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By P. L. Gaus

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The other girl? ” “I’m not going to stick around, Cal,” Sara said forcefully. ” Her eyes flooded with tears, and she softened quickly. “It’s the other kids,” she said. “I want you and Cal to help the other kids. Even if they won’t talk to you. ” Sara pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her eyes. More tears came, and she dried those away, sniffed, and blew her nose. In a voice as soft as a flute she asked, “Why does it all have to be so hard? God’s will? I wouldn’t know that if it bit me on the ...

Maybe something’s gone wrong out here. ” “I just think it will help if he knows a little of the background. How you kids are getting along. ” “OK, but I’m not sure we’ve even got a Rumschpringe gang anymore. ” “OK, Sara. M. WHEN Cal Troyer and Michael Branden drove up the lane to the barn Sara had described, they found her standing beside her buggy horse, holding a water bucket up to its nose. She saw them coming, put the bucket down, loosened the reins so the horse could reach it, and stepped forward on the dirt patch in front of the barn to greet them.

Wilsher asked, squinting in the sun. Robertson thought, looked around, and said, “Try to find out who owns this barn. But, Dan, Sara Yoder is the thing we’ve got to work on first. If Ricky needs more men, send them out. Call in men on overtime if you have to. We’ve got to find her, and she’s been gone a good hour now. Everybody rolls on this one, Dan. I want everybody we’ve got out looking for that girl. M. IT WAS a tight fit for Bruce Robertson in the passenger seat of the professor’s small white truck, and when they pulled up to the Wallace place on high ground north of 129, the sheriff popped himself out before the engine was silent.

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