I woke a couple hours later, clearheaded and fully recovered from my ordeal in the chicken coop. At some point during the night, it occurred to me that if the men had wanted to kill me, they could have done so. I don’t believe that was their intent, though if I had succumbed to the cold they wouldn’t have been too broken up about it.

Interestingly, I didn’t see a firearm on either man. Often when a criminal is armed and wants control of his victim, he will brandish a weapon. I’m not convinced they were armed, which is telling.

I’m working on my second cup of coffee when I notice the chafing and bruising on my wrists from the tape. A small blister is beginning to rise on the pad of my left ring finger, probably from frostbite. I’ll need to keep an eye on it in the coming days and watch for any sign of tissue loss or infection. I dress for the day, adding an extra layer for warmth, and at seven-thirty I leave the trailer and take the scooter bike to the farm store for a new lock.

The Roaring Springs Feed Store is about twenty minutes away. I arrive just as the cashiers are opening their registers. Grabbing a shopping cart, I head for hardware. I grab two commercial-duty bolt locks and the tools I’ll need to install them. On impulse, I add a couple of heavy-duty, zinc-plated barrel bolt locks. Then I’m off to sporting goods. There, I’m quickly reminded that stun guns are illegal in the state of New York. It takes me less than a minute to locate the pepper spray. I choose a compact canister filled with the highest percentage of oleoresin capsicum. The label boasts twenty-five bursts with minimal blowback and it’s made in the U.S.A. If my attackers return, I’ll be ready.

Back at the trailer, I set to work. Installing a bolt lock isn’t rocket science and I’m relatively handy—or so I’d imagined. The job isn’t as easy as I anticipated. The lack of power tools doesn’t help and a chore that would have taken a locksmith an hour ends up taking me close to three. The locks aren’t quite straight and the jamb is nicked. But the trailer is secure.

*   *   *

I fix hot soup from a can for lunch. As I eat, I pull out my phone, call up Google and retrieve an address for Abe and Mary Gingerich. It’s not far. I’ll stop by under the guise of thanking them for driving me to worship on Sunday and see if I can get Mary to open up about the bruise on her face.