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It's July 2019 in southwest Canada near the coast of British Columbia.

An unpaved road cuts a narrow path through the pines.

Tall grass grows along the verge and sprouts through cracks in the thinning gravel.

At first glance, you'd assume that nobody had come down this way in years, a forgotten logging road, slowly being reclaimed by the forest.

But on closer inspection, it seems somebody has been here, recently. A walker by the looks of it. A discarded backpack rests among the weeds and wildflowers.

Over there, a hiking pole, slightly bent and badly scratched, lies in the dirt.

There, a scrap of torn clothing.

And on the overgrown verge, some fifty feet further up the road, a pool of blood turns dark in the afternoon sun.

Clearly, something dreadful has happened here.

A short distance away, another drop of blood stains the ground.

Then another, and another. It forms a trail.

Frimson flecks dripped along the road, leading in the direction of the shore.

Down to where 44-year-old Colin Dowler is peddling for his life.

Each little rise they came over, each corner I went around and thinking, man, I've been peddling for so long.

That's got to be where I get to the hill,

where I can coast out of here, because I'm not sure how much longer I can do this.

Colling's bicycle weaves down the road.

...