Home > Work > After the Storm (Kate Burkholder, #7)
1 " There’s no more beautiful place in the world than northeastern Ohio in the summertime. "
― Linda Castillo , After the Storm (Kate Burkholder, #7)
2 " The old barn had a history. Nine-year-old Sally Ferman had heard all of the stories, and every single one scared her. Her dad told her that the farm was originally owned by a young German immigrant by the name of Hans Schneider. He built a cabin and married a French woman, Rebecca. They had three sons, and over the years, Hans and his boys built the barn, raised cattle and sheep, and grew tobacco and corn "
3 " He tips his head at Tomasetti and then he’s gone. "
4 " Whoa! What the hell is that?” “It’s a fuckin’ head!” Josh swallowed a big wad of something gross at the back of his throat. The two boys exchanged looks. Scott’s mouth was open so wide Josh could see the cavities in his back molars. “You mean like a human? "
5 " Whoa! What the hell is that?” “It’s a fuckin’ head!” Josh swallowed a big wad of something gross at the back of his throat. The two boys exchanged looks. Scott’s mouth was open so wide Josh could see the cavities in his back molars. “You mean like a human?” “Well, duh. You ever seen a cow with teeth like that? "
6 " He makes the turn into the long gravel lane of my brother Jacob’s farm. The place originally belonged to my parents but was handed down to him, the eldest male child, when they passed away. I mentally brace as the small apple orchard on my right comes into view. The memories aren’t far behind, and I find myself looking down the rows of trees, almost expecting to see the three Amish kids sent to pick apples for pies. Jacob, Sarah, and I had been inseparable back then, and instead of picking apples, we ended up playing hide-and-seek until it was too dark to see. As was usually the case, I was the instigator. Kate, the druvvel-machah. The “troublemaker.” Or so my datt said. The one and only time I confessed to influencing my siblings, he punished me by taking away my favorite chore: bottle-feeding the three-week-old orphan goat I’d named Sammy. I’d cajoled and argued and begged. I was rewarded by being sent to bed with no supper and a stomachache from eating too many green apples. The "