I reach the front of the barn and peer around the corner. There’s no one there. Nothing has changed. To my left the two horses and buggies still stand idle. The sliding door is open, light slanting out. The men are still arguing. I can’t be sure, but it sounds as if someone is crying—or in distress.

An instant of hesitation and then I’m around the corner. My back scrapes against the siding as I edge toward the door. I duck beneath a window, light spilling onto the snow-covered ground to my left. I reach the door and pause to listen. For the first time I recognize Schrock’s voice. He’s berating someone for some serious offense involving a woman ime familye weg. Pregnant.

Pressing myself hard against the wood, I peek around the jamb. Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker stand with their backs to me. Eli Schrock stands a few feet away from them, his back to me as well. A fourth man whose face I can’t see stands with his back to them, his hands braced against the wall. At first glance, I think he’s wearing a white T-shirt mottled with rust-colored paint, then I realize his back is bare, his flesh striped with welts.

Abruptly, Schrock draws back. For the first time I notice the buggy whip in his hand. He brings it down hard on the man’s bare back. “Gottlos!” Ungodly.

A scream tears from the man’s throat. His body goes rigid. His hands clench like claws against the wood. For an instant, I think he’s bound. Shock rattles through me when I realize he’s not.

“Oftentimes pain is the only way to cast out the devil.” Schrock slams the whip against the man’s lower back. Leather pops sickeningly against flesh.

Yoder watches dispassionately, unfazed by the scene playing out before him. But I don’t miss the signs of discomfort in Smucker’s body language. He flinches each time the leather smacks against the man’s skin, averting his eyes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Still, he does nothing to stop it.

The whip falls again. The man’s body jolts, his hands scrabbling against the wood. A terrible groan bubbles up from his throat.

“Aybrechah!” Schrock shouts. Adulterer. “What would you do if Jesus came to your house today?”

The man begins to cry. “Bekeahra.” Repent.

Shrock swings the whip, brings it down hard. “Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord!”

The man’s legs buckle. He goes to his knees, his nails scraping the wall all the way to the floor. He bends at the waist. At some point he’s wet his pants, the stain spreading nearly down to his knees. Dear God …