My second-choice pop-in was on the way home and a lot less luxurious: the back half of a truck trailer crushed against a collapsed wall on 13th, accessible by teetering along the debris piles. Only one of the double doors worked, and I had to shut it against the downpour. Inside, it was lightless and close, and had sprung a few leaks since I was last there, so the tilted floor was slippery and wet. But it was shelter of a sort. I found a perch and did some slow breathing to quiet my claustrophobia while the rain hammered the metal sheeting inches above my head. Got calm enough to hoist my grab bag to my lap, wipe my hands extra hard on my T-shirt, and pull out the pack. I clicked on my headlamp. It sputtered, oozed out a ghost of light, and died.

So I’d be trusting my fingers to give me some idea of what I had.

I felt around the outer pockets. Maybe the girl had a live phone, not that it would work down here. And who would I call? My den boss decreed them junk, wouldn’t let them in the den. Pockets empty anyway, like she knew those were easily picked. I parted the main flap’s Velcro and reached in oh-so-carefully. Stupid to soil the merchandise, never mind trip a fuse. Quick count: a stack of clothing, top-quality, clean, dry, and neatly folded—the girl had to be near my size, and I could really use a new pair of jeans. Under that, three foil-wrapped blocks stopped me short, but nothing suspicious was attached to them. Might be protein bars, which would make the tellers very happy. Then, ah! Two ziplocks stuffed with pills in blister packs. Maybe drugs for Rubio?

Finally, hidden in the folds, a plastic sheath bound with a flat, springy band. A gentle squeeze got a crinkle of paper. Paper. Huh. Biz letters, or maybe a map of the waterways?

Except, when stuff is tied up so neat and tidy, it’s usually for a major reason. Like, what’s so important, you’d carry it around in hard copy? Ink, paper, a working printer—tough stuff to come by. So, what? Love letters? A pretty girl would have lovers.

My arm deep in the pack, I squeezed again, wishing sound alone would tell.

It could be nothing. Or . . . and here’s where the hole in my hopes sent me way out on a limb, but why not? What if? It could be . . . pickers looked for them all the time . . . documents. The sort uptowners still went to the trouble of printing out: identification papers, ration cards, boat licenses, housing and travel permissions—the proof of your official existence as a citizen . . . that is, if you had one. Which, as a den rat, I did not.