Plaything in one's palm
Lynn asked, his voice raspy from disuse and tension.
The man ignored the question. "Empty your pockets. Everything." He held out a small duffel bag.
A cold knot tightened in Lynn's stomach. He complied, his movements slow. He had little on him: the keycard to his old apartment—a useless relic, the few dollars he'd managed to hide, a worn sketchbook, a pencil. He dropped it all into the duffel bag. It felt like shedding a skin, a life.
The man's eyes fell on the music player, still clutched in Lynn's hand. "That too."