After the war, Carter returned to Muncie, Indiana, and passed the pharmacist's exam. Just like he had always wanted to do, he opened a drug store right on Broadway. He made a good living there. One of his delights was watching the children gaze at the candy, stars in their eyes. He didn't blame them. Heck, it still blew him away that he had so much candy. He remembered the days at Stalag 13, when candy was a luxury, especially chocolate. Sure, it came in the Red Cross packages, but every bar was saved for bribery, every ounce of sugar saved for LeBeau's strudel. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things Carter had in his drug store that were scarce in the war, that he would've never imagined himself having an excess amount of, much less selling to the public. Toys, lunchboxes, butter, underwear; if you could name it, he had it.

But there was one thing he was incredibly grateful to have.

Mrs. Smith came in to his shop, the bell tinkling behind her. "Mr. Carter," she said, "I'm here to pick up a prescription for my daughter, Beverly Smith. She has strep throat."

"One moment, ma'am." Carter went to the back and grabbed the prescription. Like most people diagnosed with strep throat, Beverly was prescribed penicillin.

Back in Stalag 13, the word penicillin was usually followed by fear and uncertainty. It was almost impossible to get. For most of the war, it was incredibly hard to mass produce, and it was impossible to get any to the Stalag without a drop from London, and they didn't always consider penicillin drops worth the risk. It was usually a last resort drop, only made if someone was at death's door, usually if they were fatally wounded. If one was talking about penicillin, there was trouble.

Without penicillin, strep throat plagued the camp. Infection spread much easier from man to man. They did their best with what they had, gargling salt water for strep and keeping their wounds as clean as possible, but there was no substitute for medicine. And getting shot was absolutely disastrous.

Carter shook himself out of his reminiscing. He went back to the front counter. "Here you go, ma'am." Carter handed Mrs. Smith the penicillin.

"Thank you," Mrs. Smith turned to her daughter. "What do you say, Beverly?"

"Thank you, Mr. Carter." She croaked. She definitely had strep throat.

"Not a problem, Beverly." Carter gave her his biggest grin. "Now, you just focus on getting better, okay?"

Beverly nodded. "I will." She said.

"You take care now!" Carter waved at the two of them as they left the shop.

Carter smiled to himself, thankful that penicillin wasn't so scarce anymore, or so dangerous to get. He could fill prescriptions without having to decide if someone's symptoms were severe enough or not. Everyone could have some, and that's how it should be.