My sister has always had a habit of bringing home unusual things she finds at work. Most of the time, it’s something harmless—a misplaced trinket, an odd piece of packaging, or a gadget nobody can identify.

But one rainy evening, she walked into my apartment carrying something that instantly made my stomach drop.

She held it out in her palm, her face pale. “What is this?” she whispered.

It looked like a bone. A small, curved, slightly yellowed bone. It was about two inches long, with a joint at one end and a smooth, polished surface. It looked disturbingly like something that might belong to a finger. Or a toe. Or something else I didn’t want to think about.