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John’s home, which Connie’s imagination over the last few hours had built into a great, sprawling thing, wasn’t. Not a modern McFarm, ridiculous in its scale. It was an average, everyday farmhouse. Generations had been born here, grown up here, and raised families here.
Stubbled cornfields ranged one way, and a series of large barns ranged in the other, disappearing into the evening dark. There were a few livestock pens, but mostly equipment bays with tall wooden doors that could admit a truck or a harvester.
The house was a modest two-story home painted a soft blue. The roof looked freshly replaced in the wash of headlights. A wide sunporch wrapped around the two sides she could see. An array of pickups was parked out front. How many people were here, anyway? They parked theirs and
