I still remember the day I realized I was never going home.

It was a Tuesday, and the sun was warm on my face, but my hands were tied so tight I could not feel my fingers.

My name is Emily Dawson, and I was twenty-four years old in the summer of 2005.

I had just graduated from college with a degree in journalism, and I was ready for an adventure.

I lived in Evansville, Indiana, with my parents, Robert and Linda.

They were proud of me, but they worried constantly.

‘Emily, you are so young,’ my mother said one evening as we sat on the porch.

‘Why would you go into the woods all alone for months?’

‘Mom, I have trained for this,’ I told her, squeezing her hand.

‘I have read every book, every blog, every map. I have the right gear. I will be fine.’

My father just shook his head slowly and looked out at the cornfields beyond our own yard.

‘Those mountains are beautiful, but they are wild,’ he said quietly.

‘You be careful, sweetheart.’

I had a small blog called Emily’s Trail Journal.

I planned to write about every step, every mountain, every stranger I met.

It was going to be the story of my life.

My parents read it every single day, and that made me feel connected to them even when I was far away.

In early June, I hugged them goodbye at the airport and flew to Asheville, North Carolina.

That was where my section of the Appalachian Trail would begin.

I remember standing at the trailhead with my heavy backpack, feeling a mix of excitement and fear.

The first weeks were everything I had ever dreamed.

The forests were so green they almost glowed in the morning light.

The mountains rose like ancient giants, their peaks hidden in mist.

I met wonderful people along the way, the trail angels who left water and snacks at road crossings, the fellow hikers who shared their stories around campfires.

I wrote in my blog every chance I got.

‘Today I crossed a river that sparkled like diamonds,’ I wrote one afternoon.

‘An old man named Joe gave me an apple and a blessing. I have never felt so alive.’

Another day I wrote, ‘I climbed a mountain before sunrise. From the top, I saw clouds below me like a white ocean. If this is what freedom feels like, I never want to grow up.’

My parents wrote comments on every post, telling me to stay safe and to call them whenever I could.

I called them from a pay phone in a small town called Boone, North Carolina.

‘Daddy, you would not believe the stars here,’ I said, laughing through tears.

‘They look like someone spilled sugar across the sky.’

He laughed too, but I could hear the worry in his voice.

‘Just be careful, Emily. There are good people and bad people everywhere.’

I promised I would be careful.

I did not know then that I was already walking toward the worst person I would ever meet.

After about six weeks, I reached a remote stretch of trail in Pennsylvania.

It was late August, and the days were growing shorter.

The air had a bite to it in the mornings.

I stopped at a small gas station near a country road to refill my water bottles and buy a candy bar.

That is where I met Walter Mills.

He was an older man, maybe sixty, with a sunburned face and a wide, friendly smile.

He wore