Then I took it off the counter and placed it in my bag.

Not as evidence.

As confirmation.

---

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and tired people.

Grandma looked smaller under the white blanket, but her eyes were open.

When she saw me, she exhaled like she had been holding her breath for days.

“You brought it?” she asked.

I nodded and sat beside her bed.

She looked toward the door before speaking again.

“Your parents didn’t just leave me alone,” she said quietly. “They isolated me.”

My stomach tightened.

“They took my phone,” she continued. “Said it was for my own safety. They unplugged the landline. They told the neighbors I was resting.”

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

“That’s why I held onto the flash drive,” she said. “Because if they got it, everything would disappear.”

I pulled it from my pocket.

“What’s on it?”

Her eyes hardened.

“Proof.”