Three weeks into my confinement, a car arrived in the driveway. The black vehicle parked near the hitching post as I watched through a corner of the loft window. Two men, both in twill work clothes, short hair and beards, crossed our front lawn and traveled up the porch steps. The older of the two knocked on the front door, three short knocks that interrupted the icy peace of the cold morning. No one answered—I suspected that Papa was out taking measurements and that Perrin was feeding the mules—so the man kicked at the door with his boot, shouting, “Open the door.”
I was angry at his coarse behavior, but couldn’t make myself known and withdrew from the window to huddle behind a bale of hay. After sitting there for such a long time that my hunger was unbearable, I came out to find the car
