One of the houses I passed today looked like Tabitha’s old house. With the shed around back that had once been a rabbit hut for many generations of bunnies. A separate garage that had a playhouse built into its rafters. The grass was dead where the goose pen used to be, but the chicken coop was still in good shape. So many things about the place seemed to create a paradise of childlike innocence. And I remember Tabitha’s father taking us horseback riding and for ice cream. He would have been the perfect father, if only he wasn’t so selfish. She had to adhere to all of his beleifs, his voice and no one else’s, especially not a teacher’s. So she was taken out of school, supposedly for homeschooling but eventually even books were another voice and he demanded she only learn from him. Before long her mother was another voice and by then he had convinced Tabitha of the same. So he took her far away, somewhere in the mountains to a place she wouldn’t tell me. I suppose he has taught her a lot since I saw her last.