By P. L. Gaus
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Modern can be a rough way to go, Sara, if you’re not prepared for it,” he said. Sara stared at her hands. “Modern looks pretty good when you’ve grown up backward. ” “I think it’ll help if you tell me a little about it,” Branden said. ” “I wish that was all there was,” Sara answered. ” “Like I said, it used to be nine. Big John Schlabaugh’s gang out of Saltillo. Now it’s only seven. ” Cal asked. “None of those boys is going to own up to any of it,” Sara said. “The other girl? ” “I’m not going to stick around, Cal,” Sara said forcefully.
Free to be herself. In the end, though, the scrap of newsprint she held on her lap gave the lie to all that English freedom. It called her to face the truth about the dangers that were out there in the world. It reminded her that John Schlabaugh and Abe Yoder no longer answered their cell phones or returned text messages. Just when John had promised them all the means to free themselves from the vise grips of backward Amish traditions, he had disappeared. Andy Yoder, too. There wasn’t going to be any great emancipation for the John Schlabaugh Rumschpringe gang of Saltillo.
Great,” Robertson breathed. ” “In through the back kitchen door is best,” Branden said and led the sheriff around a disordered pile of old furniture and battered crates to a door at the back of the house. Robertson peered through a high window over a sink, and Branden tried the screened door. “It’s still open,” Branden said, and let the door swing back shut. “Can’t see anything through the window,” Robertson said. He walked over, opened the screened door, and stuck his head into the kitchen.
A Prayer for the Night by P. L. Gaus