No one had come into the store for hours. Annie wanted to go and look at the Missouri. One more week of rain like the last and the river would be over its levees; Lew’s farm would be flooded again. Her papa was out with the volunteer fire service, helping to move people and cattle from the lowlands.

As she went to fling another piece of macaroni, the store door opened, ringing the bell. When she saw it was strangers—a Negro boy and a man with sideburns like an old southern general—she jumped to the floor.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, speaking as if he wasn’t sure she could understand English. “We’re trying to get to Ruth Winters’s farm.”

Annie saw now that apart from his skin the boy didn’t look like a Negro. He seemed about her age and almost as tall—and she was taller than any of the boys in school.

“Well, good afternoon,” she replied, smiling as she imitated the man’s accent. “My papa’s not here, but I’ll get Frankie to take you. He’s out back.”

“Oh, we don’t want to be any trouble. Is there a taxi?”

“A taxi?” She laughed. “Are you from England?”

“Yes,” the man said.

She turned to the boy, the real object of her question. “Are you?”

The boy, who was staring at her one bare foot, glanced up for a moment but didn’t say anything. He had a long sensitive face, his mouth twisted secretively to one side. It was a face not unlike Lew’s, but with molasses-dark and sadly private eyes.

The man laughed nervously. “He’s been a bit under the weather. Touch of laryngitis. His name’s Rajiv and he’s originally from India.”

She kept her gaze on the boy, trying to get him to look up at her again. “My papa’s from Italy—Atessa—and my mom’s from Poland—Koscian.”

The boy didn’t respond.

“I’ll get Frankie.” Annie ran back through the kitchen into the yard, where her brother had, in the last couple of weeks, set up his auto repair shop.

He was working on an old Dodge sedan. While undeniably handsome, with his Elvis hair and many of the features that made Annie so startling, Francesco had nothing of her form. His face was like a collection of rare, exquisite, delicious things, thrown willy-nilly onto an old china plate.

“Frankie,” she said, “there are some strangers here from England and India, and they need a ride up to Ruth’s place.”

“Jeez-Louise, Annie, I’ve got to get this done.”

Reaching up, she rubbed the frown from her brother’s forehead. Only seventeen, he was too young to have such deep lines, she thought. He always looked strained, as if he needed to work constantly to keep his face from collapsing into anger or despair.

“The boy’s from India. He can’t speak. I think he’s been kidnapped.”

Frank nodded, pushing her hand gently away and wiping his own hands with a red shop rag. “Annie, what the hell happened to your hair?”