Three blocks away, Desmond sat in the changing room of a secondhand thrift shop. Two outfits hung on the inside of the door, both Turkish-made and more casual than his button-up shirt and khakis.

When he slipped his pants off, what he saw took his breath away. Burn scars spread from his feet to his knees. The mottled flesh looked like creamy-white tree roots growing across his body. They were old scars, remnants of a horrible event. The feeling was unnerving—not being able to remember the fire that had torched his legs. He searched the rest of his body. Above his pelvis on the right side, he found a puckered, rounded scar below his ribs. A healed gunshot wound? Scattered about his torso and arms were smaller, straight scars where knife wounds had likely healed. In the hotel room, he had been so focused on the aching black and blue bruise on his left side that he hadn’t noticed anything else. Now he longed to know where he’d come from, what sort of life he’d led—what sort of person he was. Or at least, had been.

As he stared at the floor, something inside the crumpled-up khaki pants caught his eye: a pink tag stapled to the garment’s care instructions. He had seen similar tags before, only hours ago, attached to clear plastic bags hanging in rows… in the dry cleaner.

He had found the claim tag.

He detached it, then carefully searched both the shirt and pants, finding nothing else of interest. He sold the shirt and pants to the thrift shop—he needed the money, and police across the city likely had pictures of him wearing them by now. A sign on the wall claimed all items were thoroughly cleaned before being offered for sale, and he hoped it was true; if not, the police dogs might pick up the scent in the store. With some of his extra money he purchased a ball cap, sunglasses, and a backpack. In the changing room, he put all his possessions—the extra clothes and the spare magazines for the policeman’s gun—in the backpack.

Ten minutes later, he once again stood outside the dry cleaner. The older Asian man was gone; a younger man, also Asian, now sat at the counter, hunched over a textbook, a pencil in his hand, scribbling notes.

Desmond walked in and slid him the tag without a word.

The teenager searched the rows of hanging clothes, checking the tag several times. After a few minutes he shook his head and returned to the counter.

“You’re picking up late. There’s a fee.”

“How much?”

“Three euros per day.”

“How late am I?”

Desmond was already dangerously low on cash; he had just enough to pay the rent at the crummy flat for three days, and he was due to meet the landlord in less than an hour.

The teen worked the computer, searching the tag number. “Fourteen days late. Forty-two euros plus the cleaning. Fifty-five total with tax.”