Seeing The Trafficker In My Bed

Summary

Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and suddenly, the world started wearing subtitles.

It sounds insane, I know. But everyone who crossed my path began sporting a digital-like floating tag above their heads. A woman pitching me a spot in an exclusive, high-end "Postnatal Sanctuary" walked by, and the bold, red letters above her read: [CON ARTIST].

I was skeptical, but I called the police anyway. As it turned out, she had already swiped "reservation deposits" from twenty other expectant mothers.