I step into a rectangular living room with rough-hewn plank floors covered with a knot rug that’s seen better days. The windows are covered with dark blue fabric, ushering in barely enough light for me to see a blue sofa against the wall, a rocking chair draped with an afghan, and a black potbellied stove in the corner.

I shove my sunglasses onto my crown. The woman’s eyes narrow when she notices my black eyes. Smiling, I tap my right temple with my finger. “I was in a car accident last night.”

“Oh.” She nods, her expression telling me I probably deserved it for driving a motorized vehicle in the first place. “Would you like iced tea, Chief Burkholder? It’s chamomile and mint, from the garden.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” I tell her.

The sound of the floor creaking draws my attention. I glance toward the kitchen to see an Amish man in a wheelchair rolling through the doorway. Reuben Kaufman, I think. He looks older than sixty-seven. He’s wearing a blue shirt over narrow, bony shoulders. Black trousers. Suspenders. A flat-brimmed summer hat.

He makes eye contact with me. When he opens his mouth, I see he’s missing a lower incisor. His face is slightly asymmetrical, with the left side sagging a little more than the right. His mouth quivers; I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

“This is my husband, Reuben,” Naomi tells me.

I cross to him. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman.” He raises a limp hand to mine. It feels cold and frail within my grip, and I shake it gently.

“Reuben has difficulty speaking sometimes,” the Amish woman says. “He had a stroke, you see. Going on three years now.” She looks at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Reuben?”

He gives a subtle nod, but his eyes never leave mine.

Naomi moves behind her husband’s wheelchair and sets her hands on the handgrips. “But we manage, don’t we?”

She seems completely at ease with her husband’s disability. They have their own unique mode of communication, and from the outside looking in, it seems as effective as words.

“Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin,” she says. It’s terribly hot in here. “Let’s sit on the porch.”

I go to the door and hold it open while she wheels her husband outside. There, she sets the wheel lock and then lowers herself into a rocking chair. “Sitz dich anne,” she tells me. Sit yourself down.

“Danki.” The rocking chair has a wicker seat and creaks slightly as I lower myself into it. “You and your husband have a beautiful farm.”

“Reuben’s mamm left it to us when she passed. Been in the Kaufman family for years.”

“I’ve driven by a few times. Didn’t she used to raise hogs out here?”

Her eyes narrow on mine. “Never raised hogs.”

“Have you and Mr. Kaufman ever raised hogs?”