Elizabeth Shanaman shut the oven door. There were four loaves of dough in there, but she knew with a large family like theirs she'd probably have to make a couple trays of rolls as well. Mom was in the garden, the menfolk were out in the field, Emma was feeding the chickens, Frieda was supposed to be helping Elizabeth with the baking. But she had probably wandered off to play somewhere. Frieda was the baby of the family, but she got away with far too much. At least, Elizabeth thought so. Emma ran into the kitchen. "Liz," she said, "another one of our chickens was stolen." Elizabeth shushed her sister. "Don't tell Mom," she said, "maybe it just got out." She whipped off her apron and headed outside to look for the bird, turning at the door to add, "mix up a batch of sweet rolls," before leaving. Elizabeth counted the chickens. The one with the weird foot was gone, which made it more likely that Emma was right. That one wouldn't have gotten very far if it had escaped, and a vagrant looking for a meal would have felt less guilty about taking a "defective" chicken. But it could lay eggs just as well as the others, so that wasn't really fair. Elizabeth knew her mother would be wondering whether the other farms were missing livestock as well, and she really didn't want to go back into that hot kitchen yet. So she scurried off down the road to check on the Mayfields, an older couple who had a farm nearby and whose hired hands did most of the work.