Noah doesn’t answer immediately. It’s obvious he’s trying to protect his parents, despite the cruelty they inflicted upon him, the years they stole from his life. “I never saw them. But I could hear them sometimes. You know, crying.”

“Do you know any of their names?

The Amish man shakes his head.

“Were there girls and boys?”

“Girls, I think.”

Tomasetti nods. “Do you know why your parents put them there?”

“I figured they did something bad and needed to be brought back. Same as me.”

“How did your parents find the girls?”

“I dunno.”

“Do you know how they got the girls into the tunnel?”

“I think God brought them.”

Tomasetti looks down at his hands, laces his fingers, unlaces them. “Noah, about your parents . . . I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

“What do you mean?” The Amish man pushes up in the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. The gown shifts, and I see a swirl of hair on a sunken chest and shoulders that are bony and sharp.

“Your parents were killed earlier today. I’m sorry.”

“What? Killed?” His mouth opens. I see yellow incisors and molars in the early stages of decay. “You mean they are dead?”

“I’m very sorry,” Tomasetti says.

“But how can that be? I saw them this morning. Mamm brought me milk, like always. They weren’t sick. Why are you saying these things?” He looks at me as if expecting me to dispute the words. When I don’t, he collapses back into the pillows and looks up at the ceiling, his chest heaving. “I don’t believe you. They would not leave me.”

Without looking away, Tomasetti reaches for the plastic pitcher of water on the tray and pours some into a cup, hands it to Noah.

The Amish man doesn’t look at us as he sips. When he finishes, he relaxes back into the pillow and closes his eyes. “I cannot believe they are gone. How did they die?”

“Your father was sick—”

“But he was fine!”

Tomasetti touches his temple. “He was sick inside his head, where you couldn’t see it.”

Noah Mast puts his face in his hands and begins to sob.

The Whistle Stop Tavern in Monongahela Falls is nestled in a warehouse district between the Grand River and a busy set of railroad tracks. In keeping with the train theme, the establishment is housed inside an old railroad car. The interior has been renovated and made into a bar and restaurant—heavy on the bar—and reeks of fried onions and cigarette smoke. The smell should repel me, but I have an affinity for places of disrepute and I’ve spent too much time in dives just like this one not to be attracted to it now.