The familiar dread made her feel breathless as she glanced at the white horse fence, the spot where a cluster of flowers tied with a blue ribbon mysteriously appeared every year on the anniversary of the accident. Closing her eyes, Susie could picture her brother’s golden hair, deep blue eyes, apple cheeks, and the single dimple on his left cheek as they’d walked together that last evening. His features so closely resembled Dat’s.

Images of that long-ago evening hung heavily around her. A mistlike rain had been falling as she and Eli walked together along the side of the road at twilight. They’d been chattering about trivial things, especially the big chocolate whoopie pie Aendi Emmalyn had surprised them with before they’d left for home. Mamma’s sister had given them a treat to take with them, too—a large tin of rhubarb cookies, still warm from the oven. And then Susie had spotted the bird’s feather, silky and white, like a dove’s. . . .

Sighing now, she hastened her pace. Even after the loss of their father, she’d never questioned why God had taken Eli at such a tender age. Yet the grief had left her with something amiss. She sensed it regularly but didn’t know how to describe it even to herself. One thing was sure: Eli’s death might not have happened if she had done things differently that night. And even though just eight at the time, she remembered every painful detail of that day.

The rising moon touched a cloud, then vanished behind it. Susie stared at the sky, thankful she’d be able to spend time with her many cousins at the Singing. Tonight was not a night to be alone.

Susie had gone nearly halfway to David Beiler’s farm when she spotted two of her close cousins, Verena and Marnie Mast, coming down the hill from their house toward the road. Susie waited, then fell into step with them at the end of their lane. “Was hopin’ ya might be walking to Singing, too,” Susie said, glad for the company.

“Well, Dat’s still over at the bishop’s, so we had no way to get to Singing ’cept on foot,” said Verena, the older of the two at nineteen.

“Must’ve just slipped his mind,” said seventeen-year-old Marnie, matching her stride to her sister’s and Susie’s.

“We get to spend more time together this way,” Susie commented as the spring peepers began their reedy-noted song from a nearby creek. She and Mamma used to walk this road at the close of the day, especially in summer, soaking up the sounds of evening. Sometimes Eli had come along, too, and Mamma would tell stories of her childhood, growing up on a big dairy farm. Susie missed those strolls and how, nearly every time, her brother had found a walking stick along the way.