She needed an ID card to get out. She checked the agent’s pockets but couldn’t find his card. Where? Panic gnawed at her, and she stood still for a moment, eyes closed, fighting for calm. If the jacket didn’t have his ID, where would it be? She searched his pants, and there it was, clipped to the belt. She rolled him out of his jacket and pulled it on; it hung like a sack from her thin frame—no choice, she had to hope it looked believable from a distance. She picked up the screen and used its blank display as a mirror of sorts to wipe blood from her face. Her hair was a mess but, hey, nothing new about that.