Hundreds of ticks jump onto me as I trudge through a claustrophobic section of the trail. Their impenetrable small bodies, which would sooner dent the soft pads of your fingers than squish under the fearful pressure of an index and a thumb, crawl and latch on and swell until unrecognizable. Unrecognizable I am too, a monster worthy of campfire stories, shrieking and stumbling into trees, clawing at my body which teems alive with feasting fiends. If I don’t die from the shock, I’ll soon die from a myriad of diseases. 
Except none of that happens. I pass through the bottleneck unscathed, save for a small beetle skirting across my back. 
A mile away, two hikers look at each other in terror as they hear the echo of my bloodcurdling scream, picturing me getting mauled by Cocaine Bear, my organs spilling out, rather than frantically batting at my empty back.