A wall of art supplies in rainbow packaging stared at me. I stared back, measuring them against my purse with my eyes. I

almost wished I’d brought my tote bag—everything fit, and always sunk to the bottom—but I liked the silky black inner lining of my purse, and the way stolen items disappeared into it as if dropped into ink.

I read somewhere that two-thirds of kleptomaniacs are women. They steal things they can afford, they steal things they don’t

even need. Apparently a lot of them have eating disorders too, so some genius decided they must be related. I barely suppressed an eye-roll, right there in the store. Not everything’s a diagnosis, I thought as I selected a long, sleek package of neon colored pencils. As smoothly as if I were tucking my hair behind my ear, I dropped the pencils into my purse, then shouldered my bag.

“Ma’am. Ma’am!” The voice came from my right, in the main walkway where kids were always running and men pushed their

carts on the wrong side of the aisle. I turned, saw a man pointing at me like Uncle Sam, even had the same furious eyes and heavy brow. But the resemblance stopped there. This man was younger and clean-shaven, though with a weak chin, and a feathery arrangement of thin, brown hair stuck to the top of his head. And no mask, of course.

“Ma’am, I saw that, and you’re gonna have to put that back before I call someone,” the man was saying.

“Saw what?” I regretted it the minute I said it. I’d never been caught before; I hadn’t planned for it.

The man’s eyes only got wider. “I saw you stealing! I can’t believe—”

“Okay, okay. Just hold on.” I backed farther into the art supplies aisle, away from the traffic in the main walkway. He was so

damn loud; he’d cause a scene if I didn’t get him to calm down.

To my surprise, he closed the distance between us and quieted down. Uncle Sam wasn’t an employee, at least. That was clear

from his blue golf shirt and faded jeans. He crossed his arms, reminding me of a science teacher I’d had in seventh grade who’d dress-coded me for wearing yoga pants.

“Just put them back, and we’re done, ma’am,” said the man. He was trying too hard to be authoritative, and the ma’am-ing

was starting to annoy me. I was twenty-one. He was older than me.

“Listen, I know how this looks—” I started without knowing where I was going.

“Don’t even try! I saw you steal the markers,” he said.

“Okay!” I winced at how loud he was still talking. Wait, I thought. “They’re not markers.”

He stared at me, uncomprehending.

I sighed and grabbed them out of my purse. “It’s colored pencils. So, yeah. I’m putting them back now.” For some reason, I

felt I needed to narrate the steps. I set the pencils back on the shelf. The wrong shelf, but still. I held up my hands, mock-arrest style, then stuffed them into the pockets of my jacket.

The man—who I was now calling Sam, just Sam, because the Uncle felt too kindly and familiar—was still scowling, though.

“What else did you steal?” he asked.

“What? Nothing,” I said, and it was true. True for that day, at least.

He shook his head. “Show me.” Sam took a step toward me, arm outstretched for my purse.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I jumped back. At the end of the aisle, a white-haired older woman passed by, staring at me and

Sam. I tried to make eye contact with her, but she just looked down and pushed her cart past the aisle.

“Don’t use that bad language,” said Sam.

“Are you serious?” Now it was my turn to be loud, draw attention. Fuck it if anyone thought I was stealing. I made for the main

walkway. Maybe I could catch up to that old woman.

But Sam followed me. His hands were in his back pockets and a serious expression had come across his face. His weak chin

made him look like he could cry at any minute.

“Dude!” I stopped. “I put them back.”

Sam was shaking his head, not meeting my eyes. “I feel as though God is telling me you’re going to steal again,” he

explained in a low voice.

I looked around at the construction paper and puff paint as if they’d help me.

“And I’m going to prevent that from happening because it’s what He wants,” said Sam, still staring at the floor.

“By following me like a creep?” I felt like I was shouting, but no one peeked down the aisle as they passed. “Do I need to call

the fucking cops?”

Sam finally looked up, but at the ceiling, not at me. Tears shone in his eyes under the fluorescent lighting.

“What’s your problem?” My voice had dropped down to a near-whisper.

“It’s so much bad stuff,” Sam said, looking right at me this time, not hiding his tears. “God doesn't want all this bad stuff, it’s

offending Him. You’re offending Him.”

I was frozen. For some reason, the tears and the God stuff scared me more than anything else.

“Can you tell me why you were tempted to steal?” Sam asked.

My thoughts swam. I considered lying, but I came up with nothing. Buzzwords from the articles I’d read chimed in my mind. I

thought about the range of emotions kleptomaniacs felt when shoplifting: anticipation and intense pleasure, a high followed by a crash of guilt and remorse. I never got that high, or the crash. I was stuck somewhere in the middle—a constant dull sickness.

It hadn’t always been that way. I used to be so angry all the time. White-hot. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had gone

before the Supreme Court ruling? Before the virus, even? When was the last time I’d felt anything like the rage that fueled me as a teen, a young woman? And now that it had faded, what was creeping in to take its place?

“I don’t know,” I told Sam. “I think it gives me a sense of control.”

Sam just stood there, looking at me like he expected more. “Control?”

I shrugged. “Like, control over my life. The world.”

Surprisingly, Sam didn’t press. He nodded.

“Will you say a quick prayer with me?” Sam laced his fingers together.

I kept my hands in my pockets, but nodded.

While he prayed, I stared at the floor. My face felt hot, and my eyes prickled. I didn’t hear a word he said, I didn’t think about

God or my sins. I allowed myself the moment to mourn the anger that had left me, and get acquainted with the new thing: fear. It was cold and ugly, and it made me feel naked, standing there in the art supplies aisle. Maybe it’d been there all along, waiting for the right time to totally overwhelm me. I let it.

My tears must have convinced Sam that he’d made a breakthrough, because he bought me the colored pencils. He wished

me a blessed day and I faked a smile. After he left, I lingered by the self-checkout, holding my new box of pencils. When I was sure enough time had passed and he was gone, I exited the store through the automatic doors and threw the colored pencils into the trash.