The corner of the carton had gone soft on the side he always took it by. It stood in the first drawer of the dresser, behind the desk fan, the tab already open. Su A-hong took out the blister pack, pressed out the pill and put it on the plate next to the others. Then she put the box back in the drawer, upright, with the lettering facing out.

The flat was on the fourth floor of a building in Wenshan, in Taipei, with no lift. From the kitchen you could see the wall of the building next door.

In the bedroom the fold of the bedspread was on the wall side, neat. He had slept. On the windowsill two white orchids were in flower and the water in the pot was clear.

Su A-hong had been coming three mornings a week for thirteen months. She opened the windows, did the shopping, put the pills in order on the plate and took the rubbish down.

"I've taken the pills," said the man from the armchair.

"You're taking them now. Yesterday's you took yesterday," said Su A-hong.

He looked at the plate. Then he turned towards the window and stayed like that.

The shelf behind the counter was the third from the floor. The pharmacist took the box without looking, the way you take things that are always in the same place, and held it while he read the screen. Su A-hong had put the empty blister pack on the counter, the date circled in red by the pharmacy.

"It's last month's," she said.

Since June the Wenshan man's account had been frozen. In the neighbourhood the thing was known like this: the passbook and the seal were held by law by the person appointed to hold them, since June that person no longer came round, the account had stayed where it was, and what was in it was not what should have been in it.

The Wenshan man had no relatives in the city. A niece lived in Kaohsiung and did not come. The account was in his name. No one could move that name, so there was no one to ask for anything.

From the radio on the fridge came a baseball game with Japanese commentary.

The pharmacist had already given him the box twice, the second time without saying anything. After all, he had known him for twenty years, and his was the only pharmacy on the street open in the evening.

Su A-hong opened her purse below the level of the counter. She had two hundred and forty dollars and the box cost twice that. Her monthly pay came through the same channel as the account, and in September it had not arrived.

"I come three mornings. I open the windows, do the shopping, put the pills in order and take the rubbish down," she said.

The pharmacist looked at her and asked nothing more. He pressed two keys. On the screen the name of the drug came up with the dosage beside it, and below it the name of the account holder.

He set the box on the counter, between the empty blister pack and the card reader. Then he looked at the screen.

The carton left the counter and touched the shelf behind the pharmacist's shoulders. He did not put it back in its place. He left it standing against a tin of powdered milk with a yellow discount sticker. Then he turned the screen half a turn towards Su A-hong, just enough to let her see two lines. The name of the account holder. Below it, the words that kept the funds frozen.

"I've given it twice already, only family goes on the family's account, the third time I pay," said the pharmacist.

The vaccine fridge hummed against the wall. Su A-hong rested her hand on the edge of the counter and kept it there. About the rule he was right. About his own money he was right, and in any case he closed at nine.

"Are you a relative?" said the pharmacist.

The box was a metre from her, behind his shoulder, and on the carton the name of the drug was printed in large letters, the kind you can read from a distance, so that the Wenshan man could find it by himself in the first drawer of the dresser.

"I'm not a relative, I'm nobody to him," said Su A-hong.

She said it once, in the voice she used for schedules. The pharmacist nodded. He turned the screen back towards himself and switched it half off, as he did before closing. On the counter the empty blister pack and the card reader remained. Then he turned, took the carton from the shelf and put it back on the rack, third from the floor, in the gap of its own size. The carton went in with a scrape. No one repeated the sentence.

The second landing had a window that did not open and a pair of new men's shoes leaning against the wall, polished, a large size. Su A-hong stopped there and changed hands with the bags. The bags were light. Inside were sliced bread, soy milk, two mandarins and a packet of tea bags.

The door was ajar. She opened it with her shoulder and closed it with her foot. The rubbish bag was still behind the door, full, where she had left it in the morning. Su A-hong carried it out onto the landing and came back in.

The Wenshan man was in the armchair, turned towards the window. The television was on with no sound. He raised his eyes from the bags to her hands, then back to the bags.

Su A-hong put the shopping on the table and put the bread in its compartment. On the plate were the evening pills, four, and the space where the fifth had been. Still, the water in the glass had already been changed.

He waited for her to come back in front of the armchair.

"Are you coming tomorrow?"