Billy raised his hands, but they were trembling so violently, he could barely lace his fingers.

“Where are the lights?” the man demanded.

“There’s a lantern,” Datt said. “Next to the stove.”

The man strode to the counter, snatched up the lantern, and thrust it at Billy. “Light it.”

Billy jumped to his feet and crossed to the counter. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, resolving to be brave, he pulled the matches from the drawer and lit the mantle. He thought about Little Joe upstairs and prayed to God the boy had fallen back to sleep.

“Give it to me.”

Billy passed it to the man, who yanked it so forcefully, the kerosene sloshed.

“Get back over there and be quiet.”

Billy took his place next to his mamm, praying they would just take what they wanted and leave.

A second man entered the kitchen, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was heavily built with blond hair and a bandanna over his nose and mouth. He glared at Billy’s father. “Where’s the cash?”

Billy had never seen his datt show fear. But he saw it now. In the way his eyes went wide at the sight of the second gunman. The way his mouth quivered. He knew the fear was not for his own safety or for the loss of the money he’d worked so hard to earn. But for the lives of his wife and children.

“There’s a jar,” his datt said. “In the cabinet above the stove.”

Eyes alight with a hunger Billy didn’t understand, the blond man walked to the stove and wrenched open the cabinet door. Pulling out the old peanut butter jar, he unscrewed the lid and dumped the cash on the counter.

Billy watched the money spill out—twenties and tens and fives. At least a month’s worth of sales.

“If you were in need and asked, I would have offered you work and a fair wage,” Willis Hochstetler said.

The blond man didn’t have anything to say about that.

“Mamm?”

Billy jerked his gaze to the kitchen doorway, where Little Joe stood, his legs sticking out from his nightshirt like pale little bones. Something sank inside Billy when he noticed Hannah and Amos and Baby Edna behind him.

“Die kinner.” Mamm got to her feet. “Die zeit fer in bett is nau.” Go to bed right now.

“What are you doing?” the blond man turned and shifted the gun to her. “Get back over there!”

But Mamm started toward the children. She was so focused on them, she didn’t even seem to notice that he’d spoken.

“Tell her to get down!” The man in the denim jacket shifted the gun to Datt. “I mean it! Tell her!”

“Wanetta,” Datt said. “Obey him.”

As if sensing the wrongness of the situation, Baby Edna began to cry. Hannah followed suit. Even Little Joe, who at eight years of age, considered himself a man and too old to cry.

Kneeling, Mamm gathered the children into her arms. “Shhh.”

“We’re not fucking around!” The blond man stomped to Billy’s mother and tried to separate her from the children. “Get back over there!”

“They’re babies.” She twisted away from him, put her arms around the children. “They don’t know anything.”

“Mamm!” Billy hadn’t intended to speak, but somehow the word squeezed from his throat.

“Wanetta.” Datt lurched to his feet.

A gunshot split the air. The sound reverberated inside Billy’s head like a shock wave. Like a bullet passing through water, the concussion spreading in all directions. His datt wobbled, an expression of disbelief on his face.

The house went silent, as if they were all trapped inside an airtight jar.

“Datt?”

Billy had barely choked out the word when his father went down on one knee and then fell forward and lay still. Billy held his breath, praying for him to get up. But his datt didn’t stir.

The blond man swung around and gaped at the man in the denim jacket. “Why did you do that?” he roared.

The kitchen exploded into chaos. The two men began to scuffle, pushing and shoving. Angry shouts were punctuated by Mamm’s keening and the high-pitched cries of the children. A terrible discord echoed through the house like a thousand screams.

Billy didn’t remember crawling to his father. He didn’t notice the warmth of blood on his hands as he grasped his shoulder and turned him over. “Datt?”

Willis Hochstetler’s eyes were open, but there was no spark of life. Just pale gray skin and blue lips. “Wake up.” Billy’s hands hovered over the blood on his father’s shirt. He didn’t know what to do or how to help him. “Tell me what to do!” he cried.

But his datt was gone.

He looked at the man who’d shot him. “He gave you the money,” he cried. “Why did you do that?”

“Shut up!” The man snarled the words, but the eyes within his mask were wild with fear.

“Let’s get out of here!” the other man yelled.

“Put the money in a bag!”

Somewhere in the periphery of his consciousness, Billy was again aware of screaming. His mamm or the kids. Or maybe it was him.

A third man, wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, his face obscured with some type of sheer fabric, entered the kitchen. He pointed at Billy. “You and the kids! In the basement. Now!”

The children huddled around Mamm, whimpering, their faces red and wet with tears.

“Don’t hurt them.” Mamm looked at the man, her eyes pleading.

Billy made eye contact with her as he started toward the basement door, urging her to follow. But as she rose, the man in the denim jacket clamped his hand over her shoulder.

The three men exchanged looks, Billy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was only fourteen years old, but he knew that as terrible as this moment was, the worst was yet to come.

The blond man raised his gun and pointed it at Billy’s face. “Take the kids to the basement.”

Billy’s brain began to misfire. His body was numb as he herded his siblings toward the basement door. He did his best to calm them as he opened it and ushered them onto the landing. Before stepping in himself, he turned to look at his mamm. The blond man had her by the arm and was forcing her toward the living room. A second man had his hand clamped around the back of her neck. At some point, her sleeping dress had torn, and Billy could see her underclothes.

He started to step back into the kitchen, but the man with the sheer fabric over his head slammed the door. The latch snicked into place. Darkness descended like earth over a casket. Billy tried the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. He could hear the children behind him, sniveling and whimpering again. He knew they were counting on him to keep them safe.

“Billy, I’m scared.”

“I want Mamm.”

“Why wouldn’t Datt wake up?” Hannah snuffled.

“Shush.” Staving off panic, he turned to them. The meager light coming from beneath the door illuminated just enough for him to see the shine of tears on their faces. “Little Joe, there’s a lantern on the workbench. Help me light it.”

Without waiting for a response, Billy grabbed the banister and descended the stairs. Upon reaching the dirt floor, he went left and felt his way toward the workbench where Mamm made soap. He ran his hand along the surface, knocked something over; then his knuckles brushed the base of the lantern. He located the matches next to it and lit the mantle.

“Little Joe.” Billy thrust the lantern at him. “I need you to be brave and keep an eye on your little brothers and sisters.”

The boy took the lantern. “B-but where are you going?”

“I’m going to get Mamm.” Billy hadn’t even realized what he was going to do until the words left his mouth. He darted to the ground-level window. It was too high for him to reach without something to stand on. There was no ladder. He looked around. The wood shelves were jammed with tools and jars and clay pots. Then he spotted the old wringer washing machine in the corner.