Visiting an Appalachian Walmart at 8 o’clock in the evening is unlike any other experience.

Rural Appalachian dwellers are unique unto themselves. Cautious of outsiders. Not always friendly. They have trust issues.

Trust is a commodity among such strong and self-sufficient people. Distrust of strangers is their first line of defense.

Understandably so. Namely, because cyclical poverty in the Appalachian region hangs around like a bad cold. One out of every four kids in Appalachia lives below the poverty line. One out of every five or six houses within these mountains is food insecure. The leading killer in the rural Appalachian health crisis is overdose.

There aren’t many things in life worth trusting.

Which is why there isn’t much chatter in the Walmart aisles. Not even from the children. Everyone’s faces are sort of tired. There is a weighted melancholy in the air.

Many shoppers are wearing what amounts to ragged pajamas. Some children aren’t wearing coats, although it’s snowing.

There is one young mother, with four children in tow, she is wearing flip flops.

Her hair is violently red. She is lean, wearing short sleeves, with fair skin that looks so cold the freckles seem to be jumping right off her arms.

She doesn’t think anyone notices her as she wanders each aisle, her quiet children following dutifully beside her. She doesn’t think anyone notices her eyeing the price tags, performing incredible feats of mental math which only the Have-Nots are capable of.

But someone is watching her.

Someone is watching when her youngest tries on shoes in the shoe department because his are tattered.

Someone is watching when she buys a pair of adult work gloves because these are cheaper than children’s mittens.

Someone is watching when her oldest daughter begs her mom for deodorant because she is embarrassed about stinking at school.

When the mother passes the dairy section, an older woman is waving her arm, flagging her down.

“Excuse me,” The older woman says. “Is your name…?” Then she says the young woman’s name.

A jolt of icy adrenaline shoots through the mother’s veins. How does this lady know her name? Why is she stopping her in the middle of the store? Something must be wrong.

“That’s my name,” says the mother. “Why?”

The lady smiles. “Nothing’s wrong, ma’am. The man said you’d have super red hair and that I couldn’t miss you.”

The young woman is confused. “What are you talking about?”

“That man,” says the lady, pointing toward the doors. “He just left. Said he knew you.”

The woman sees no man at the door.

“He left these gift cards for you. He was from some church, he said. Said you wouldn’t accept them from him, not unless some random person gave them to you.”

The woman’s face hardens. Distrust wells up inside her. Her Appalachian heritage is showing—if something sounds too good to be true, run like hell.

“What?” says the young mother.

The lady hands her a deck of gift cards. “He made me promise to stand here and wait for you.”

The woman is afraid to touch them. This has to be an evil trick. But it’s not.

Each gift card is loaded with $500. There are 10 cards in total. And as I write these words, the young mother still has not exhausted the balance.

“This story can’t be true,” says the skeptic.

Well, I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to trust me.