The triage nurse took the purse from me with both hands, and the leather folder slid out from under her arm and landed flat on the admission desk.

“Sir?

Sir, is this yours?”

“No,” I said.

“It’s hers.

The woman from the highway.”

The folder’s tab read Mercer and Field in gold lettering, half worn away at the M.

The nurse turned it over, wrote a number on a form, and put it in a plastic bin labeled BELONGINGS.