The tiny purple USB drive gets shoved underneath the door of Widowmaker's miserable motel room in Ensenada with a note rubber banded around it: No charge - not a total asshole - burn when done.

She recognizes the cramped, rushed handwriting, otherwise she'd already have her rifle in hand and one boot breaking through the window to run; instead, she just looks at the little rectangle in her palm for a moment before she pulls out the laptop she'd stolen yesterday on her way out of Puerto Peñasco, plugs the drive in, and opens it to see an endless list of folders painstakingly broken apart into chunks of time, from her old date of birth all the way up to the day before her new one…all of them chalk full of documents and videos and pictures and audio files about this woman named Amélie.

For a long time, Widowmaker just clicks in and out of folders, reads the different file names, hovers the cursor over a few different things for a handful of seconds before scrolling on—then she rips the drive out, smashes it beneath her heel into a dozen sharp, jagged pieces, then wraps it back up in the note and lights the whole thing up with her lighter, letting it all burn to ashes and charred silicon in the sink before shovelling the blackened mess into the toilet and flushing.

[title from Everything Looks Better (In Hindsight) by The Wild Reeds.]