I stood in the back office of the pharmacy off of Francisco Silvela, arm sleeved rolled up, fist clenched.
“No me gusto,” I said to the pharmacy technician as she prepared removed the shot from its white box.
“Si,” she said, sympathizing with me (?).
And then I felt the needle break the skin. Then, it was over.
“Gracias,” I said, smiling with relief. “Hasta luego.”
“Adios,” she responded.
I gathered my belongings and headed out the door back into the overcast Madrid day.
That was shot numero dos, Hepatitis A.