"Do you have a pill-cutter," the man asks. His dark eyes are sad, hopelessness hidden within the fierce determination of his stare.
"Yes," she says, and finds it, the red one that her father used to use to multiply her mother’s stash of monthly meds. She chews her lip, resolved to keep inside the need to stop him.
In the darkening dusk of the kitchen, pills laid out as carefully as any powder line upon a mirror, the new old ones carefully and precisely cut them all in half.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology