style="font-size:15px;"> She reached for a pair of tweezers from Mrs Tate’s trays, using them to prise the wadding out onto the counter. A handful of Tylenol pills clattered out after it, the rest still wrapped up in cotton. Jodie unfolded the bundle, tipping the white oblongs into a pile. Thirty-six pills in total.
Her last plan had been easy: swallow the lot, the more the better. But this time, things weren’t so clear-cut. This time, she needed to strike a balance: swallow enough to get seriously ill, but not so many that they’d kill her.
She’d tried to research it in the prison library, tried to find a magic number that would keep her from tipping over the edge. But the few available medical textbooks were vague on the topic.
Jodie filled a beaker of water at the sink. Set it down beside the pills. Then she gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.
Just do it.
She gathered up half a dozen tablets, cupping them in the palm of her hand, staring at the white capsule-like shapes, at the Tylenol brand stamped in orange on the surface. She recalled what Momma Ruth had said about inmates who’d escaped: Mostly it happens while they’re being transported somewhere else.
She gripped the beaker. The prison med unit wasn’t equipped for emergency cases. It could handle detox and everyday complaints, but the serious stuff got shipped out. To the local hospital in Framingham, under CO escort.
Transported somewhere else.
Jodie stared at the pills. Stage one of a half-assed plan. Stage two, she’d figure out once she got to the hospital. Escaping from there had to be easier than breaking out of here.
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