Walking Trap

The day began like any other in her carefully constructed routine—the morning walk along the river that had become essential for maintaining psychological equilibrium in a world that seemed determined to remain incomprehensible. The familiar path, the sound of water over stones, the predictable rhythm of footsteps on worn dirt—these elements had become anchors in an existence where everything else felt increasingly unstable, like handholds on a cliff face that kept shifting without warning.

But today, the river wasn't empty.

The sanctuary she had claimed as her own private space for processing the daily complexities of neurodivergent existence had been invaded, and her nervous system immediately registered the violation with a spike of anxiety that felt disproportionate to the simple presence of other people.

30 was there, deep in conversation with someone she didn't recognize—a man in his forties with the weathered appearance of someone who spent considerable time outdoors, possibly hiking, possibly engaged in activities that required being far from populated areas where help might be available. They were studying 30's phone, discussing the content of a text message with the intense focus usually reserved for important communications or carefully rehearsed performances.

When 30 noticed her approach, his demeanor shifted to include her in their circle with suspicious ease, like someone who had been expecting her arrival at exactly this time and place.

"Perfect timing," he said, as if her appearance had been anticipated rather than coincidental—which immediately triggered her pattern-recognition systems to start analyzing the probability that this encounter had been orchestrated rather than random.

"We need a woman's perspective. What would you write to his friend's girlfriend in this situation?"

The question felt like bait—too convenient, too specifically designed to draw her into conversation, too perfectly calibrated to exploit her helpful nature and her difficulty refusing direct requests for assistance.

But her social conditioning kicked in despite her growing unease, and she found herself examining the phone screen, offering suggestions about relationship communication while her nervous system began sending increasingly urgent alarm signals that something about this interaction was fundamentally wrong.

What followed wasn't conversation—it was interrogation disguised as friendly interest, conducted with the systematic thoroughness of people gathering intelligence for purposes they weren't willing to reveal.

"You walk here every day?" the stranger asked, his tone casual but his attention focused with the intensity of someone collecting data rather than making small talk.

"Most days," she replied carefully, her autism making it difficult to lie outright while her survival instincts screamed that honesty might be dangerous.

"Always the same route? Same time?"

"I like routine." The truth, but suddenly feeling like information she shouldn't be sharing.

"Where are you originally from?" 30 interjected with the smooth efficiency of someone taking over an interrogation. "You're not local, are you?"

"No, I moved here recently."

The questions continued with the persistence of people gathering intelligence rather than engaging in social interaction. Her walking patterns, her daily schedule, her origins, her living situation—each answer seemed to generate new questions that probed deeper into her habits and vulnerabilities with the systematic approach of someone building a comprehensive surveillance profile.

"You know," the stranger said after cataloguing her daily movements with scientific precision, "someone with your walking routine might enjoy the pilgrimage paths. There are several that start near here."

The suggestion felt like the real purpose of the encounter finally revealing itself, everything else having been preparation for this moment.

"I've heard about them," she replied noncommittally, her mind racing through the implications of being guided away from populated areas by two men whose motives remained unclear.

"The Camino isn't the only option," 30 added with enthusiasm that felt rehearsed, like someone delivering lines they had practiced. "There are local routes that are less crowded, more authentic."

Less crowded. The phrase sent ice through her veins. Fewer witnesses. Fewer people to notice if someone didn't return from their spiritual journey.

"I would need training first," she said, her instincts suggesting that showing interest would be dangerous while showing complete disinterest might be equally problematic—the kind of impossible social calculation that her autism made particularly difficult to navigate.

"We could show you where to start," the stranger offered immediately, with the quick eagerness of someone who had been hoping for exactly this response. "Take you to the trailheads, explain the route markers."

The offer felt like a trap being set in real time. Two men, both stronger than her, offering to take her to isolated locations under the pretense of hiking education. Every survival instinct she had recently learned to recognize was firing simultaneously.

As they prepared to part ways, the stranger delivered what felt like a crucial piece of information, spoken with the casual authority of someone providing expert advice: "Remember, pilgrimage must be done without luggage. Just a small backpack with minimal clothes."

The words triggered an immediate physical reaction—goosebumps rising along her arms like a biological early warning system, her nervous system flooding with adrenaline that screamed danger with the clarity of a fire alarm.

The instruction wasn't about spiritual journey—it was about making someone easy to transport, easy to disappear.

Minimal possessions. No identification. No way to trace where someone had gone or when they had vanished. No personal items that might be missed or searched for.

Her newly calibrated fear response was functioning perfectly, recognizing the setup for what it was: preparation for making someone disappear without a trace.

She walked back toward the village with forced casualness, fighting the urge to run while her peripheral vision scanned for additional threats. Her autism wanted to process this information in binary terms: either she was completely safe or in immediate mortal danger, either this was paranoid overthinking or a sophisticated predatory operation.

But as she passed the restaurant belonging to the bed and breakfast owner—the same establishment where she had hidden during her first breakdown, the place she now knew was connected to trafficking networks—the entire staff was standing outside.

Not working, not taking a break, not engaged in any visible activity. Just standing in a group, positioned like sentries, all eyes tracking her movement as she passed with the coordinated attention of people conducting surveillance.

The formation was too deliberate to be coincidental. They were displaying themselves, making sure she knew she was being watched, that her route was monitored, that her daily patterns had been noted and could be intercepted at will.

She maintained her walking pace through sheer force of will, but every survival instinct was screaming that she was being herded, guided, positioned for something that would happen soon if she didn't change her behavior immediately.

One afternoon, 15 came over for tea with the serious expression of someone who needed to deliver information that would fundamentally alter her understanding of recent events. At some point, after the polite preliminaries were exhausted, 15 asked about everything. About months ago. About the breakdown, the epic leak, the places she had hidden.

She told him every terrifying, fragmented truth with the systematic thoroughness of someone finally finding a safe person to confide in. He listened, his gaze unblinking, absorbing each detail with the focused attention of someone who understood the significance of what he was hearing.

When she finished her account, he delivered the final, crushing data burst that would recontextualize everything she thought she knew about her own survival.

"Don't you know where you hid?" 15's voice cut like broken glass through her assumptions about safety and coincidence. "That laundry room—5's uncle owns it. And 5's father? Eight years. Trafficking."

The words shattered her like a controlled demolition of her entire understanding of recent events. The room tilted. Reality shifted. She'd been hiding in the belly of the beast all along.

Where the fuck had I put myself in?

The epic leak hadn't been rescue or escape—it had been delivery. She had walked directly into the center of the network she thought she was fleeing from, guided by signals she had interpreted as salvation but which had actually been coordination.

Her binary thinking struggled to process this information: if the place she had hidden was part of the trafficking network, and if her breakdown had led her there, then either her entire interpretation of events was wrong or the conspiracy was so sophisticated that her escape had been orchestrated from the beginning.

Neither option offered comfort, but both suggested that the pilgrimage invitation might be the next phase of an operation that had been years in the making.

She was either completely paranoid or in more danger than she had ever imagined, and her autism made it impossible to find middle ground between those two terrifying possibilities.