I forced my eyes toward the green canvas bag sitting on the visitor’s chair.

The strap of the bag hung over the armrest, frayed and dirty from the warehouse floor.

“Ethan,” I whispered, my voice sounding like dry paper.

He stepped closer to the bed, ignoring the two men in suits who had just entered.

“Mrs. Harrison, we need to execute the transfer,” one of the men said.

He wore a grey overcoat that was damp from the Chicago rain.

Eleanor nodded at him.

“Of course, Mr. Vance,” she said. “My son was just finishing his rounds.”

Ethan did not look at her.

He followed my gaze to the chair.

He took three long strides and picked up the canvas bag.

“What are you doing?” Eleanor asked, her voice losing its calm edge.

“That is personal property,” she said.

Ethan unzipped the main compartment.

He reached past my spare shirt and a plastic bottle of water.

His fingers wrapped around the small, black burner phone.

It was a cheap model, scratched and covered in plaster dust from my workplace.

“Hannah,” he said, holding it up. “What is this?”