“It must have been devastating for her parents,” I say with a shudder.

Abe clucks to the horse and jiggles the reins. “She’s in a better place,” he says as the horse breaks into a working trot.

No one mentions the possibility that Rachel may not have been alone. I don’t press the issue; I’ve probably already asked too many questions. Instead, I make a mental note to get Anna alone at the first opportunity.

Mary makes small talk as Abe drives the rig onto the main road and heads north. Within minutes, we fall in behind another buggy. At the next turnoff, a third buggy pulls onto the road behind us. We pass a group of teenage boys decked out in their Sunday best—black overcoats, black flat-brimmed hats, and black trousers—walking alongside the road.

The frigid air chafes my face as the horse sets a fast clip. By the time we turn into the narrow dirt road that will take us to Schrock’s place, there are six buggies in the caravan. My cheeks are numb, and though I’ve pulled the afghan up to my waist, I’m shivering. I attribute it to the cold, but my nerves are stretched taut beneath my skin as we draw closer to our destination.

The area is heavily treed with ancient hardwoods that soar sixty feet into the air. Abe makes a final turn. We pass a white clapboard schoolhouse, and then a massive bank-style barn looms before us like some primordial beast. The two-story structure is painted white with a tin roof gone to rust. It’s nestled in a clearing with horse pens to the right and a small pasture that slopes down to a creek on the left. The large sliding front doors stand open and I see a dozen or so men milling about inside. Vaguely, I wonder where the women have congregated.

Abe makes a U-turn and stops the buggy in front of the barn with a low “whoa.” A boy not yet in his teens goes around to the horse and, watching Abe, waits for us to disembark. Picking up the bags of date pudding, I slide out of the buggy and wait. Mary climbs down, but I can tell immediately that Anna needs assistance, so I jump in to help. Once we’re out, Abe nods to the boy, who will take the horse to the paddock where the animal will be unharnessed, stalled, and given water and hay.

Worship is a time of anticipation for the Amish, but it’s also a time filled with quiet reflection and hope. Conversation is hushed and respectful. Smiles are subdued. Laughter is not appropriate, even among children.

“This way, Kate.”

Carting the bags, I follow Mary and Anna to the barn door. Some of the men have gathered beneath the overhang at the end of the building. Having grown up in Painters Mill, I’d attended hundreds of worship services before leaving the fold. Generally, the ordained men enter first, followed by the older men, the married men, the married women, the unmarried, and, finally, the teenagers. The order of things is atypical here; the women are nowhere in sight, and I remind myself that this is a different church district, a different state, and that Eli Schrock is originally from Lancaster County.