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Outside, a bus hissed to a stop, its brakes screaming. Elias looked at the maps, then at the exit. He had forty dollars in his wallet and a dead-end job waiting for him on Monday.
Elias had been walking these Greyhound terminal halls for three days, the crumpled slip of paper in his pocket feeling heavier with every hour. He hadn't known what his brother meant when he whispered those six digits in the hospital—only that they were a "life insurance policy" the bank didn't know about. 123956
Sitting on a plastic bench under the hum of flickering fluorescent lights, Elias unzipped the satchel. It wasn't filled with cash or gold. Instead, dozens of hand-drawn maps spilled out, each marked with precise GPS coordinates and dates stretching back twenty years. Outside, a bus hissed to a stop, its brakes screaming
He reached into the dark cubby. His fingers met cold metal and soft fabric. He pulled out a weathered leather satchel and a heavy, brass-keyed lockbox. Elias had been walking these Greyhound terminal halls