PART 1
The loyal dog guarding army backpack had been lying in the same place for hours before anyone truly realized something unusual was happening.
It was still dark outside the Chicago interstate bus terminal, the kind of cold winter morning where the air stings your lungs when you breathe too deeply. A thin layer of frost covered the concrete sidewalks, and every exhale from the early commuters floated upward like pale smoke before disappearing into the gray sky above the station lights. Buses rolled in and out of the terminal with heavy groans, their engines rumbling like tired animals while drivers shouted destinations and passengers dragged suitcases through the damp corridors.
