But despite the risks and the fact that I’m not in control of the situation, some inner voice urges me to wait. I’ll keep my options open. For now, I want to see where this goes. I want to know who’s behind it.

The driver of the machine I’m on dismounts. I’m aware of his partner behind us, headlight illuminating us. The next thing I know, the driver turns, sets his hand against my chest and shoves me hard. I slide from the seat and plop into the snow on my backside.

Laughter erupts.

Using my hands, I scrape the hat up over my eyes so I can see and look around. One of the men is standing next to the outbuilding. Only then do I realize it’s a chicken coop. Shit. Shit.

“Get up.”

I bend my knees, try to get my legs under me, but wobble and fall sideways. He doesn’t give me a second chance. Bending to me, he wraps both hands around my biceps and hauls me to my feet.

“Cut the tape,” he says to the other man.

A different kind of fear goes through me at the sight of the four-inch folding knife. I raise my bound wrists, watching as he severs the tape.

“Get in the coop.”

I turn to face him. “I n-need t-to get warm,” I sputter through chattering teeth. “Gloves.”

“How ’bout if I knit you a pair? Now get in there.”

His partner fumbles with a padlock on a hasp and with some effort shoves open the door. The other man clamps his hand around the back of my neck and forces me toward the door. Beyond, the interior is dark and smells of frozen chicken shit and dirt.

“I don’t want to go in there.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“This is what we do to nosy Amish women.”

Raising his foot, he places it on my butt and shoves me through the door. I stumble into the darkened interior, smack my forehead against something, and fall to my hands and knees. Something scampers across the dirt floor to my right. Rat, I think, but I’m too cold to care. The door slams shut.

I struggle to my feet, strike my head against a low beam, and duck back down. A roost. Rushing to the door, I slam both fists against it. “Let me out!” I scream. “Let me out!”

A round of laughter ensues, followed by conversation I can’t quite discern. The snowmobile engines rev.

“Don’t leave!” I slam my fist against the door. “Bastards!”

The men drive away. I stand at the door. Through a gap between the wood planks, I watch the taillights fade into the darkness. The sound of the engines fade. Dismay spreads through me. And then the men are gone.

“Pricks.”