Page 4 of Stalkers Anonymous

I’m not a stalker.

I’m observant.

Protective.

Thorough.

He seems satisfied with that answer. “Good start. I’ll see you next week, Cole. Or sooner, if you need to talk.”

I walk to my car, enjoying the crisp early autumn air—a welcome change from the stifling confines of the basement. I scroll through my phone to delete the meeting from my calendar. There’s no need for a digital reminder of this place.

My thumb pauses over an icon that looks like a weather service app but is actually a monitoring program I developed to track exactly one person: Shitbag Steve.

Recovering, I told the group. It was an easy lie. I checked his location this morning.

And then several times throughout the day, making sure I didn’t miss my hourly check-in. And of course, once more as I walked into the IBSG meeting.

But they don’t know that. They don’t need to.

I stare at the app, Tracey’s words echoing in my head.

Our intentions don’t justify actions that violate others’ autonomy and privacy.

But some people forfeit their right to privacy when they hurt others, don’t they? Some threats need to be monitored. Some people need protection, whether they know it or not.

I close the app without opening it, silently cursing that one small concession to the program. I’ll check tomorrow instead, or when I get home. Whatever feels right in the moment.

Because Shitbag Steve needs to be watched.

Emma needs to be protected.

As I drive home, I map the quickest route between the community center and my apartment, looking for security cameras, traffic patterns, and potential choke points along the way. Know the terrain. Plan for the unknown. Again, old habits die hard—but I’m not convinced that’s always a bad thing. There’s comfort in knowing what’s going on around me, from geographical details to more…granular observations.

The irony isn’t lost on me: leaving a therapy group for people with boundary issues only to mentally document every detail of my surroundings. But that’s not a problem I’m trying to overcome—it’s basic situational awareness. It’s survival.

Isn’t it?

Chapter Two: Hailey

The parking lot at Horsetooth Mountain trailhead is busier than I expected for a weekday. As I pull into an open spot, I scan the rows of cars—a mix of Colorado plates and out-of-staters, mostly Subarus and Jeeps with the occasional family minivan thrown into the mix.

I’ve been looking forward to this hike all week. After three consecutive night shifts dealing with everything from drunk college students to cardiac arrests, I need the quiet simplicity of dirt beneath my feet and blue sky overhead. No beeping monitors, no crying families, and no combative patients.

Today is about reclaiming my peace, not dwelling in chaos.

I check my backpack one last time: water, granola bars, first aid kit—because trouble always finds me—a light jacket, and spray-on sunscreen. The air is chilly, but the forecast says the high will be in the seventies today, which is perfect for hiking. The Horsetooth Mountain trail is a moderately difficult route, enough to challenge me and demand all my mental focus, but not so hard it’ll wipe me out on my day off. It’s the perfect temporary fix for being chronically stressed out.

As I lock my car and adjust my pack, a family pulls into the spot next to mine. A couple in their mid-thirties emerges, followed by two elementary-aged kids who explode out of their SUV like they’ve been captive for days.

“Mommy, can I lead? Can I?” The little girl, maybe six or seven, bounces on her toes, blond pigtails bobbing.

“We’ll take turns,” her mother promises, organizing their gear while her partner lathers sunscreen all over the antsy kids.

I smile as I pass them, remembering similar family outings when I was young. My dad’s patient voice explaining different tree species, my mom’s backpack seemingly magical in its ability to produce snacks exactly when I needed them most. They were good parents—are good parents still, even if we’re separated by half a continent now.

They’re both stationed at an army base in North Carolina. We lived in so many places over the years, moving wherever their orders took us. Now, it’s finally time to choose my own destiny.

Two years ago, I moved seventeen hundred miles away from them to accept a residency position in the Fort Collins Memorial Hospital ER, and I’ve never looked back. Sure, I miss them, but I love living life on my own terms.