He drags the old couch free. Eddy is up on a chair pulling down dusty packets of pills. There are eight packets of Valium, some ancient, the packets faded, but the pills are still sealed up tight inside the bubble packs. There are two packets of Aropax, which are antidepressants, two lots of fluid pills, a container of Slow K, just potassium, and three other types of pills, which Lori knows nothing about and Eddy hasn’t got his Internet to find out what they’re for. Behind those pills and beneath them, like a dusty mess of scrap paper, are the prescriptions, some curled, some faded, some nibbled by silverfish and probably out of date, but some brand new. There is one for Aropax. It’s got a heap of repeats and there’s a whole mess of Valium scripts – not that they’ll need any more of those. ‘At eight Valium a day and one Aropax, we’ve got enough pills here to keep her going for about sixty days,’ Eddy says. ‘So we give her a two-month sentence for child abuse,’ Jamesy says.
