The grocery store was crowded that day, and at 72, I suddenly felt vulnerable. The fluorescent lights seemed harsher than usual, the noise more disorienting.
My arthritis flared with the cold spring rain, making each step between the aisles a small victory. When I finally reached the checkout line, my hands trembled as I reached into my purse—my wallet was gone. Panic washed over me. Had I left it at home, or worse, had someone taken it?
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to the cashier, a young woman whose patient smile faltered only slightly. “I’ll have to come back later.
