Mason

At the center, right where a hiker's shin would pass, there was a twisted loop with a hook, like it was meant to snag a foot and yank it sideways.

It wasn't a hunting snare for animals.

It was placed at human height.

Mason's hands were shaking when he pulled his multi-tool and cut it.

We stood there for a long time, staring at the severed ends.

"'He's trying to hurt us without showing himself,' Mason said."

I wanted to tell him to stop saying he, like naming it made it real.

But it was real.

It had been real since the clearing, since the altered signs, since the cloth strip on the cairn, since the zipper.

We started scanning the trail constantly, for wires, for pits, for anything that didn't belong.

It slowed us down, which felt like the worst thing.

That afternoon we came to a place where the trail ran along a steep slope.

On one side was the hillside.

On the other was a drop into thick brush, and then a creek.

The trail itself was narrow, slick with wet roots.

Halfway along, I heard a sound behind us.

A stone clicking against another stone.

Not loud, but distinct.

Mason turned first.

His head snapped around, eyes wide.