Do you know Sherry Arnold?

If you don't, you should.

She was a teacher. A mother. A runner.

She set out from her house on an early January Saturday morning at 6:30 in Sidney, Montana to do her routine run, and she didn't come back home. They found one of her running shoes.

The FBI arrested two men for aggravated kidnapping, and they believe that she is dead and have asked farmers to search their fields for her body.

I am angry. Surprisingly few stories make me feel sick to my stomach, but this one hits so close to home. Saturday morning run. A mom. A teacher. A runner.

I look over my shoulder when I run now. I don't know what I expect to see, but on the two-mile stretch of country road on my routine route, I run a little scared. I wonder if the feeling will pass. I wonder if it should.

I ran past a couple of guys standing in a driveway chatting the other night. They looked a little rough around the edges, I judged. (Yes, I judged. Because when you are scared, you sometimes make snap judgements.) And I wondered whether I would be better off greeting them or acting like I hadn't seen them. Would it make a difference?

Put on a pair of shoes and walk out the door. Sure, you can get all geared up (trust me, I have the gear), but the beauty of it is that you don't have to. And I, a woman, someone, anyone really should be able to walk out the door and run without having to even think about running scared.

I don't know how to think about this. When I run, though, I don't want to think about this. That's the point of running. And perhaps the best way to remember Sherry Arnold is to keep on running.