truck. Rain soft and cold on my face. I can hear the ducks in the pond on the other side of a falling-down fence. The tinkle of the drizzle against the water’s surface.
I keep my eyes on the man ahead. But I’m aware of Tomasetti sliding from the truck. The slam of his door as he leaves it to follow me.
“Sir?” I call out. “I’m a police officer. Are you all right?”
The man stops and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. His face is streaked with mud. The missing shirtsleeve reveals the pasty flesh of an arm that’s covered with mud and specks of vegetation. His shirt is shredded, pasted to his body by rain and mud. He’s visibly shivering. His beard is clotted with vegetation, flecks of dead grass, and mud.
His eyes peer at me from a pale face smeared with mud. “Ich sayya Gott,” he whispers. I saw God.
“Are you injured?” I stop a couple of feet away. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
He shakes his head. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Samuel Miller.”
Tomasetti comes up beside me. “What are you doing out here all by yourself without a buggy?”
He looks at Tomasetti, then motions in the direction he was walking. “I was delivering straw to Big Joe Beiler’s place. That old mare of his is about to foal.”
I look past him, but there’s no sign of a wagon. Or a horse. “Where’s your wagon?”
“Wind caught it just right. Turned it over. The straw got dumped.”
“Is there anyone else with you?” I ask.
“Just me.”
“Your horse okay?”
“Sellah gaul is goot.” The horse is good. “Spooked. She ran home, like they always do, and left me to walk.” He grins. “Just like a female.”
“I think you should get yourself checked out at the hospital, Mr. Miller,” I tell him. “Maybe you hit your head when the wagon overturned. I’m happy to take you.”
The Amish man thinks about that a moment. “My head is fine. But I’d like to check on my family and make sure they’re all right.”
I touch his arm gently to get him started toward the Tahoe; all the while I look for signs of injury or confusion. “Where’s your farm, Mr. Miller?”
“A mile or so down the road.”
“The worst of the storm missed your house,” I tell him. “I think you’ll find your family just fine.”
“I guess it wasn’t my day to be called to heaven,” he says.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give him a choice about a trip to the ER; I’d take him directly to the hospital despite his objections. Today, however, with Pomerene Hospital undoubtedly flooded with casualties, I decide to comply with his wishes and take him home. I open the door of the Tahoe and he climbs inside.
* * *
It’s 4:30 A.M. by the time Tomasetti and I pull into the driveway of my old house in Painters Mill. We’ve spent twelve hours responding to calls, assisting the injured, searching for the missing, assessing damage, and reporting downed power lines and gas leaks to the proper authorities. The last four hours were spent at the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, helping firefighters with their search-and-rescue efforts. Casualty information has begun to trickle in from the ER departments of Pomerene Hospital as well as Wooster Community Hospital. So far the two hospitals have reported twenty-six injured, with eighteen hospitalized in serious or critical condition. There have been two confirmed fatalities so far: Sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger’s vehicle was flipped by the tornado. He died at the scene. And thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, Juanita Davis, was found dead in her trailer at Willow Bend. She was DOA. All but one of the missing have been accounted for. Twelve-year-old Billy Ray Benson was caught in a flash flood, sucked into a culvert, and washed into Painters Creek. Over thirty volunteers—many of whom had their own homes damaged or destroyed—joined Holmes County Search and Rescue. Because of rough
I keep my eyes on the man ahead. But I’m aware of Tomasetti sliding from the truck. The slam of his door as he leaves it to follow me.
“Sir?” I call out. “I’m a police officer. Are you all right?”
The man stops and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. His face is streaked with mud. The missing shirtsleeve reveals the pasty flesh of an arm that’s covered with mud and specks of vegetation. His shirt is shredded, pasted to his body by rain and mud. He’s visibly shivering. His beard is clotted with vegetation, flecks of dead grass, and mud.
His eyes peer at me from a pale face smeared with mud. “Ich sayya Gott,” he whispers. I saw God.
“Are you injured?” I stop a couple of feet away. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
He shakes his head. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Samuel Miller.”
Tomasetti comes up beside me. “What are you doing out here all by yourself without a buggy?”
He looks at Tomasetti, then motions in the direction he was walking. “I was delivering straw to Big Joe Beiler’s place. That old mare of his is about to foal.”
I look past him, but there’s no sign of a wagon. Or a horse. “Where’s your wagon?”
“Wind caught it just right. Turned it over. The straw got dumped.”
“Is there anyone else with you?” I ask.
“Just me.”
“Your horse okay?”
“Sellah gaul is goot.” The horse is good. “Spooked. She ran home, like they always do, and left me to walk.” He grins. “Just like a female.”
“I think you should get yourself checked out at the hospital, Mr. Miller,” I tell him. “Maybe you hit your head when the wagon overturned. I’m happy to take you.”
The Amish man thinks about that a moment. “My head is fine. But I’d like to check on my family and make sure they’re all right.”
I touch his arm gently to get him started toward the Tahoe; all the while I look for signs of injury or confusion. “Where’s your farm, Mr. Miller?”
“A mile or so down the road.”
“The worst of the storm missed your house,” I tell him. “I think you’ll find your family just fine.”
“I guess it wasn’t my day to be called to heaven,” he says.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give him a choice about a trip to the ER; I’d take him directly to the hospital despite his objections. Today, however, with Pomerene Hospital undoubtedly flooded with casualties, I decide to comply with his wishes and take him home. I open the door of the Tahoe and he climbs inside.
* * *
It’s 4:30 A.M. by the time Tomasetti and I pull into the driveway of my old house in Painters Mill. We’ve spent twelve hours responding to calls, assisting the injured, searching for the missing, assessing damage, and reporting downed power lines and gas leaks to the proper authorities. The last four hours were spent at the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, helping firefighters with their search-and-rescue efforts. Casualty information has begun to trickle in from the ER departments of Pomerene Hospital as well as Wooster Community Hospital. So far the two hospitals have reported twenty-six injured, with eighteen hospitalized in serious or critical condition. There have been two confirmed fatalities so far: Sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger’s vehicle was flipped by the tornado. He died at the scene. And thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, Juanita Davis, was found dead in her trailer at Willow Bend. She was DOA. All but one of the missing have been accounted for. Twelve-year-old Billy Ray Benson was caught in a flash flood, sucked into a culvert, and washed into Painters Creek. Over thirty volunteers—many of whom had their own homes damaged or destroyed—joined Holmes County Search and Rescue. Because of rough
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