"So you people drive to Iowa after 8:00 p.m. every time you need a prescription filled? That's insane!" I bark at her. Softly she whispers, "Yes, I'm afraid we do." Clenching my teeth and rolling my toes up and down on the rough, burnt orange carpet in our room, I hang up with her and dial Jeffrey's eye doctor. After briefly and graphically explaining his symptoms she agrees that yes, he has another eye infection that requires antibiotics immediately. "Well, we are away for our ten-year anniversary, so you'll have to call the prescription into the Walgreens in Dubuque," I angrily retort, not opening my jaws. "Dubuque, as in Iowa?" she asks in that way one does when she's woken up in a strange place and has to pause to get her bearings. I picture her shaking her head and thinking that we won't make it to year eleven. "Yes, as in Iowa," I sneer. "Don't ask."
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