I’m ascending the concrete steps to the front porch, when the door swings open. An elderly man shuffles out. His eyes dart to mine, and in that instant I see a combination of anticipation and hope, and I know that after thirty years of not knowing the whereabouts or fate of his son, he’s ready for the mystery to be solved, even if the news is bad. On his heels is a plump woman of about seventy. I don’t realize they’re Mennonite until I notice her print dress, the blue-and-white-checkered apron tied at her waist, and her head covering.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nolt?” I cross to them, my hand extended, and introduce myself. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

The elderly man’s hand feels quivery and frail within mine. “I’m Vern.” He steps aside to introduce his wife.

She’s already moving around him, her eyes seeking mine. “Please tell us. Have you found him?” She looks down at my extended hand. As if it’s an afterthought, she gives it a single, weak shake. “Did you find Leroy?”

“I’m not sure yet, but there were some human remains found here in Painters Mill. I’d like to talk to you about your son.”

They stare at me, hanging on my every word, and I remind myself that I’m talking about a son they’ve hoped would return alive for thirty years now. “Mr. and Mrs. Nolt, can we go inside and talk?”

“Of course. Where are my manners?” The woman wipes her hands on her apron and then opens the door. “You can call me Sue. I made some iced tea. Come on inside.”

Vern motions me through the door, and I follow her into the living room. The interior of the house is murky and cramped but not unpleasant. Dust motes fly where sunlight slants in between lacy curtains at the front window. The aromas of vanilla potpourri and recently baked bread add a comforting countenance. I didn’t know my grandparents, but if I ever imagined walking into their home, it would have been like this one.

I motion toward the Amish quilt hanging on the wall above the sofa. It’s heirloom quality, a stunning combination of mauve and cream and black with the iconic eight-point star in the center. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Did you make it?”

Sue’s smile is a sad twisting of lips. “It was a birthday present from Leroy a few weeks before he disappeared. I’d been looking for one with those colors.” As if catching herself drifting back to a past that’s long gone, she clucks her lips. “I’ll fetch the tea.”