I’ve walked about half a mile when I spot the old mill house. It’s a small wooden structure with a stone foundation and steeply pitched roof. A whisper of nostalgia moves through me when I realize this is one of the places I used to come with my datt when I was a girl before the new mill was built closer to the stand. Twenty-five years ago, the siding had been painted cheery red with crisp white trim. Lush ivy had climbed the walls all the way to the roof, giving it a cottage-like countenance. I remember being intrigued by the wind chimes Mrs. Yoder had hung beneath the eaves. The pretty red paint is long gone now. The ivy clings to the rotting wood like the skeletons of long-dead snakes. It disheartens me to see such a place abandoned and left to the elements.

“Hoch Yoder!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”

There used to be a big window in the front with a wood shutter that hung down from the top and was propped open with a board. Now, the shutter hangs by a single hinge that squeaks like some injured rodent in an intermittent breeze.

I shine my light along the front of the building. Sure enough, the tracks lead to a stone walkway that’s barely visible through the high weeds. I follow them around to the side of the building and find muddy footprints on the concrete stoop.

“Hoch!” I call out, and identify myself again. Holding my flashlight steady, I shove open the door with my foot and thrust the flashlight inside. The smell of rotting wood and wet earth and a darker smell I don’t want to name greets me. I get the impression of a single room, fifteen feet square. To my right there are several busted-up bushel baskets and an ancient apple cider press. To my left, the old counter has collapsed into itself. I see half an oak barrel on the floor. Several plastic jugs—the kind used for cider. Ahead I see an old rectangular table and several chairs. Beyond, Hoch Yoder lies on the floor next to an old potbellied stove.

“Hoch!” I run to him, drop to my knees beside him. He’s lying in a supine position. I know instantly he’s dead. His left arm is over his head, his right is bent at the elbow with his hand near his shoulder. His head is twisted to one side. I force myself to look at his face. His flesh is that terrible color of blue gray. His staring eyes are sticky-looking and beginning to cloud. Still, I reach out and press my finger against his carotid artery. His skin is cold to the touch, like rubber. There’s no pulse.

“Oh … Hoch.”