The local pharmacy was a fluorescent-lit sanctuary of liniment smells and quiet shuffling. Elias marched to the "Braces and Supports" aisle. There it was, tucked between a knee sleeve and a wrist wrap: a professional-grade counterforce brace.
He pushed away from his desk and pulled up a browser. He didn’tHe typed the words into the search bar with his left hand:
"Lateral epicondylitis," the doctor had said two weeks ago, though Elias just called it "the writer’s tax." Most people called it tennis elbow, which Elias found ironic considering the most athletic thing he’d done in a decade was sprint for a closing elevator.
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