Page 25 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

It has pictures of my dad standing on a dock with his hands in his pockets, staring out at water instead of at me.

It has two photos of my mother that I actually like.

Two.

Which sounds pathetic until you’ve met Elaine Wright and understand that liking a photo of her means the camera caught her looking away from herself long enough to become human.

My throat tightens so fast it hurts.

I empty the bag onto the desk.

Lens cap. Receipts. Lip balm. Spare cable. Notebook. Tampon. Granola bar. Battery pack. A packet of gum with exactly one piece left. All of it lands in a frantic little pile that feels insulting in its uselessness.

I search the bag again anyway. Then again, like the card might magically rematerialize if I’m obsessive enough.

“Annie?”

I jerk so hard I nearly knock my camera body off the desk.

Sherry stands in the doorway, coffee in one hand, brows lifting as she takes in the mess. “Whoa. You okay?”

No.

“Fine,” I say automatically, because apparently my first instinct in a crisis is lying badly. “I just… can’t find something.”

“What something?”

My mouth opens, then closes.

There’s a weird shame to panic when it isn’t neat. When it doesn’t look rational from the outside.

If I say someone moved my stuff and now a memory card is gone, maybe I sound careless. Maybe I sound dramatic.

Maybe I sound like I’m trying to stir up trouble one week into a job where everyone already seems to expect me to either impress them or combust.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say.

Sherry’s expression softens, but there’s a crease between her brows now. “Annie.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “I had an SD card in my camera bag. I keep old photos on it. It’s gone.”

Her eyes flick to the wallet, the desk, the half open drawer. “Gone as in misplaced? Or gone as in gone?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s when the panic really hits.

I crouch to check under the desk. Check my tote. Check the side pocket of my bag even though I never put cards there. My breathing goes thin and raw.

“It was here. I know it was here when I arrived at Ironwood. I checked my bag. I always check my bag.”

“Hey.” Sherry sets her coffee down and crouches too, like maybe the card will reveal itself out of solidarity. “Okay, hang on. Just… take a second, alright? Breathe…”

“I am breathing.”

“You are, but…” she gives me a small, careful smile, “it’s a little fast. Just… slow it down a bit.”

I laugh once, horribly, which isn’t the same as calming down. “Someone touched my desk.”