“Lazlo?” “The good doctor continues his little side business prescribing opioids to college kids,” Lazlo says, fidgeting with a pen. “I’ve documented three exchanges this week alone. He meets my criteria.” “Any complications?” “Just my developing aortic aneurysm,” Lazlo says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Although it might just be heartburn from that Thai place near the hospital. Either way, I’ll probably be dead by next week’s meeting.” “We’ll send flowers,” Calloway says. “Something artistic and deeply symbolic of your short, paranoid life.”
