He stares down at the heads in disgust. “This is going to ruin the whole baby back rib thing for me.”

Grinning, I go through the door. “Man up, Tomasetti.”

I grew up on a farm where the slaughter of livestock was a routine part of life. I bore witness to the process a dozen times before I was old enough to realize how much I hated it. Sense memories, I think, and I’m surprised at how vividly those days come rushing back.

The smell of dirt and manure and the salty copper stench of blood assaults my senses when I enter the building. A lantern hangs from a wire strung between two rafters and casts yellow light in all directions. A buggy with a missing wheel is parked a few feet away, its dual shafts angling down to the floor. Steel livestock panels lean against the wall. Next to them, an aluminum trough is tipped onto its side. A dozen or more burlap bags filled with some type of grain are stacked neatly atop a flatbed wagon, a good bit of yellow corn spilling onto the floor. Beyond, a shadowy hall leads toward the rear of the building.

“Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.

Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”

I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”

A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.

“Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.

I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”

Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.

“I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”

Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”

I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.

After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”