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By P. L. Gaus

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The quality of the wheat harvest in Mexico that year. Family news from around the world, in an Amish paper published for Amish readers everywhere. But Sara was concerned only with the four lines of type that were meant, ominously, for her. A greeting number. A location—latitude and longitude. 890’ 2 Only she and eight others would know what it meant. Anyone in the John Schlabaugh Rumschpringe gang that year. This was their meeting place. This was where they gathered, out of sight of their families, for their running-wild trips to town, once their chores were finished.

We were all really going to have a run at it. A lifetime of fun in the span of a couple of years. Live the fast life, the Rumschpringe, before we settle down. “But John’s just not cut out for the important things. He’s just a drifter, plain and simple. He’s a child, really. He just drifts on the wind. “And we’ve gone along with just about everything he could think up. Like there was no tomorrow. Now we’re all in trouble, and there’s no way out. And it’s really big trouble, too. It’s got to be why John and Abe are missing.

WHILE Coroner Taggert uncovered the body inside the barn with the help of Ricky Niell’s two deputies, Robertson paced in the heat of the barn’s doorway, dabbed at the back of his neck with a red checkered bandanna, and listened to Branden. Branden gave the sheriff an account of his conversation with Sara Yoder that morning. ” “It’s not just Sara Yoder,” Robertson said. He folded the bandanna and pushed it into his hip pocket. ” “We don’t know who the dead one is at this point. ” “Bruce, she’d have fled no matter who was in that grave.

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