Rebecca doesn’t back down. “Or maybe she’s the one teaching him a thing or two.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lena hisses.

Naomi reaches across the table and pats Lena’s hand. “No one knows any such thing for sure.”

Laura concentrates on her stitching. “And who are we to judge?”

“Rebecca, how’s the—” Across from me, Ada gasps, dropping the section of quilt she’d been working on. “Oh no. Oh no.”

All eyes fly to Rebecca. For the first time I notice the bandage covering the outside portion of her left hand. Oddly, she’d been trying to hide it. Upon closer inspection I discern the shape of her hand and realize her pinky finger is missing.

No group of people knows better than the Amish that farming can be a dangerous profession. Accidents are commonplace, even for the women who often help their husbands in the barn and fields. I’m not surprised by the sight of the missing digit. What I am surprised by is the reaction of the women. Surely this isn’t the first time they’ve seen the result of a mishap that claimed a finger. Yes, those kinds of accidents are traumatic, but why the shock? And why would Rebecca try to conceal it? That’s when it strikes me that no one has asked her what happened.

They already know, a little voice whispers in my ear.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I look down at the potholder in my hands, slide the needle into the fabric, and tug it through. “What happened?” I ask matter-of-factly.

Naomi stares at the bandage, her mouth open and trembling. Lena leans back in her chair, blinking. Laura looks down at her sewing, but her hands seem to be frozen in place. The room falls silent.

Shifting uncomfortably, Rebecca lowers her hand so it’s out of sight. “It was such a fool thing.” Her eyes flick to the door, then back to me. In the instant our eyes meet, I see fear in their depths. “I caught it in the meat grinder when I was making sausage.”

The rise of tension is palpable. Eyes are averted. The women turn their attention back to their sewing, stitching faster, but not all hands are steady.

“How awful,” I hear myself say. “Did you go to the doctor?”

“Levi took me to the hospital.” She forces a laugh, but it’s a loud, unnatural sound. “I don’t think I’m going to be much help with this quilt.”

*   *   *

Late afternoon ushers in a lowering sky with fog and another round of snow. By the time five o’clock rolls around, only Laura and I remain and the shop is empty of customers. Earlier, she taught me how to use the old-fashioned cash register. In the last hour, I’ve rung up only two sales.