AFTER WHAT SEEMED LIKE an eternity—travel on winding mountain roads always seemed to take longer than it actually did—I arrived at the address. The house was a two-story farmhouse, painted a startling shade of reddish-pink that made it stand out against the surrounding hills. The farm looked like it was still worked, for the fields looked as if the corn had just been harvested. In one of the enclosed fields were a few cattle—I couldn’t tell if they were steers or milk cows—and a short walk from the house was a chicken coop and a pig sty. The house had a wrap-around covered porch with three rocking chairs, the porch itself fronted by two beds of flowers struck down by an early frost.
I heard the sound of running feet when I knocked on the door. Three children opened the door, two girl
