I stretched my fingers, the rough concrete scraping against my knuckles.

My fingertips brushed the heavy wool of my coat.

I felt for the small, raised seam of the hidden pocket.

The cold made my fingers stiff and numb, stripping away my sense of touch.

I closed my eyes and focused entirely on the memory of the stitches.

Two inches down from the armhole.

A double lock-stitch of heavy nylon thread.

My middle finger caught the edge of the opening.

I wiggled my hand deeper, my skin scraping against the metal pipe behind me.

The guard shifted on his crate.

I froze, holding my breath.

He grunted, stood up, and walked toward a metal door at the far end of the warehouse.

“I’m going to grab a coffee from the truck,” he muttered, not even looking at me.

“Don’t move.”

He opened the heavy door, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of salt water, then slammed it shut behind him.

The heavy bar on the outside of the door clicked into place.

I was alone.

I immediately began to pull at the pocket again.