The screen door slams. I look up, to see Edna King standing on the porch in her plain dress and kapp, a threadbare dishcloth in her hands. There’s no way she overheard the conversation. But she knows this is about Annie. She knows it’s bad.

The dishcloth flutters to the ground, and then she’s running toward us. “Is it Annie?” she asks. “Did something happen?”

Levi steps back into himself. When he turns to his wife, his face is resolute and calm. “There was a girl found,” he tells her. “It may not be Annie.”

“A girl?” She covers her mouth with both hands. “She is alive?”

Her husband sets both hands on her shoulders, shakes his head. “God will take care of Annie,” he says with conviction.

“Edna, there is much comfort in that,” the bishop adds.

I see the struggle waging within her, the war between absolute faith and the terror of knowing something horrific may have happened to her daughter. “It cannot be Annie,” she whispers. “Not Annie.”

Tomasetti snags my attention and motions toward the Tahoe. I take a step back and we start down the sidewalk.

“I have to go with them,” Levi tells her. “Be strong, Edna. Get breakfast for the children. I’ll be back before you’ve washed the dishes.”

“Levi . . .”

I hear her crying softly, but the Amish man turns away. Stone-faced, staring straight ahead, he starts toward the Tahoe.

Behind him, his wife falls to her knees, clenches handfuls of grass in both hands, and cries out her daughter’s name.

The drive to Trumbull Memorial Hospital takes twenty-five minutes, but it seems like hours. The sense of dread inside the vehicle is palpable. Bishop Hertzler and Levi King ride in the backseat and spend much of that time in silent prayer or speaking quietly. Mostly, they talk about Annie—her youth and goodness, her love of God and family, the possibility that the body isn’t hers and that another family will be needing their prayers. Levi returns to that theme again and again, and I know he’s clinging to that hope with the desperation of a man trying to save his own life. In a way, he is.

By the time we park in the garage across the street from the hospital, the men have fallen silent. No one speaks as we disembark. The two Amish men draw some attention as the four of us take the skyway from the garage to the hospital. It’s always hard for me to believe there are people living in Ohio who’ve never seen an Amish person. Once inside, we take the elevator to the basement, where the morgue is located.