from “Searching for Samuel”
The horse knew something was wrong before I did.
From my seat on the porch, I saw King—our lead Belgian—suddenly throw up his massive head and stop dead in his traces. My Amish farm manager, Lucas Hershberger, stood still—his hands gripping the wooden plow handles as he listened.
Then I heard it. A drumming of hooves, urgent and fast, shattering the usual morning calm. A black buggy careened around the bend, its wheels spitting gravel. The horse pulling it was lathered in sweat, its sides heaving.
A young woman was at the reins, her voice carrying across the yard. “Lucas! Komm schnell!”
Something about the raw desperation in her voice sent a prickle down my spine.

