From the minute he had the wad in his hand, he had thirty minutes to make the drop and no time to waste. He wrapped it up tight and labeled it in his fussy red writing and wedged the bundle into his pocket where it made an awkward lump. Heat was important; it had to be kept close to the skin.

The drive across town was uneventful, though he chafed at every crosswalk and red light, clenched teeth at every cautious driver.

Walking up to the drop he shied away from every set of eyes, the rock burning in his pocket like a coal under his jacket. Paranoid; what could they know?

The drop was a woman in her mid-20s, professionally distant behind a thick layer of hardened plastic. “I’ll take it from here,” she murmured; he slid out with just under two minutes to spare.