The woman lay on the tile, her basket spilled across the floor. Out slid dozens of plastic gift cards still in their sleeves, along with a crumpled receipt and a small black device. Shoppers gasped and stepped back. The security guard knelt beside her, then froze when he saw the cards. Mom did not move. She held the open leather case steady in her lap, and I finally saw what was inside.

A gold badge, worn smooth at the edges, sat above a faded identification card. Beside it was a photograph of a younger woman with sharp eyes and a ponytail. It was the woman on the floor. The guard read the card in a whisper, and his face changed. Then the front doors slammed, the locks clicked, and Mom said quietly, “Nobody leaves. She is not going anywhere.”