Enrique's eyes snapped open to the pale dawn light filtering through his bedroom curtains. His heart pounded as if he'd been running in his sleep, but the dream---if there had been one---had evaporated like mist. He sat up, rubbing his temples, a strange urgency gnawing at him. He needed to go to the drug store. Right now. But why? There were no prescriptions to fill, no forgotten essentials. The thought looped in his mind, insistent, like a whisper from an empty room. He glanced at the clock: 6:45 AM. The store wouldn't even be open yet, but the compulsion wouldn't wait.

He dressed hurriedly, fumbling with buttons on his shirt, his jeans feeling too tight around his waist. No time for coffee or breakfast. The keys jangled in his hand as he bolted out the door, the cool morning air biting at his skin. His old sedan coughed to life, and he drove the familiar route through quiet suburban streets, the world still shrouded in gray. Why the drug store? The question echoed, but no answer came. It was as if his body moved on autopilot, steered by invisible strings.

The parking lot was empty when he arrived, save for a few employee cars. He waited in the car until the doors unlocked at 7:00, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. As soon as the sign flipped to "Open," he was inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects. The aisles stretched out, sterile and endless, stocked with mundane necessities. He wandered into the baby care section first, his feet carrying him there without thought.

There, on the shelf, sat Johnson's Baby Lotion, the familiar pink bottle with its curved shape and white cap, promising "No More Tears" in cheerful yellow lettering. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He had a bottle at home, half-used from some long-forgotten houseguest. No concern there. Next, Huggies Natural Care Baby Wipes, packaged in a soft plastic tub with a flip-top lid, adorned with smiling cartoon babies and the scent of aloe vera wafting faintly through the seal. He had wipes too---why not? Into the cart they went.

But then his legs propelled him to another aisle, deeper in, where the products shifted from infantile to something more clinical. Adult incontinence supplies. His hand reached out, unbidden, for the plain white adult-sized disposable diapers. They were Depend brand, the package a simple blue and white box with minimal graphics---just the outline of a figure in profile, no faces, no smiles. The diapers inside closed with adjustable tabs, soft and sticky for a secure fit. Enrique stared at the box, his stomach twisting. He'd never needed these, never even considered them. He was thirty-five, healthy, independent. Why this? He grabbed one package, then another, and two more---four in total, stacking them heavily in the cart. Put them back, his mind screamed. Just walk away. But his arms wouldn't obey. The cart grew heavier, the wheels squeaking under the weight.

The compulsion dragged him onward. In the feeding aisle, he selected Dr. Brown's Baby Bottles, a set of four in clear plastic with vented nipples to reduce colic, packaged in a colorful cardboard box showing happy infants mid-feed. Extra nipples came in a separate polybag, silicone and latex-free, labeled for easy flow. He didn't need bottles. No baby waited at home. Yet they clattered into the cart. Next, a MAM Pacifier, glow-in-the-dark with an orthodontic nipple, sealed in a sterile plastic case with a clip for attachment. Useless to him, absurd. But his hand closed around it, adding it to the pile.

Formula followed: Enfamil NeuroPro Gentlease, in a large metal canister with a resealable lid, powder inside promising brain-building DHA and easy digestion. The label featured a serene mother cradling a child, all pastels and promises. Enrique's pulse raced now, sweat beading on his forehead. He knew he didn't need any of this---knew it with a bone-deep certainty that clashed against the unbreakable urge. What was happening? Was he losing his mind? A stroke? Some hidden tumor pressing on his brain? He tried to abandon the cart, to flee the store, but his feet rooted to the linoleum, the lights flickering as if mocking him.

Finally, in the toy section---misplaced among the pharmaceuticals---he picked up a set of Fisher-Price plastic baby toys: rattling keys in red and blue, a stacking ring tower in yellow and green, all bright colors molded into cheerful shapes, packaged in clear blister packs with cardboard backs touting "Ages 6 Months+." They jingled softly as he dropped them in, the sound like distant laughter. He added several plush animals and miscellaneous plastic toys and blocks.

At the counter, the cashier---a bored teenager with acne scars---scanned each item without a word. Enrique's mouth opened to explain, to beg her to stop, but no sound emerged. He wished desperately to bolt, to leave the bags behind and run. Instead, he swiped his card, the receipt printing with a mechanical whir. $147.32. The bags crinkled as he loaded them into his arms, heavy with unspoken dread.

Outside, the sun had risen, casting long shadows across the lot. He shoved the purchases into the trunk, slamming it shut with trembling hands. Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine, intending to head home. But his hands turned the wheel the wrong way, toward the highway ramp leading out of town. Panic surged as the car accelerated, the drug store shrinking in the rearview mirror. Where was he going? The question burned, unanswered, as an alien calm settled over him, whispering that everything was as it should be.