Ernest Burrell poured eight orange, translucent plastic bottles from a bag onto the floor of his Central City apartment. They clattered on the chipped, ruddy concrete. Unpronounceable labels — Spironolactone, Amlodipine, Indapamide and more — were typed in faint serif font above handwritten notes on which pills to take once a day, twice a day, three times a day.
He fished a few …
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