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.

he wouldn’t stand perfectly still outside one stall like that.

A shadow shifted slightly across the tile.

Then something slid into view beneath the gap—slow, deliberate.

A phone.

The camera lens pointed straight at us.

My blood turned to ice. I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

Mila’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. continue reading …