Riddick entered the apothecary's shop at midnight. At mid-afternoon, Johns had gotten the last shot from the med locker. By the time Riddick exited the Kapiolani on his mission of mercy, the trusty had begged, sobbing, for another hit. It dawned on Riddick that Johns was hurting for a fix, not hurting from his leg. Throwing Ginger into cryo-sleep as soon as he'd adjusted the leg and shoulder might've been better after all.
Maybe it was still a good idea. Riddick looked at the canisters on the shelves, realizing he had no way of figuring out what dose of this stuff would be the same as the neatly packaged vials in the med locker. I might put the bastard to sleep permanently. No great loss, but I'm not about to let myself in for that kind of trouble.
Riddick hiked back out to the Salinas Prime spaceport, which was a fancy term for a glorified runway. He'd been told that the locals had tractor races on it when there were no ships in. It was deserted at this hour, which was a damn good thing, since he could hear Johns screaming from fifty meters away, even through the sealed hatch.