She offered a referral to a victim services advocate and wrote down a number for employment-related legal aid.

Before I left, she asked one more question.

“Why did you approach the table when your manager told you not to?”

“My mom,” I said.

“I know what it looks like when someone needs help and the rest of the room is hoping another person will do something.”

For the first time, her professional expression softened.

Outside, Baltimore’s morning traffic moved past as if nothing remarkable had happened.

I bought a cheap breakfast roll and checked my bank balance.