A phone charger.

Toiletries.

The paperback he had carried from room to room without finishing.

And a gray women’s cardigan.

The familiar things made the unfamiliar one stand out.

I knew which toothpaste he used and the crease across the paperback cover.

I had packed the charger myself when he was admitted.

The cardigan was folded between objects from a life I had helped manage every day, and suddenly that bag contained something I could not place.