I went to Walmart for milk, detergent, and socks, thinking only about getting in and out. Halfway through the first aisle, I noticed five teen boys drifting behind me—hoods up, whispering, not holding a single item. I told myself I was being paranoid, but every time I turned, they turned; every time I stopped, they stopped. My hands got slick on the cart handle, and the store suddenly felt too big and too loud.

I changed my route three times to test it.

I cut from paper goods to baking, then doubled back through toiletries and toward the front. They stayed with me, never close enough to touch me, never far enough to be accidental. One lifted his phone like he was recording. Another made a fast motion at his sleeve, and my brain filled the blank with the worst thing it could imagine. I aimed for the brightest place I could think of—checkout—because fear makes you believe light equals safety.

At the register, I leaned toward the cashier and started, “Can you call—” but the words jammed in my throat. Before I could finish, the tallest boy stepped past me and set himself between me and the aisle behind.

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