Her name was Alma Reyes, and she looked about thirty. She set the basket on my counter and lifted out a thick blue folder. “I took bread from this basket when I was nine,” she said, her voice shaking. “My brother and I ate it on the curb behind your shop for a whole winter. Our mother had lost her job, and your card said take what you need.” I stared at her, unable to speak.

Alma opened the folder to the first page and turned it toward me. It was printed on heavy cream paper with a county seal at the top. Behind her, a hundred people held up small paper envelopes, one by one, like candles. “Mr. Herrera,” she said softly, “please read the title of that document out loud.” My eyes found the first line, and my hands began to shake.