County Road 9 wound through farm country. Barns, their boards weathered gray, sat back from the highway, beyond two-story homes likely built seventy to a hundred years ago. At the end of every driveway stood a mailbox, and at some, a small building, phone booth–sized, that could have been outhouses if it weren’t for large, window-like openings. These, I realized, were for children to stand in, for shelter, while they waited for school buses on wintry mornings.

I slowed for each mailbox, trying to read the name. Some were painted on crudely, others used those metallic-looking peel-and-stick letters you can buy from the hardware store. For a while, I had a pickup behind me, the driver wondering what I was doing, letting my foot off the gas as I approached each farm’s driveway. Finally, catching a break in the oncoming traffic, he gunned past me, giving me the finger.

“Whatever,” I said under my breath. I had other problems.

I’d seen boxes labeled “Fountain” and “Verczinski” and “Walton” and “Scrunch.” That one gave me pause. Scrunch? I tried to imagine going through life with a name like Scrunch. Maybe that was why they lived out in the country. Fewer people to introduce yourself to.

“Hi, we’re the Scrunches.”

“We’re a bunch of Scrunches.”

“Packing lunches for the Scrunches.”

I was having so much fun entertaining myself that I drove right past the mailbox marked Bennet.

I actually spotted the name, “,” in my rearview mirror. There was no name on the approaching side of the mailbox, so when I glanced into my mirror and saw what appeared to be the right letters, if in the wrong order, I hit the brakes.

Once I had the car pulled over to the shoulder, I scoped out the Bennet house. It sat a good hundred yards back from the road, a two-story brick farmhouse with a porch across the front and down one side. The gravel drive led beyond the house to a barn out back. The land that surrounded the structures didn’t appear to be used for growing anything other than tall grass, although the lawn out front of the house was green and well tended.

I backed up, turned into the drive, noticed one of those mini-shelters for bused children. Made of chipboard, it looked unfinished, but new, as though waiting for its first winter. As I rolled past it, gravel made crunching noises under the wide tires of the GF300. As I got closer to the house, I noticed the ass end of an old minivan parked out back. I pulled in next to it, got out, and when I happened to glance into the van, noticed a child’s booster seat attached to the second row of seats.