The Scarf for Nobody in Particular

The back room of the pharmacy is smaller than a parking space. Today it holds two people who do not like each other.

Nils stands by the shelves with a clipboard. He labels everything. Every box of tablets has a neat white sticker with a date, a number and his initials. Adaeze sits at the little desk by the door, and she works in a completely different way. She remembers where things are by feel, and she never writes a thing down.

"You've moved the cough syrup again," Nils says.

"I've put it where people can reach it," Adaeze says. "You hid it behind the vitamins."

"I filed it behind the vitamins. There's a difference."

They have worked in the same pharmacy for four years. For three of those years, they have been polite. This year, the owner says that one of them will become the head pharmacist. The politeness has quietly disappeared. Now they count each other's mistakes like points in a game.

On the hook behind the desk hangs a long striped scarf. It is blue and yellow and green, and it is already almost two metres long. Adaeze knits it during her breaks, a few rows at a time. Nobody knows who it is for. Nils has asked about it once, and she only shrugs.

"It's for no one in particular," she says.

"Nobody knits two metres of scarf for no one," he says.

"I do."

Today is Friday, and the area manager is coming on Monday to inspect the shop. Everyone in the building knows that the back room must be perfect by then. The manager, a tall woman with a very quiet voice, arrives at nine o'clock with a plan.

"The inspection is about the cold storage and the stock list," she says. "Nils, you have the list. Adaeze, you have the keys to the cabinet. Neither of you can finish without the other. So you will work together until it is done."

"Together?" Nils says.

"Together," she repeats, and she leaves.

For the first two hours, they work like two people sharing a very small boat. Nils reads out a name and a number, and Adaeze finds the box and gives it back. Neither of them says anything kind. Once, Nils reads a number wrong, and Adaeze lets him know about it with a very long look.

"That was a seven," she says.

"It was a one."

"It's a seven. Look at the box, not at your handwriting."

He looks. It is a seven. He says nothing. He writes the number again with great care, and she hides a smile behind her coffee cup.

At eleven o'clock, a thin, high alarm begins to sound from the corner of the room. Both of them freeze. The noise is coming from the big fridge where the pharmacy keeps its vaccines and insulin. A small orange light flashes on the door.

"The cooling has stopped," Nils says. His voice is suddenly very calm. "We have about twenty minutes before the temperature gets too high."

"Then we move everything. Now."

"Where to? The second fridge is in the shop, and it's full of customers' orders."

Adaeze is already on her feet. "Then we empty the orders onto the counter and put the vaccines in the second fridge. The orders can sit on the shelf for an hour. They don't need cold."

"That breaks three rules."

"Which is better, breaking three rules or throwing away a whole shelf of medicine?"

Nils opens his mouth. Then he closes it and nods. "You take the orders out. I'll carry the vaccines. We need ice packs for the walk through the shop."

"The ice packs are in the freezer on the left."

"There's a problem with that too," Nils says, and he points. The freezer's door is stuck. The cold has made the rubber seal swell. It will not open without a pull from two hands.

They each take a handle. "On three," Adaeze says. "One, two, three."

The door opens with a loud crack. A cloud of white air rolls out. A pile of ice packs falls onto the floor like cold bricks. They scoop them up and carry them to the big fridge. Inside, the vaccines sit in neat white rows, each with Nils's sticker on top.

"Your labels help," Adaeze admits, while she lifts a tray. "I can see the dates at once."

"Your memory helps," he says. "I would never find the second fridge's key in this mess."

"The key is on the hook. Behind the scarf."

He reaches behind the scarf and finds it. It takes less than a minute. They have an idea at the same moment, and they both say it together: "The scarf."

"It's thick wool," Nils says. "It keeps the cold in."

"It's two metres long. We can wrap the ice packs in it and lay the vaccines on top."

"But it's for no one in particular."

"Then it's for this," Adaeze says, and she takes it from the hook without a second thought.

They wrap the ice packs in the soft wool. They line a plastic box with them and fit the vaccines in carefully. Nils carries the box through the shop like a precious cake. Adaeze runs ahead and moves the customers' orders from the second fridge to the counter. Then she holds the door open with her foot. A man waiting to pay for his shampoo watches them with open interest.

"Is this normal?" he asks.

"Perfectly normal," Adaeze says. "We do it every Friday."

In under twelve minutes, every box is safely in the second fridge. Nils checks the temperature three times. It stays at exactly the right number. Adaeze sits down heavily on the stool behind the counter and laughs. He laughs too, and for a moment they look like two old friends.

The repair man arrives at noon. He fixes the big fridge in twenty minutes. The cooling hum returns to the back room like a very old song.

On Monday, the area manager walks in at nine o'clock sharp. She inspects the shelves, the labels, the fridge and the stock list. She asks a lot of questions, and Nils and Adaeze answer them together, one finishing the other's sentence. When she finishes, she writes a long note on her form.

"Excellent," she says at last. "You two have the cleanest back room in the region. And the owner has asked me to tell you something. There is no single head pharmacist this year. There are two."

Nils turns to Adaeze, and for the first time in months, he does not see a rival.

"Co-heads," he says. "I suppose I can share a desk."

"You can share more than that," Adaeze says. She holds up the scarf, still a little damp from the ice packs. It is nearly three metres long now.

"So it is for someone in particular now?" Nils asks.

"It's for whoever stops moving my cough syrup," she says.