Blisters on my heels grind inside wet leather. A sticky ooze seeps through my thermal socks. An Appalachian Trail trek in a fall rain is a challenge. Dry boots are a priority. The Trail map reads I am miles from the nearest town. I flip up my jacket hood, tuck my chin to my chest, reposition my back pack, and walk half a mile down the muddy path, I spot a sign. Brigadoon. It hangs on a half chain tacked to a tree and flips around in the wind. A painted red arrow points east. Five minutes down the soggy path, I’m on a Main Street with concrete sidewalks, and weathered buildings. A shoe store sign sits in a window two stores down. Hiking boots – twenty percent off. 

A bell buzzes my entry.

“Yo, anybody here?” A distracted pot-bellied salesman gives half a wave.

“I need new boots.” He points towards the display.

“You from the Trail?” he asks. “Better hurry up and get em. They will come for you. Trail people ain’t allowed in Brigadoon. Ain’t sayin’ no more. “He rubs his nose on his sleeve.

This guy has a problem and I don’t want to make it mine. I buy the first boots I try on, as adrenaline seeps in to my limbs and I deal with a primal urge to flee. The new imitation leather black boots are cheap, squeaky, but dry. A wordless exchange of money takes place and I’m on my way with my old boots boxed underneath my arm. Half way down Main Street, two uniformed thugs on mopeds putt towards me and stop inches from my toes. Ichabod Crane and Dirty Harry in the flesh. A nervous giggle sits low in my throat. 

The tough one, Harry, says “This is your lucky day kid.”   

They grab my arms and throw me to the ground. I hit the pavement with a splat and mentally assess for broken bones. Words gurgle from my mouth, “Help, Police.”

Ichabod chirps, “We are the Police, shut up.”

I kick and pretend my new boots give me ninja feet. A wasp stings me. Electricity jolts through my body and I go limp.

I wake up in a jail cell. My jeans stick to my leg where I peed myself.  My head somersaults and my eyes burn. The cell stinks. My backpack and old boots are gone. The empty cell across from me is littered with packs and I see mine thrown on top the heap. 

I scream into empty air, “I want to make a phone call. It’s my right.” Laughter bombs my ears. Footsteps.

“Ain’t no rights where you’re going.” Ichabod says.

“I’m a diabetic and I need the insulin in my pack.”

Harry screams down the hallway, “Nice try kid.”

They discuss it might be true and how much trouble they would be in if I died in a container, or worse yet, in the jail cell. I am grateful for twenty years of needle nicks.

Ichabod opens the cell across from me and grabs my backpack. A small black box filled with insulin and a syringe sneer at him. He throws the box through the bars it hits me in the face. 

Hours pass. Hunger beats a drum in my gut and a tick in my right eye dances a fast cha- cha. Hostage Situation 101 isn’t offered in the courses at Columbia, where my major in education now comes to a frigid January tree sap halt.

These cops are human traffickers. My parents will suspect I was bear bait, my gnawed bones found in the spring. So hungry. I stagger over to the metal bunk and collapse.

“Hey man, you okay?” Someone touches the pulse on my neck. My eyes flutter and a concerned bearded face hovers an inch from mine.

“Found you on the Trail passed out.”

Words form. “They kidnap hikers.”

“Take it easy man, you fell and hit your head,” he says.

“Brigadoon.”

“Sorry guy, there’s no Brigadoon off the App Trail. I’ve hiked it three times and I can tell you it doesn’t exist.”

He doesn’t believe me. My brain smashes against itself with doubt. I look down. The sun reflects off shiny black imitation leather boots.

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Photo: Andrew Neel