I sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. Several thoughts strike my brain at once. I didn’t see the buggy until I was nearly upon it. The accident would have been my fault. Everyone on board probably would have been injured—or worse.

Through the passenger side window, I see the horse come to a stop. Flipping on my overhead emergency lights, I back up so that I’m behind the buggy to protect it from oncoming traffic. I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out, noticing immediately that there’s no lantern or reflective signage anywhere on the buggy.

The driver exits as I approach. I keep my beam low to avoid blinding him as I take his measure. Male. Six feet tall. Mid-thirties. Black jacket. Black, flat-brimmed hat. Matching steel-wool beard that hangs to his belly. His clothes, along with the fact that the buggy is without a windshield, tell me he’s Swartzentruber. I’ve seen him around town, but I’ve never spoken to him. I don’t know his name.

“Guder Ohvet,” I begin. Good evening.

He blinks, surprised that I speak Pennsylvania Dutch, and responds in kind.

Leaning forward slightly, I shine my beam into the buggy. A thirtyish Amish woman, also clad in black, and six children ranging in age from infant to preteen are huddled in the rear, their legs covered with two knitted afghans. The woman is holding a baby. Dismay swirls in my gut when I’m reminded how this could have turned out.

“And Wie bischt du heit?” I ask the woman. How are you today?

She averts her gaze.

“Miah bin zimmlich gut,” comes the man’s voice from the front. We are good.

When dealing with the Amish in an official capacity, particularly the Old Order or Swartzentruber, I always make an effort to put them at ease before getting down to police business. Smiling at the woman, I lean back and address the man. “Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

“Ja.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Elam Shetler.”

“Do you have an ID card, Mr. Shetler?”

He shakes his head. “We are Swartzentruber,” he tells me, as if that explains everything.

To me, it does. The Amish don’t drive; if they need to travel a long distance, they hire a driver. Most do not have driver’s licenses, but apply for DMV-issued ID cards. Not so with the Swartzentruber, whose belief system prevents them from having their photographs taken.

“Mr. Shetler, I came over that hill and didn’t see your buggy.” I motion toward the vehicle in question. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a lantern or reflective signage.”

“Ornamentation,” he mutters in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I nearly struck your buggy.” I nod toward his wife and children. “Someone could have been seriously injured.”

“I trust in God, not some Englischer symbol.”

“Ich fashtay.” I understand. “But it’s the law, Mr. Shetler.”

“God will take care of us.”

“Or maybe He’d prefer you put a slow-moving vehicle sign on your buggy so you and your family live long, happy lives.”