Around me, the air is heavy and wet with the smells of manure and wet foliage. I’m looking down at my muddy boots, thinking about going into the yard to wipe them on the grass when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a middle-aged Amish woman wearing an ankle-length gray dress and a dark winter bonnet.

“Guder middag,” I begin, wishing her a good afternoon.

She mumbles the same, but her eyes widen as she takes in my non-Amish clothes.

“I’m Kate Burkholder from Painters Mill, Ohio,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch. “I’m looking for a missing Amish woman, and I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Voahra.” Wait. The woman turns and walks away.

I stand on the porch, relieved that she didn’t close the door. The smells of kerosene and woodsmoke waft out. No matter how many years pass, those are the smells that take me back to my youth of endless days spent on a farm much like this one. Through the dimly lit living room, I see an old woman sitting at the kitchen table, sewing or mending some piece of clothing. She leans back just enough to make eye contact with me and then goes back to her work without acknowledging me further.

I’m a full minute into my wait and thinking about knocking again when a man approaches. He’s dressed in black except for a white shirt. In keeping with the Swartzentruber ways, his long beard is untrimmed. His face is deeply lined and grim, but I guess him to be in his mid-forties.

“May I help you?” he asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

I introduce myself. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who disappeared about thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill,” I begin. “It’s possible she was injured and may have suffered some memory problems.”

He eyes me with open curiosity, and I know he’s wondering about my use of Pennsylvania Dutch. But I know the Amish too well to take for granted that it will garner his cooperation. I’m as much an outsider as any camera-toting Englischer. Still, it can’t hurt, and I’m certainly not above using whatever means I can to get him to talk to me.

“I’ve traveled a long way,” I tell him. “Please. The woman has a son back in Painters Mill.”

“I’m Eli Zook.” He doesn’t offer his hand. “I have an uncle in Painters Mill.”

“What’s his name?”

“William.”

“I know William and his wife, Alma.” When he doesn’t open the door, I try to keep the conversation going. “I understand many of the Swartzentruber Amish are leaving Cambria County.”

“That is true. We live simply. The government people don’t care if we make it to heaven or not.” He sighs. “God provided for us in New York, and I intend to follow my conscience. We will go soon.”