I stared at her as she tapped the screen with a shaking finger. “Five years ago, I sat with a dying woman on the oncology floor,” she said. “She kept a photo of her son taped beside her bed. He was wearing that same maroon hoodie.” Her voice cracked. “Margo, I never found out what happened to him after the funeral.” Behind her, a truck honked, and neither of us moved.

Then her phone rang. She listened, and the color drained from her face. “He’s awake,” she whispered. “And he keeps asking for someone.” She looked up at me, tears pouring down her cheeks. “He’s asking for the lady at the coffee window. He says she took his photo, and he needs to tell her something before he forgets.” I grabbed my coat, locked the register, and ran out into the falling snow.