On our way home from shopping, my eight-year-old daughter suddenly grabbed my hand. “Mom, quick, into the bathroom!” She pulled me into a stall and locked the door. “What’s going on?” I asked. She whispered, “Shh… don’t move. Look…” Then she peeked under the door. I followed her gaze—and froze in fear.

crouched down and peeked under the stall door.

I followed her gaze, lowering myself slowly until I could see the strip of tile floor outside.

At first, I saw only shoes—women’s flats passing by, sneakers near the sinks, the normal traffic of a busy restroom.

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