Every morning, my neighbor Evelyn dragged three, four, sometimes five enormous trash bags to the curb of our quiet Oak Park street. One day, I finally looked inside. I really wish I hadn’t.

When Sarah saw the photograph, the mug in her hand slipped, shattering against the tile floor. Dark roast coffee splashed across her slippers, but she didn't even notice.

"That's... that's our living room," she whispered, her voice cracking with pure terror. "That was taken on Saturday night while we were watching TV! Mark, who took this?! Why is Evelyn throwing this away?!"

"I don't know yet, but there was more in that bag," I said, my mind racing. "Chemical vials. Bloodied medical logs. Dozens of names."

Before Sarah could respond, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was an unknown number. I hesitated, then set it to speakerphone.

"Mark Miller," a raspy, panicked voice spoke from the receiver. It wasn't the man in the SUV. It was Evelyn—her cheerful, neighborhood persona completely shattered, replaced by raw, suffocating fear. "Listen to me very carefully. If you are holding the photograph, you have less than seventy-two hours before the Cleaners arrive at your door."

"Evelyn?!" I shouted into the phone. "What the hell is going on?! Why do you have photos of my wife?!"

"I didn't take it!" she cried out, the sound of heavy wind and rushing traffic in the background. "I was forced to dispose of the surveillance records! I work for Aegis Bio-Pharma—or I used to, before I realized what they were actually doing in the subterranean labs beneath the Oak Park Medical Center! They are conducting unauthorized genetic trials on local residents, Mark! They harvest biometric data from suburban clinics, select candidates, and... eliminate the evidence!"

"Why Sarah?!" I demanded, wrapping my arm around my trembling wife.

"Sarah was treated at the Oak Park Urgent Care six months ago for a routine blood test," Evelyn explained frantically. "Her blood profile possesses a rare cellular immunity they need for Project Lazarus. They aren't going to kill her, Mark—they are going to disappear her! They stage an accident, collect the body, and move the subject to the facility!"

"Where are you, Evelyn?" I asked, pulling up my car keys from the hook.

"The parking garage on 5th Street," she sobbed. "I pulled as much classified documentation out of my house as I could hide in those bags before my handler noticed. I was trying to burn it bit by bit at the municipal dump! Meet me on Level 3 if you want the ledger with the master keycodes to the lab. But hurry... I think they followed my—"

A loud, metallic crash echoed through the phone, followed by the sickening screech of tearing metal and a sharp cut of static.