Lozenges

I rifle around my coat pockets trying to find a last lozenge for my sore throat. Darn, as my fingers curl around nothing, they're all gone. I grab my purse anyway and head to the door. "Anna get down here, it's time to go," my throat scraping. My daughter rushes down and past me and the screen door screams as she passes through. I grab it as it swings back, nearly hitting me, and I stumble to the landing. Her college interview is in 30 minutes and we're 45 away. "Mom, where's my purse?" as her red painted nails scratch the passenger side door. "I don't know," I croak, "forget it, we have to go," more like a whisper, barely making it all the way up to my tongue. She glares at me from the car, eyes flaring. I push back inside, eyes landing on her nice leather bag, zip open on the table, and tumbling out, lozenges.