes. Just when I’m about to drift off. A little crescendo of wailing in my head. And then the guilt. Always the guilt. Because I resent it. I really do. I resent that I can’t go out with friends. I resent that I can’t just… sleep. I resent that every decision I make, every single one, revolves around that little grid of plastic and the schedule I’ve got taped to the fridge. “Did he take the water pill?” “Did I give him the blood thinner?” It’s a constant loop. And sometimes I wish I could just… stop. Drop it all. Walk away. But then the fear clenches in my gut. The image of that thing happening again. And I know I can’t. I just… can’t. They say “it’s your father.” Like that’s supposed to make it all okay. Like that wipes away the years of… well, you know. The yelling. The impossible standards. The way he looked at me when I told him I was enlisting. “Wasting your life.” He said. “A waste.” Funny how things come full circle. Now I’m here. Wasting my life, I guess. In a different way. Still, I check the clock. 0219. Almost time for the next round. *Almost*. It’s never quite time. Just always almost.