The day she left, the vans filled the road, one after the other. It was like the news stories about the Mexican border, except these vans were identical white, their windows tinted. I knew Lisbeth rode in one of them. Even though I didn’t want to, even though I hated The Church for taking my closest friend from me, the only one who knew me, the one I loved, I stood out beside the road, in the wild field at the end of our driveway, beside the rural route, and waved at every single one.

Nobody had thought much about The Church until they had moved from the basement of the community center into the abandoned supermarket at the edge of town. Somehow they had enough money to buy the building and fix it up, and somehow they had enough people to fill it every Sunday and Wednesday.

In the holler, we tended to leave things alone as long as you weren’t hurting anybody—and even then, as Lobo liked to joke, there was a sliding scale. Was it your own kin you were hurting? Were they grown up? Had they brought it on themselves, bought the pills, boiled the poppies, kissed your wife or sister?

People were least likely to forgive hurting a dog, Lobo said. That was worse than hurting a woman. If you had land, had bought it or inherited it and held on to it, you could do what you wanted out there, beyond your driveway gate or locked doors. That was your right.

Nobody had thought much about The Church. Except their members kept writing letters to the editor of the newspaper, and they kept having candidates run for school board—and win. They became a part of the town, like a shadow quietly and swiftly spreading over us. Or a disease.

And now they were gone. All gone somewhere. All the white church vans.

The Migration.

I thought I would know which van she was in. I thought she would roll down the window, or I would see her moving behind the dark glass. She would give me a sign—and I would know her. But she didn’t. The last van passed me.

The leaves on the trees were supposed to redden and brown, to die and fall. But there were no leaves on the trees. We were supposed to start wearing sweaters as the cold nights stretched on. But we were already wearing sweaters. So we added layers, those of us who could afford more wool and fleece. The charity shop ran out of coats. The Church wasn’t there to launch a warm-clothing drive. School wasn’t open to feed children hot breakfast and lunch. It was harvest time, supposed to be. The moon looked silver and swollen, and the coyotes howled at night with a sharpness I knew was hunger.