The afternoon has turned colder with a brisk wind whipping down from the north. Dark clouds roil above the tree line to my left, prompting me to push the scooter bike faster as I head west. It takes me just ten minutes reach their small farm.

It’s a single-story stone house with asphalt shingles and a big chimney that’s puffing smoke. A swaybacked outbuilding that had once been a detached garage is being used to house goats. A greenhouse in the side yard is missing half its panes and falling to ruin. Beyond, I see the raised landscape timbers of a garden. No shutters on the house. No clay pots left over from summer. No adornment of any kind. The place is plain.

I stop the bike in the gravel driveway, dismount and lean it against a bare-branched maple a few feet away. The wind cuts through my coat, its icy hands rushing up my skirt and down my collar. By the time I reach the front door, I’m shivering despite the physical exertion of the ride.

The door opens and Mary Gingerich appears. “Kate?” Craning her neck, she looks past me as if to see if I’m alone. She doesn’t look pleased to see me. She has a full-fledged black eye now and I wonder: What kind of person assaults a middle-age Amish woman?

The same kind that leaves fifteen-year-old girl out in the cold to die …

“I thought I’d swing by to thank you and Abe for driving me to worship on Sunday,” I say.

“No need to thank us.”

“May I come in?” I add a shiver for effect.

She offers a pained expression. She doesn’t want to invite me inside, but her good manners prevent her from refusing. “Come on.”

The living room smells of woodsmoke and some kind of frying meat. It’s a small space with a worn oak floor covered with a braided rug. The furniture is minimal: plain brown sofa covered with a half dozen homemade throw pillows. Rocking chair draped with a blue-and-white afghan. An overstuffed chair and ottoman face a potbellied stove in the corner. The curtains are black.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your afternoon,” I tell her.

“I was just frying up some schpeck for sandwiches.” Bacon. “Would you like to stay?”

“I can’t, but thank you.”

An awkward silence falls. The room is so quiet I can hear the bacon sizzling in the kitchen. Mary looks everywhere except at me.

“Mary, I need to talk to you about something that happened.”

Her gaze jerks to mine. In the depths of her eyes I see apprehension, maybe even fear.

“Two men on snowmobiles came to my trailer last night,” I tell her. “They broke in while I was sleeping, tied me up and took me to a farm where I was locked in a chicken coop.”