“Where you headed?”

“Swamp Creek Road.”

“I know it. You must be renting Bowman’s old trailer.”

“I’m supposed to meet her there.”

“We’d best get moving then.” She slams the door.

I’m no stranger to the dynamics of a small town. Still, it’s disconcerting that the first person I meet knows where I’ll be living before I do. She puts the van in gear and pulls onto the road. The interior smells of exhaust and cigarette smoke. She’s got the radio on, but the reception is bad and there’s more static than music. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the rattle of something loose and the thump of wipers that need replacing.

On the outskirts of Roaring Springs, she glances at me in the rearview mirror. “I know most of the Amish in the area.” She pronounces the word “Amish” with a long A. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

“I just arrived from Ohio.”

“We don’t get too many new ones.” The brakes screech when she stops for a traffic light. “What brings you all the way up here?”

“Bishop Schrock.”

“The bishop, huh?” Her eyes go back to the mirror, narrow on mine. “You heard about him all the way from Ohio?”

“I hear he’s a good bishop. A strong leader.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. You one of them Swartzenrubbers, or what?”

I don’t bother correcting her mispronunciation. “My family was, but over the years we’ve drifted from the old ways. My church district in Ohio … the bishop had become mild.”

“I reckon sometimes the old ways are the best,” she says.

“Do you know Bishop Schrock?” I ask.

“He don’t speak to us English folks. I seen him in town a time or two, though,” she replies. “Kind of stands out in a crowd. Always wears black. Never seen him smile. Or heard him say hello, for that matter. I mean, if you ain’t Amish, anyway. And he’s got that stare. Sorta scares people off, if you ask me. I hear he runs a tight ship out there.”

“My datt always told me that to be worldly is to be lost.” It’s the first truthful thing I’ve said so far.

When she looks at me in the mirror, her expression is perplexed. “If that’s the case, you should be happy here because Schrock is strict with all them rules.” She indicates my dress. “That gray dress you’re wearing’ll do fine, I suppose. A lot of the women wear black. That’s about all in the way of color. From what I hear, he likes the womenfolk to wear their skirts extra long.…”

I look out the window, but I feel her studying me in the mirror.

“You all alone?” she asks.

“My husband passed away,” I tell her. “Cancer.”

“Hate to hear that.” She clears her throat, motions to her left. “Grocery’s right there, by the way. They’re open till ten every day ’cept Sunday when they close at five.”