“Who was your bishop?”

“Edward Fisher.”

I write down the name. “So what happened?”

“I was pretty much excommunicated.”

“Were you upset?”

“You bet I was. I was seventeen years old. I hadn’t even been baptized. Yet I would be cut off from my family and the rest of the community. No one would take meals with me.” He gives a shrug. “I was sad because I knew no matter how hard my parents and the bishop tried, I couldn’t go back.”

“Must have been a tough transition.”

“My parents and the Amish community made me feel . . . dirty. I had a lot of guilt.”

“Were you angry?”

“I know what you’re getting at. I’m not that way.”

“You’ve got an assault conviction on your record.”

His face reddens. “I guess you did your homework.”

“I know about your juvie record, too.”

“Oh, come on! I was a kid. I was confused and angry.”

“Sometimes a confused and angry kid grows up to be a confused and angry adult.”

“That’s not the way it was.”

“Look, Aaron, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to get some answers. It would save both of us a lot of time if you just opened up and talked to me.”

We fall silent a moment, and then I ask. “So what did you do as a juvenile?”

Shaking his head, he presses his fingers against his forehead. “I burned down a barn.”

“Why?”

The muscles in his jaws clench. “Because my parents forbade me to see Rob.”

I nod. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“How did the cops get involved?” Having grown up Amish, I know many Amish parents would not contact the English police.

“A sheriff’s deputy saw the smoke. Called the fire department.” He sighs heavily. “We were trying to put it out when the fire trucks arrived, but it was a total loss. The sheriff’s office showed up. In the end my father told them I’d done it.”

“You must have been really angry.”

“I was.”

“You were arrested?”

He nods. “And charged. Arson.”

“Went to court?”

“I pled no contest. Judge gave me two hundred hours of community service. Ordered me to help with the rebuilding, which came in the form of a barn raising a month later. Believe me, I paid for what I did.”

“What about the assault?”

He flushed. “Look, it’s not what you think. I’m not a violent person.”

“You torched a barn. You slugged someone. What do you expect me to think?”

He settles himself. “I lost my temper. And, frankly, he had it coming.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

“Some guy at a bar. Some fucking . . . homophobe. He made a bunch of inappropriate comments.”

“You touchy about your sexuality?”

“No, I’d just . . . had too much to drink.”

I nod, but I’m not yet satisfied.