“Is this the Hub where we’re going?” Bobbi asked Witchie. “My golly days, no, girl.” “Well, where—” “Hush. Quiet from now on. Chances are better if we catch him by surprise.” The old woman walked on, slowly, taking her time, as quietly as an Indian, a cat. Bobbi felt big-boned and clumsy behind her, following her up the steep lane through woods. It ended in a clearing of sorts, an abandoned, half-overgrown hilltop farm. Moonlight and shadow made a crazy quilt of the former pasture: a jumble of cedars, blackberry, sumac, and the boulders piled where long-ago glaciers had carelessly left them. In the middle of the pasture stood a black, boxy shape: the buggy. Bobbi and Witchie drifted close—no easy matter, on the terrain—then crouched behind rocks to reconnoiter. “Bissel’s sleeping underneath the buggy,” Witchie breathed, very low. Bobbi did not answer or look. She was staring at the horse the Amishman had tethered out to graze. Though food grew within reach all around, the animal stood without eating, motionless in the gray moonlight, head drooping almost to the ground.
