Surveillance Notes

Neon buzzing, door still swinging behind him—that’s when I clocked Theodore. Briefcase in one hand, a bag in the other that sagged like it was packed with regrets and something heavier. He moved fast but not confident, eyes scanning the street the way men do when they’re hoping not to be remembered. I don’t know what was in the bag, but it wasn’t souvenirs—and whatever deal went down inside that pawn shop, he wasn’t eager for daylight to find it.