I stared down at the screen.

The text remained there, cold and black against the bright white background of my phone.

“Calvin,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the idle rumble of Marcus’s forklift.

He looked at me, his eyes dropping to the screen.

“Who sent that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The number is blocked.”

Calvin stepped closer to the open back of the trailer.

The interior of the truck was dark, lit only by the weak yellow bulb of the loading dock overhead.

Stacks of wooden pallets stretched into the gloom of the container.

“We checked the seals on these trailers an hour ago,” Calvin said, his brow furrowing.

“Check them again,” I said. “Every single one of them.”

Marcus climbed down from the seat of the forklift, leaving the engine to idle with a low, vibrating hum.

His boots clicked against the concrete floor as he walked over to us.

“Is there a problem with the insulin?” Marcus asked.

“We’re verifying the origin,” I told him, keeping my voice steady. “Don’t load anything else until we do.”