The scanner chirps, a flat, indifferent sound. On the small screen, the numbers glow a hostile green: R$237. For a moment, the world shrinks to the size of a small box, the kind they put expensive electronics in. It feels like that, anyway. An expensive component for a machine that isn’t working right. The machine is me. The components are three boxes of pills, a nasal spray that tastes like chemical bitterness, and eye drops that promise to extinguish a fire I can feel behind my corneas. I know I’ll be back in 47 days. The cycle is as predictable as the tides, a small, recurring invoice for the privilege of breathing without misery.
Recurring Invoice
For the privilege of breathing.
We get used to this transaction. We factor it into our monthly budget, nestled somewhere between groceries and the internet bill. But this number, the one on the pharmacy screen, is a masterful lie. It’s the cover charge, not the final bill. The real accounting happens in the quiet, unbillable moments. It’s the Tuesday morning meeting where you can’t follow the third slide because your head is packed with cotton. It’s the 47 minutes you spend staring at a blank document, trying to summon a single creative thought through a fog of antihistamines. It’s the polite but firm ‘no’ to a weekend hiking trip because you know the pollen count will reduce you


















