I found a flash drive in a regular sausage: at first I thought the flash drive had accidentally ended up in the food until I checked its contents!

In the end, the most lasting damage wasn’t to my health, but to my sense of reality. The experience permanently altered the way I interact with the world. I no longer trust the vacuum seals or the labels. I find myself cutting into every piece of food with a hesitant, probing pressure, waiting for the blade to hit metal once again.

The man on the flash drive achieved exactly what he intended. He didn’t need to hurt me physically; he only needed to puncture the veil of my ordinary life. He turned the most mundane moment of my day—a Tuesday morning breakfast—into a site of lasting psychological trauma. I still have the drive, tucked away in a drawer, a silver sliver of evidence that the world is far less predictable and far more predatory than we like to believe. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I think about that wide, frozen laugh and wonder if he’s still out there, waiting for the next person to pick up a knife and find his face hidden in the center of their life.