In mid-July at the end of long dusty country lane sat a small white clapboard farmhouse. The grass was beginning to turn brown from drought and the sun shone out of a cloudless sky with intensity, driving the mercury up past 100.

Us girls were playing inside on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. Ma was finishing the lunch dishes, needing to get at least her hands wet in the searing heat. A fan blew noisily in the living room, blocking out small sounds from outside.

The dogs suddenly set up a fuss over someone comin’ up the lane. Ma peeked out the kitchen window.

“Girls! Get to my bedroom, quick!” she commanded. We obeyed, abandoning our dolls with eyes wide in surprise and fear.

“Mamma!” my sister called, growing terrified.

“Shh!”

We entered the master bedroom, “Get under the bed!” Mom whispered. All three of us scooted under the tall bed, making sure to hide our feet. There was a knock at the door.

“Who’s out there!?” I whispered, knowing we were to be quiet.

“It’s those Jehovah’s Witness people!”