For three weeks, my daughter’s phone went silent, and every message I sent stayed unread. When I arrived at her farmhouse, my son-in-law blocked the porch with a fake smile. “She’s visiting friends,” he lied. Then I heard crying from the chicken coop.

Marianne caught the latch before Travis could pull the coop shut. She stepped backward, keeping herself between him and Emily, then removed her cardigan and wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulders. Emily did not lean into her. She moved with the stiff obedience of someone waiting for the next command.

Darlene Cole stood beside the porch with a coffee mug. Her gray cardigan was misbuttoned, and one slipper was muddy.

“She’s been having spells,” Darlene said. “Travis was keeping her from hurting herself.”

Marianne asked why Emily smelled of soaked grain, why her insurance had stopped working, and why a padlock hung outside a building meant for chickens.

Darlene looked toward the red barn. “Ask her what she signed.”

“Mom,” Travis warned.

Emily swayed. Marianne caught her elbow, and the red scoop slipped from Emily’s hand. It struck the feed bin twice.

Darlene’s face changed. Not surprise. Fear.

She took one step forward, then stopped when Travis glanced at her.

Marianne understood only part of it, but part was enough. She guided Emily into the sedan, locked the doors, while Travis stood in front of the hood.

“You take her,” he said, “and everyone will learn what she did.”

As Marianne reversed, Darlene raised two fingers against her mug. Emily saw the gesture and began crying without sound.

“What does that mean?” Marianne asked.