She screamed and ran across the street, but the alarms kept blaring as she tried to pull them off. I’ll admit it: I laughed until I cried. But when I looked closer, I noticed something strange. She didn’t just look shocked—she looked terrified, like someone who’d never imagined getting caught. And that’s when I realized this wasn’t just some petty thief.
The next morning, I saw her sitting on her porch, head in her hands. Her hoodie was gone, and she looked younger than I expected—barely in her early twenties. I decided to walk over, package footage on my phone as proof, but something stopped me. Her face. It wasn’t the face of a hardened criminal; it was the face of someone drowning.
I introduced myself as Orson. She said her name was Nella. Her voice shook like she hadn’t slept in days. I asked why she was stealing, and after a long pause, she told me the truth. She’d moved here after leaving an abusive boyfriend two towns over. She had no job, no money, and the shelter she tried to stay at was full. She’d been sleeping on the floor of the empty house she claimed was her aunt’s.
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