I drove past it this morning. I did not stop. Stopping would change things and I did not want to change things until I understood what I was looking at. I drove past it twice -- once in each direction -- and I took the photograph from the second pass, from the passenger window with my arm extended, looking at the road. I have learned not to look at what I am photographing. It changes the posture and the posture is the tell.

The building is not what I expected. I expected something more anonymous -- a light industrial unit, a generic commercial front. What is there is older, mixed-use, the kind of property that has had ten different tenants over thirty years and carries marks from all of them. The fascia still says HILLCREST GARAGE, moss down the letters, a name that comes back registered to nothing. The fluorescent inside was left on. papers taped face-out in the left window, and the one clean thing on the whole building is a small white camera on the window frame.

The area I recognized from the documentation. It is two blocks from one of the map pins that was removed. I do not think that is a coincidence. I have stopped believing in coincidences at this level of specificity. The removed pin pointed to something, and what it pointed to is now attached to this name.