I find Skid in his cubicle, pecking at the keyboard of his desktop. “Any luck with veterinarians?” I ask.

“Not yet, but I’m only halfway through the list. Most of these guys are retired now. One has passed away.”

“You up to making a trip out to Kaufman’s place with me?”

“Which Kaufman?”

“Both,” I tell him. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

*   *   *

Abram and Frieda Kaufman live on a dirt road off of County Road 600, a mile or so from Reuben Kaufman’s farm, not far from Charm. A good portion of the area is a floodplain, where the pasture is lush and dotted with dark pools filled with lily pads and moss. Massive old-growth trees—maple, elm, and black walnut—crowd the road on either side, casting us into dusky shadows. We crest a hill, and the trees open to endless rows of corn on both sides of the road, where hip-high leaves sway in the breeze.

I nearly miss the narrow mouth of the gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by tall grass and tangles of raspberry bushes hugging the fence line. The plain mailbox is overgrown with weeds and easily overlooked. I make the turn, and the Crown Vic bounces over ruts and potholes.

“Bet the mailman loves delivering to this place,” Skid mutters as we approach a small hill.

“Especially in winter.”

The lane makes a lazy S, and then the corn gives way to a mowed shoulder. Ahead, I see a two-story brick house with a tin roof and the brooding facade of a place that’s decades past its prime. The front porch wraps around two sides and tilts slightly on the north end. There are no hanging plants or clay pots. The windows are darkened with black coverings.

“They’re Swartzentruber,” I say as I park behind a black windowless buggy. A second buggy with a handsome sorrel gelding still harnessed is parked beneath the shade of a tree.

“Is that good or bad?”

“We’re about to find out.”

We disembark and take the sidewalk to the front door. To my right I notice the big barn adorned with what looks like a fresh coat of white paint. The sliding door at the front stands open, telling me there’s probably someone inside.

I hear Skid behind me as I cross the porch to the front door. I’m raising my hand to knock, when the door creaks open. I find myself looking at a stout Amish woman of about thirty-five with a round, ruddy face. She’s wearing a dark gray dress that falls to mid calf, an apron, and off-brand sneakers. White kapp with the strings tied neatly beneath her chin. Her summer-sky eyes contradict a mouth that’s disapproving and thin.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her accent heavy.

“Frieda Kaufman?” I ask.

“Ja.” She looks me up and down. “Who wants to know?”