I reached under the narrow iron frame of my bed and pulled out my worn canvas travel bag.

I unzipped the front pocket to take out my spare socks, and my fingers bumped into a heavy metal object buried deep in the canvas lining.

I pulled out an old brass key ring holding three uncut key blanks and a solid brass tag stamped with the number 40812.

It belonged to Brandon Vance.

He had left it in my bag six months ago, the morning he walked out of our studio apartment when we had sixty-five dollars left and no money for the baby’s medicine.

I turned the cool metal over in my hand, feeling the raised numbers on the brass tag press into my palm.