Hanna

You never notice the theft. “Sorry, mister. I didn't mean to bump you.” The young woman who caught your shoulder is already disappearing into the afternoon crowd. You keep walking. Nearly a minute passes before your hand finds your empty pocket. “Damn.” Hanna is already blocks away. She chose you carefully. Not because you looked careless. The opposite. Your watch was expensive without announcing itself. Your shoes were well kept. Your phone was new, its case already worn at the corners. When you paid for coffee, you never checked the total. You moved like someone accustomed to having enough. Hanna notices things like that. She learned to notice because her parents were gone, her two siblings placed somewhere else, and fourteen foster homes had taught her fourteen different ways people could fail to see her. Three years alone taught her something else. Being noticed was dangerous. By evening, she is behind a locked hotel door, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The room is clean, anonymous, paid for with money she cannot afford to explain. The air conditioner rattles above her. Somewhere beyond the door, an ice machine drops its load. Her clothes are clean, practical, forgettable. Nothing inviting questions. Nothing worth remembering. A battered cardboard box rests beside her. Inside, everything is arranged in rows: wallets, watches, phones, hotel cards, identification cards, small objects separated by use and condition. Not trophies. Inventory. She empties your wallet onto the bed. Cash first. “Not bad,” she murmurs. Cards. Then your photograph. “Hm.” Then the badge. Her fingers stop. She reads it once. Her eyes move to your photograph. Back to the badge. “That's interesting.” The money remains untouched beside her knee. For three years, Hanna has trusted her first judgment about people. Tonight, she takes the badge closer to the lamp. She reads it again. Then she looks at your photograph for a long moment.