Steve Hicks. His grandparents lived next door to my sister and her family on Mayfair Road. We were the same age, so when we’d meet, we would ride his granddad’s Honda ATV, the ones that had the huge balloon tires and would flip over if you weren’t careful. We’d go down to the little creek behind the property and smoke cigarettes. Steve was cool, we liked the same bands, but I didn’t know him very well. We got together whenever his family was visiting his grandparents and I was visiting my sister’s family. We were probably 15, 16 years old. A few years later, his granddad sold the house to Steve’s uncle. One day, I asked his cousin how Steve was, and she told me that Steve had ran away. Fast forward to 1991. Dahmer had already been caught. I’d moved to Florida in 1985, and one evening after work, I was watching the news. There was a segment about Dahmer’s first victim, and I saw the photo of Steve. I called my sister in Ohio, and she didn’t even wait for me to ask. “That was Steve”. For thirteen years, Steve’s family had no idea. Dahmer picked him up hitchhiking. At that time, I was also hitchhiking everywhere in the Akron area. It was such a shock to find out that someone I knew was the first victim of one of the most vilified serial killers in America. And it could have me.