Jeans.

Socks rolled in pairs.

A toothbrush still sealed in its plastic sleeve.

Eleven dollars in a ziplock bag, mostly ones, with a rubber band wrapped twice around them.

My hands stopped on the toothbrush.

That isn’t a bag for a night at a neighbor’s house.

That’s a bag for not coming back.

Under a paperback at the bottom was her phone, in a cracked purple case.