Through the driving snow, I see the facade of a Big M grocery set close to the highway.

She makes another turn, heading north. We pass a cemetery with grass left uncut, some of the headstones leaning. A farm where a dozen or so cattle stand beneath the overhang of a tumbling-down barn.

The driver makes a sound low in her throat when we approach the sign for Swamp Creek Road. “County don’t clear the gravel roads when it gets bad.” She hauls the wheel right, hits the gas with enough force to send the van into a fishtail. “Should be okay as long as I don’t stop.”

I’m holding on to the armrest, wondering how she plans to drop me off without stopping.

She cackles as she barrels through the snow and I realize she’s not kidding. “Mrs. Bowman meeting you out here?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Decent lady. Keeps a clean place and always fair to the Amish. Churchgoing, so she don’t put up with no hanky-panky if you know what I mean. Frankly, I think that’s why she likes to rent to the Amish. No teenage boys, though. ’Specially when they do that running around thing.”

“Rumspringa.”

“They’re as destructive as a herd of wild boars.” She breaks into laughter and I hear phlegm rattle in her chest. “Course she won’t have to worry about that with you being a woman, and a widow to boot.” She slows the van. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

My heart drops into my belly at the sight of the mobile home. It’s tiny, not much larger than a travel trailer, with pink siding striped with rust, and it doesn’t look quite level. There’s a bay window on the right end. From where I’m sitting I can see that one of the panes is cracked. The steel skirting is robin’s-egg blue and there’s at least one panel missing completely. I silently curse Betancourt and Suggs as the van rolls to a stop.

“I know what you’re thinking. It looks kind of trashy, and I reckon it is, but I been inside and it’s clean and warm. Trees are nice in the summer, keeps the place cool.” She jams the van into park. “Looks like Mrs. Bowman beat you here. She’s prompt, if anything.”

I glance through the windshield to see a big red Suburban parked adjacent to a silver propane tank.

“That’ll be fifteen bucks. Cash, if you got it.” She holds out her hand.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out a couple of bills. “Thank you.”

I reach for the handle and get out, relieved to be away from the stink of cigarette smoke and exhaust. Snow squeaks beneath my shoes as I pull out my suitcase and the box. I tuck the box under my arm and drag the suitcase through the snow toward the driver’s-side door.

The van window rolls down. She’s smoking. “You want me to wait for you?” she asks.

I look at the trailer and sigh. “No.”