“I know exactly what I want!” she retorts. “I’m going to design clothes. English clothes. For women. I know that sounds like some stupid pipe dream. Or according to my datt: devilment.” She does a decent impersonation of her father. “He doesn’t get me, Katie. I’m so good with the needle and thread. Just ask Mamm. She knows I could make a go of it. Only she won’t admit it.”

She motions at the tank she’s wearing. “I made this! Look at it. It’s beautiful, but Mamm won’t let me wear it. She won’t even let me sell it at the Carriage Stop. She says it’s got too much ornamentation and that it’s prideful.”

The words tumble out of her in a rush, too fast and falling over one another, as if she’s been holding them inside and some invisible dam has burst. I recall a vague memory from a couple of months ago: My sister, Sarah, telling me about this girl’s needlework. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time; my sister and I have been dealing with our own issues. But Sarah had gone on about Sadie’s talent. How she’d already sold a dozen quilts at one of the tourist shops in town and customers couldn’t seem to get enough. There’s a part of me that hates the idea of snuffing out that kind of passion. Too many people slog through their lives without it. It is a view, of course, that would not be welcomed by the Amish.

“So are you going to take me to jail?” she asks, looking a little too excited by the prospect.

“I’m going to take you home.”

Sighing as if jail is the better option, Sadie reaches into her pocket, pulls a brown cigarette from a pack, and lights up. I can tell by the way she does it, she’s not a smoker.

“Put that out,” I tell her.

“Why, Katie? You smoke. I saw you. At the graebhoff. Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re fifteen and it’s illegal.” I snatch the cigarette from her and toss it out the window.

She stares at me with clear, watchful eyes that don’t miss a beat. It’s strange, but I find myself feeling self-conscious because, for some crazy reason, this girl looks up to me. She’s learning things she probably shouldn’t, wanting things that, if she remains Amish, she won’t ever possess. It’s a recipe for heartache, and I want no part of it.

“I don’t want to go home,” she tells me.