Capsule

So I’m late.  I walk into the conversation room hoping that they will still be there, but they are not.  They are already gone.

I walk over to one of the chairs, and feel the cushion.  Still a bit warm.  I can’t have missed them by much.

I walk back toward the hallway, but something small on the floor catches my eye.  I walk over to investigate, and pick it up.

It’s a capsule.  A capsule, as in some sort of medicine that one might take orally.  It’s orange and gray in color (grey if you’re British, I think).

I recognize it, of course.  It’s generic, but it’s a commonly-used antidepressant.

Capsule.

I look up, and then look around.  The toy space capsule is gone.

Capsule.

Yeah, this is what happened to the boy.  This is why it was so hard to coax him out today for the meeting.

On an impulse, I break open the capsule in my hand.

There’s nothing inside.

I wonder if it matters whether or not I specify who is playing me today.  I don’t think it does.

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