Nothing.

Exhausted, coughing on the dust I’d kicked up, I collapsed onto the floor of our cramped bedroom. My shoulder bumped his heavy oak nightstand. I lay there a moment, staring at the underside of the bottom drawer.

Wait.

I scrambled closer. Tucked underneath the wooden panel, held flat by a strip of military-grade adhesive tape, was a small, cold metal chain.

I ripped it free. Caleb’s spare set of dog tags.

My heart hammered. I held the stamped metal up to the bare bulb swaying overhead. At first glance they looked standard. But as I ran my thumb over the indented text, the anomaly jumped out.