The room was too small for pacing, but Frosh did it anyway.
Two steps to the door. Turn. Two steps back to the thin mattress. His foot clipped the edge of a plastic bucket and it rocked, water sloshing against the sides. He steadied it with his toes, exhaled, and kept moving.
His phone lay face-up on the mattress, the screen dimming, lighting, dimming again as he kept tapping it awake.
Same message.
Same address.
Same time.
He read it again like something would change if he stared hard enough.
Nothing did.
He dragged a hand over his head, fingers catching in the rough cut of his hair, then stopped in front of the cracked mirror hanging unevenly on the wall. His reflection looked back at him tired eyes, jaw tight, a shirt he'd worn too many times already.
He tugged at the collar, frowned, pulled it off.
It dropped to the floor.
