The carbon copy was gone from her locker.
Not the locker turned over; not a break-in; nothing dramatic. The rest of it was exactly as she had left it — the spare scrubs, the shoes, the packet of biscuits, the photograph of her father in his teaching coat from 1994. Only the folded carbon was missing, and she stood there in the changing room with the door open and had a feeling she had never had in her life, which was the feeling of a room having been in someone else's hands.