"Echoes of Absence: The Vanishing on the Appalachian Trail":
I was 16, crammed on a bumpy school bus with my classmates, heading to the Great Smoky Mountains for a field trip along the Appalachian Trail. It was October 1976, and the energy was high—kids laughing, tossing snacks, planning who’d race to the lookout first. I sat near the back, watching the world blur past the window, but my eyes kept drifting to Trenny, a quiet girl with long brown hair tied in a loose ponytail. She was alone, her forehead pressed against the glass, staring at nothing. She wasn’t like the others, always keeping her distance, but today she seemed off, her fingers twisting the strap of her backpack.
At school, Trenny was the kind who slipped through the cracks. She wasn’t unpopular, just invisible, always reading or sketching in the corner of the cafeteria. We’d had a few classes together, traded notes once or twice, but we weren’t close. Still, I felt a pull to check on her. Maybe it was the way her eyes darted, like she was waiting for something to go wrong.
“You excited for the hike?” I asked, leaning across the aisle.
She turned, startled, then gave a small smile. “Yeah, I guess. Never been up there before.”
“It’s cool,” I said. “The views are awesome. Just don’t get lost.” I meant it as a joke, but her smile faded.
“I won’t,” she said, almost sharp, then turned back to the window.
The bus parked at a trailhead near Clingmans Dome, and we piled out, grabbing our backpacks. The air was alive with the smell of pine and earth, the trail stretching ahead, a wide dirt path flanked by towering trees. Their leaves were a mix of gold and red, crunching under our sneakers. Our teacher, Mrs. Carter, a wiry woman with a clipboard, gathered us in a huddle.
“Stay together,” she said, her voice firm. “No wandering off. We’re hiking to the lookout and back. Two hours, tops.”
We nodded, half-listening, already itching to move. The group spread out as we started, some kids jogging ahead, others dragging their feet. I fell into step near Trenny, who walked with her head down, her blue jacket zipped tight. Her backpack was old, faded green, with a keychain shaped like a star dangling from the zipper. I noticed it because it jingled faintly with every step.
“You okay?” I asked, dodging a root that snaked across the path.
She glanced at me, her eyes guarded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?” I said, trying to keep it light.
She hesitated, kicking a pebble. “Stuff at home. A while back, someone broke into our house. Stole some things, left a mess. My dad said it was random, but I heard him on the phone, talking about threats. Like someone was mad at him.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “That’s… intense. You guys okay now?”
“I think so,” she said, but her voice was thin. “Dad said it’s over. I don’t know. I just feel weird sometimes, like someone’s watching.”
I didn’t know what to say. “That’s creepy. You told anyone?”
She shook her head. “No point. It’s probably nothing.” She forced a laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
The trail climbed gently, the trees closing in, their branches tangling overhead. The group stretched out, voices fading as gaps grew between us. Mrs. Carter was up front with the fast kids, while a few stragglers lagged behind, complaining about sore feet. Trenny and I were in the middle, not talking much, just walking. I kept thinking about what she’d said, the break-in, the threats. It felt like a movie, not real life.
About a mile in, Mrs. Carter called for a break at a clearing. The path opened to a grassy spot with a view of endless hills, their ridges fading into haze. We dropped our packs, sprawling on the ground, passing around water bottles and granola bars. Trenny sat on a flat rock, picking at a sandwich, her eyes scanning the trees. I plopped down nearby, unwrapping a candy bar.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked, quieter now.
She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Just don’t like sitting still. Want to keep going? We can wait for the group up ahead.”
I hesitated. Mrs. Carter was busy scolding some boys for throwing sticks. “Okay, but let’s not go far. We’ll stick to the trail.”
She nodded, grabbing her pack. We told Mrs. Carter we’d stay close, and she waved us off, distracted. The path narrowed past the clearing, the trees thicker now, their trunks mossy and damp. Trenny walked fast, her star keychain jingling, her steps almost urgent. I had to hustle to keep up, my sneakers slipping on loose dirt.
“Slow down,” I called, half-laughing. “What’s the rush?”
“I just want to move,” she said, not turning. “I’ll wait at that bend, okay? It’s right there.”
I saw the curve in the path, maybe 50 yards ahead, where the trail dipped out of sight. “Alright, but don’t go farther.”
She flashed a quick thumbs-up, her blue jacket bright against the green. I slowed, catching my breath, figuring I’d catch up in a minute. That’s when I heard it—a rustle, sharp and heavy, off to my left, deep in the woods. Not leaves or a squirrel, but something bigger, like a branch snapping under weight. I froze, my heart thumping, peering into the shadows. The trees were too dense to see anything, just flickers of light and dark.
“Hello?” I said, my voice small. Nothing answered. I shook my head, telling myself it was a deer, and kept walking, eyes locked on the bend. I expected to see Trenny there, leaning against a tree, maybe smiling at how slow I was.
She wasn’t there.
“Trenny?” I called, my voice sharper now. The path was empty, stretching quiet and still. My stomach twisted, a cold knot forming. “Trenny, come on!” I jogged forward, scanning the sides of the trail, looking for her jacket, her backpack, anything. Nothing. Just dirt and leaves.
I shouted again, louder, my voice cracking. The woods swallowed it, no echo, no reply. Panic clawed at me. I ran back to the clearing, my legs shaky, bursting into the group.
“Mrs. Carter!” I yelled, breathless. “Trenny’s gone!”
Kids turned, faces confused. Mrs. Carter dropped her clipboard, her eyes wide. “What do you mean, gone?”
“She went ahead to the bend,” I stammered. “She said she’d wait, but she’s not there. I looked!”
Mrs. Carter’s face tightened. “Everyone, stay here!” She grabbed her whistle, blowing sharp blasts. “We’re going to find her. You, show me where.”
I led her and a few kids to the bend, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. We called Trenny’s name, our voices overlapping, bouncing off the trees. My friend Lisa, a short girl with braids, stuck close, her hands fidgeting.
“Where could she go?” Lisa whispered, her eyes darting to the woods.
“I don’t know,” I said, my mouth dry. “She was right here.”
Mrs. Carter sent two boys to the trailhead for rangers, and soon, men in khaki uniforms arrived, their radios crackling. A tall ranger with a clipboard knelt beside me, his voice calm but serious.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.
I spilled it all—how Trenny went ahead, the rustle I heard, the empty bend. His pen scratched fast, and he glanced at the woods when I mentioned the noise. “You see anyone else out here?” he asked.
“No,” I said, then paused. “But it felt… wrong.”
He nodded, not dismissing it, and called over a ranger with dogs. The hounds sniffed Trenny’s water bottle, left in the clearing, and took off, noses low, weaving along the path. We followed, a tense knot of people, Mrs. Carter gripping my shoulder too tight. The dogs led us past the bend, then veered off the trail, through tangled ferns and briars.
“Look at this,” a ranger said, pointing at broken ferns, their fronds snapped clean. “Someone moved through here, fast.”
Lisa gasped, pointing at the ground. “What’s that?”
In the dirt, half-buried, was a cigarette butt, the filter still white, not weathered. Nearby, glinting in the leaves, was a crumpled beer can, its silver dented but shiny. My skin crawled. None of us smoked. We were high schoolers, not old enough to buy beer.
“Who do you think left this?” Lisa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” I said, but my mind raced to Trenny’s story—the break-in, the threats. I didn’t say it. It felt too big, too unreal.
The dogs kept going, crashing through brush, until we hit a gravel road, barely wide enough for a car. Their noses lifted, circling, confused. The lead ranger crouched, frowning. “Scent stops here.”
“Like she got in a car?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He didn’t answer, just radioed for more help. “We need a wider search. Bring the chopper.”
The search stretched for hours, then days. Helicopters thumped overhead, their blades chopping the air. Volunteers in orange vests combed the woods, shouting Trenny’s name. Police set up a tent at the trailhead, questioning everyone. They asked me about the rustle again, about Trenny’s mood. I told them about the break-in, the threats, and a detective with tired eyes wrote it down, his pen pausing.
“You think she was scared of someone?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said, my throat tight. “She didn’t say much.”
They bagged the cigarette butt and beer can, sent them for tests, but I never heard what they found. Divers checked nearby streams, rangers scoured cliffs, but there was no sign of her—no jacket, no backpack, no star-shaped keychain. It was like the trail swallowed her whole.
Back at school, the halls felt wrong, too quiet. Kids whispered, spinning stories. Some said Trenny ran away, tired of her parents. Others thought she slipped into a ravine, her body hidden in the undergrowth. I couldn’t shake the rustle, the broken ferns, that beer can glinting like a warning. One afternoon, walking home, I saw a man across the street, leaning against a beat-up car, smoking. His eyes locked on me, unblinking, his face shadowed under a cap. My heart stopped. I blinked, and he was gone, the street empty. Was he real? Was he the rustle in the woods?
Years later, I still think about Trenny. Her parents never gave up, putting up flyers, calling police every month. The case stayed open, unsolved, a question mark carved into the Smokies. I read about other disappearances on the Appalachian Trail—hikers vanishing, their trails ending at roads or rivers, no answers. I wonder if those threats Trenny mentioned were more than a story, if someone followed her that day, waiting in the trees. The trail is beautiful, but it’s wild, vast, a place where people can disappear, and the truth stays buried, silent as the woods.
"Lost in the Wilderness: A True Appalachian Trail Thriller.":
I’d been hiking the Appalachian Trail for nearly two months, my boots caked with dirt, my backpack feeling heavier each day. My friend Emily and I had started this journey together, dreaming of conquering the 2,200 miles from Georgia to Maine. But a few weeks in, she got a call about her mom being sick and had to leave. I decided to keep going alone. The trail was my challenge now, and I wasn’t about to quit. I had my map, compass, a small knife, and enough food and water for a few days. I’d read about the trail’s dangers—rattlesnakes, bears, and stories of hikers who vanished—but I told myself I was prepared. I’d be fine.
I was in Maine now, deep in the 100-mile wilderness, a stretch so remote it felt like the edge of the world. The trail was rough here, with roots twisting underfoot and rocks that made every step a gamble. The forest was thick, trees packed so tight they seemed to lean in, watching. I’d been alone for days, passing only a few other hikers. That morning, I stopped at a lean-to shelter to rest and eat. My legs ached, and my shoulders burned from the pack’s weight. I pulled out some trail mix and my water bottle, savoring the quiet.
Another hiker was there, a guy with a scruffy beard and a massive backpack. He was sitting on a log, scribbling in a small notebook. He looked up as I sat down.
“You hiking solo?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“Yeah,” I said, popping a peanut in my mouth. “My friend had to head home. You?”
“Same. I’m Tom. Been out here ten days. You know this part’s tricky, right?”
I nodded, unfolding my map. “The 100-mile wilderness. I’ve heard.”
He leaned closer, pointing at the map. “See these ridges? Trails split off sometimes, and the blazes—those white marks on trees—they fade. People get turned around. You hear about those disappearances?”
My stomach twisted, but I forced a laugh. “Yeah, but it’s just people getting lost, isn’t it? I’ve got my map and compass.”
He shrugged, closing his notebook. “Maybe. Just don’t wander off the trail. And keep an eye on those blazes. They’re your lifeline.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, packing up. His words stuck with me as I left the shelter, the forest swallowing the sound of my steps. I checked every tree for those white blazes, making sure I was on the right path. The trail was narrow here, barely a foot wide in places, with ferns and thorns brushing my legs.
A few hours later, I needed a break. I had to step off the trail to find a private spot—nothing unusual, just a quick detour. I walked maybe ten yards, set my pack against a tree, and glanced back to make sure I could see the trail. It was right there, a clear line through the trees. I took care of business, but when I turned to head back, the trail was gone. Just trees, endless trees, their trunks blending into a wall of green and brown. My heart lurched. I spun around, looking for the path, the blazes, anything. Nothing.
“Okay, calm down,” I whispered, my voice trembling. I grabbed my pack and checked my compass, but the needle spun uselessly, like it couldn’t decide where north was. I pulled out my map, but the lines and contours made no sense without a landmark. I tried my phone—no signal, just a blank screen mocking me. Panic bubbled up, but I shoved it down. I’d only stepped off for a minute. The trail had to be close.
I started walking, thinking I’d retrace my steps. But the forest was disorienting, every tree looking like the last, every clearing a dead end. I called out, “Hello? Anyone out there?” My voice bounced off the trees, then faded. No answer. My chest tightened. I kept moving, marking trees with my knife—a small X scratched into the bark—so I wouldn’t circle back. Hours dragged on, my legs growing heavy, my throat dry. I sipped my water sparingly, knowing I had maybe two days’ worth left.
By evening, I was exhausted and scared. I found a small clearing and set up my tent, my hands shaking as I hammered the stakes. The forest was louder now—twigs snapping, leaves rustling, sounds that made my skin crawl. I ate half a granola bar, forcing myself to save the rest. “You’re okay,” I told myself, zipping into my sleeping bag. “You’ll find the trail tomorrow.” But the words felt empty. I lay there, eyes wide, listening to the forest breathe around me. Every noise sounded like footsteps, though I knew it was just my mind playing tricks.
The next morning, I packed up and kept walking, following my scratched Xs. My stomach growled, and my head throbbed from dehydration. I thought about a story I’d read, about a woman who got lost in these woods years ago. She’d stepped off the trail, just like me, and wandered for weeks. They found her journal, her last words pleading for her family to know what happened. I shook my head, refusing to let that be me.
Around midday, I heard something—a faint shout, like a voice carried on the wind. My heart leapt. “Hello?” I yelled, stumbling toward the sound. “I’m here! Help!” I pushed through branches, ignoring the scratches on my arms. The voice came again, closer now. I broke into a small clearing and saw her—a woman with short hair and a red backpack, holding trekking poles.
“You okay?” she called, her eyes wide with concern.
“I’m lost,” I said, my voice breaking. “I stepped off the trail yesterday, and I can’t find it. Please, help me.”
She walked over, her face softening. “I’m Lisa. I’m hiking to a shelter a few miles up. Come with me, we’ll get you back on the trail.”
Relief flooded me, though my legs felt like jelly. “Thank you,” I whispered, falling into step behind her. She moved confidently, her poles clicking against rocks. As we walked, she talked, her voice steady but serious.
“This area’s bad for getting lost,” she said. “The trail twists, and the blazes aren’t always clear. People disappear out here—not a lot, but enough. They wander too far, and the forest just… swallows them.”
“Don’t say that,” I snapped, fear making me sharp. “I’m getting out of this. We both are.”
She glanced back, her eyes kind but tired. “I know. Just stay close. We’ll be fine.”
We walked for hours, following what Lisa thought was the right direction. She checked her map often, muttering to herself about landmarks. My hope faded as the trees stayed the same, no blazes in sight. My water was almost gone, and Lisa’s bottle looked low too. “Are we close?” I asked, my voice small.
“We should be,” she said, but her tone wasn’t convincing. She stopped, squinting at her compass. “This isn’t right. We should’ve hit a stream by now.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re lost too?”
“No,” she said quickly, but her hands shook as she folded the map. “We’re just… off a bit. Keep going.”
Night fell, and we had no choice but to camp again. Lisa shared her last protein bar, breaking it in half. We sat by my tent, the darkness pressing in. “I’ve hiked this trail before,” she said, staring into the trees. “Never got lost like this. It’s like the forest is moving.”
“Stop,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “It’s just trees. We missed a turn, that’s all.”
She nodded, but her eyes were distant. I crawled into my tent, my body aching, my mind racing. I thought about my family, picturing them waiting for me to call, to tell them I’d made it to Katahdin. What if I never did? What if I was another story, another name in those articles about missing hikers?
The third morning, we were both weaker. Lisa’s face was pale, her steps slower. My throat burned, and my vision blurred at the edges. We kept walking, desperate for a sign—a blaze, a stream, anything. I talked to keep my fear at bay. “When I get out of this,” I said, “I’m eating a whole pizza. Pepperoni, extra cheese.”
Lisa managed a weak smile. “I’m getting a burger. Biggest one I can find.”
We laughed, but it was hollow. Then, I saw it—a faint white blaze on a tree, barely visible. “Lisa!” I shouted, pointing. “Look!”
She ran over, her eyes lighting up. “That’s it! Oh, thank God, that’s the trail!”
We followed the blaze, then another, our steps faster despite our exhaustion. Soon, we heard voices—real voices, not tricks of the wind. We pushed through a final thicket and stumbled into a clearing. Three hikers sat at a shelter, their packs leaning against a wooden bench. They looked up, startled.
“You okay?” a woman with a braid asked, standing.
“We were lost,” I said, my voice hoarse. “For days.”
The hikers sprang into action, giving us water and granola bars. A man with glasses handed me his canteen. “Drink slow,” he said. “You’re lucky. People get lost out here and don’t come back.”
I nodded, too tired to speak. Lisa sat beside me, her hands shaking as she sipped water. The hikers radioed for help, and soon, a ranger arrived. He checked us over, his face grim. “You were less than a mile from the trail,” he said. “Happens more than you’d think. Forest like this, it’s easy to circle.”
I shivered, thinking how close we’d been, how easily we could’ve kept wandering. The ranger drove us to a nearby town, where I called my family, crying as I told them I was safe. Lisa and I hugged before parting ways, promising to stay in touch, though we never did.
I finished the trail eventually, but those days in the wilderness changed me. I still hear the forest’s sounds in my dreams—twigs snapping, leaves whispering. I think about the others who didn’t make it, their stories buried in the trees. The trail is beautiful, but it’s unforgiving. One wrong step, and it can take you forever.
"Mysterious Disappearances on the Appalachian Trail":
I was 22, stacking shelves at the general store in Bennington, Vermont, when the news about Paula Welden broke. It was December 1946, and the whole town was in a panic. Paula, an 18-year-old student at Bennington College, had gone hiking on the Long Trail and never came back. I didn’t know her, but the fear in everyone’s voices got to me. Customers whispered about it over the counter, their eyes wide. “She was just walking,” one lady said, clutching her groceries. “How does someone just disappear?” I felt this knot in my chest, like I couldn’t just stand there. So, I signed up to join the search.
The first day, I met the group at the trailhead. There were about 30 of us—locals, college kids, a few out-of-town volunteers. The forest was dense, with tall trees and thick underbrush that snagged at my pants. My boots crunched on fallen leaves, and every sound made me jump. The sheriff, a stocky man named Carter, gave us instructions. “Stay in pairs,” he said, his voice rough from shouting. “Look for anything—clothes, footprints, a dropped water bottle. And don’t wander off alone.” His eyes scanned the group, and I could tell he was already tired.
I paired up with Tom, a farmer in his 30s with a weathered face and calloused hands. He carried a walking stick, tapping it against rocks as we moved. “You ever been out here before?” he asked, glancing at me.
“Only for short hikes,” I said. “Nothing like this.”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “This place… it’s got a way of messing with you. People go missing more than you’d think. You heard of the Bennington Triangle?”
My stomach flipped. “No. What’s that?”
“It’s what folks call this area,” Tom said, keeping his voice low. “Glastenbury Mountain, these trails. People vanish. Hunters, hikers, even kids. No trace. Like the ground opens up and takes ‘em.” He wasn’t smiling, and that made it worse. I wanted to ask more, but the way he gripped his stick told me to drop it.
We searched for hours, calling Paula’s name until my throat was raw. “Paula! Paula Welden!” The words echoed, but the forest swallowed them. The trail was narrow, winding through trees so close they blocked out the sky. I kept imagining her out there, lost, maybe hurt. The thought made my chest tight. Around noon, a guy shouted from a ridge. “Found something!” We all ran over, hearts pounding.
It was footprints—small, like a woman’s, pressed into the soft dirt. They followed the trail for maybe 50 yards, then veered into the woods. We tracked them, moving slow, until they just… stopped. No marks, no broken branches, nothing. I stared at the last print, my skin crawling. “How does that happen?” I said to Tom.
He crouched, touching the ground. “Don’t know. No scuffle, no drag marks. It’s like she was lifted up.” His voice was steady, but his hands shook a little.
That night, we set up a camp near the trail. I sat by a fire with Paula’s father, Mr. Welden. He was tall, with graying hair and deep lines on his face. He held a photo of Paula—smiling, blonde, wearing a red parka. “She’s my only daughter,” he said, his voice breaking. “Loves the outdoors. Always careful. I told her to stay on the trail.” He looked at me, his eyes desperate. “You think she’s still out there?”
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “I hope so, sir. We’re looking everywhere.” But I didn’t feel hopeful. Those footprints kept flashing in my mind.
Mr. Welden’s face hardened. “The sheriff’s no help. I’ve been begging for dogs, more men, but he says they don’t have the budget. I’m not stopping ‘til I find her.” He stood up, pacing. “You saw those prints. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe she got confused, wandered off.” But it sounded weak. The Long Trail wasn’t some maze. Paula had hiked before. She knew better.
The next day, we spread out wider, combing the hills around Glastenbury Mountain. The terrain was brutal—rocky slopes, tangled roots, streams that came out of nowhere. My legs ached, and my hands were scratched from pushing through bushes. Tom and I stuck together, checking every hollow and clearing. “This is where Middie Rivers went missing,” Tom said, pointing to a steep ravine. “Last year. Hunter, knew these woods better than anyone. Never found him.”
I froze. “You’re saying this happens a lot?”
“More than folks talk about,” he said. “People don’t like to scare the tourists.”
Around mid-afternoon, a woman in our group yelled. She’d found something—a scrap of red fabric snagged on a thornbush, about a mile from the footprints. My heart raced as I ran over. The fabric was torn, maybe six inches long, bright against the dull green of the bush. Sheriff Carter took it, holding it up. “Could be from her parka,” he said. “She was wearing red.”
“Is that all?” I asked, my voice sharp. “Just a piece of cloth?”
Carter sighed. “It’s something. We’ll keep looking.” But his shoulders slumped, and I knew he didn’t expect to find her.
We searched that area until dark, shouting Paula’s name, checking under logs, behind boulders. Nothing. The fabric was all we had, and it felt like a cruel tease. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing Paula, alone, maybe calling for help. Or worse, not calling at all.
A few days later, I ran into old man Jenkins, a trapper who’d joined the search. He was sitting on a stump, cleaning his rifle. His beard was gray, his eyes sharp despite his age. “You still out here?” I asked, sitting next to him.
“Someone’s gotta be,” he said. “Been trapping these hills 40 years. Seen things you wouldn’t believe.”
“Like what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
He leaned closer, his voice low. “People disappearing. Not just Paula. Middie Rivers, like your friend said. Before him, a kid named Paul Jepson, back in ‘50. Eight years old, gone from his farm. No tracks, no clues. Folks say it’s the Bennington Triangle. Land’s cursed, where the four winds meet.” He tapped his rifle. “I don’t buy curses, but something’s wrong here.”
“You think someone’s… taking people?” I asked, my throat tight.
Jenkins shook his head. “Ain’t a person. Too random. It’s the woods. Too big, too deep. You get turned around, you’re gone. No one finds you.” He looked at me, serious. “Don’t go off alone, kid. Not here.”
The search dragged on for two weeks. Hundreds of us combed the forest—volunteers, firefighters, even some military guys Mr. Welden pulled strings to get. We found nothing else. No more footprints, no more fabric. Paula was gone, like she’d never been there. The town was different after that. People locked their doors, stopped hiking alone. Parents wouldn’t let their kids near the trails. The college put up signs, warning students to stick to groups.
I heard Mr. Welden fought with the sheriff one night, right in the town hall. “You’re giving up!” he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. “My daughter’s out there, and you’re doing nothing!” Carter tried to calm him, but Mr. Welden stormed out. He kept pushing, and by the next year, Vermont got its own state police, all because of Paula. It was something, but it didn’t bring her back.
Years later, I still hike the Long Trail, but it’s never easy. Every snap of a twig, every shadow in the trees, makes my pulse race. I see those footprints in my mind, ending in the dirt. I hear Tom’s voice, talking about the Bennington Triangle, and Jenkins warning me about the woods. The red fabric haunts me, a bright speck in a sea of green. The fear isn’t about ghosts or monsters—it’s the forest itself, vast and silent, hiding answers it won’t give. Paula’s story, like Middie’s and so many others, stays open, a wound that never heals. And every time I step into those woods, I wonder if I’ll be next.
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