The clerk didn’t look up from his own phone. He just reached back, unhooked the plastic tab, and slid the package across the scratched counter. "Thirty-five plus tax. You want a minute card with that?"
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The transaction was surgical—quick, impersonal, and entirely legal, yet it felt like a crime. He watched the clerk’s hands drop the phone into a plastic bag. No ID requested. No name signed. Just a receipt that Elias would burn in a trash can three blocks away. The clerk didn’t look up from his own phone
"The flip one," Elias said, pointing. "The blue one at the bottom." You want a minute card with that
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"Fifty minutes. Cash," Elias replied. He laid two crisp twenties down, the paper feeling unnaturally heavy.