Trading Secrets by Melody Carlson

through me as we scurry toward the darkened house by the light from our two lanterns.
    â€œI’m going to clean up some,” he says as he turns on the water in the laundry sink on the back porch. “Then I’ll stay with Molly and the colt tonight.”
    I remove the blanket from my shoulders and lay it over his hunched back. “You might need this tonight.”
    â€œThanks.” He continues scrubbing his hands.
    â€œWill it disturb anyone if I clean up in the bathroom upstairs?” I ask.
    â€œMamm and Daed are both heavy sleepers.”
    â€œOh, good.” I’m starting to shiver from the cold again. “Thank you,” I mutter, not even sure what I’m thanking him for. Perhaps just the prospect of warmth.
    â€œ Ja ,” he says solemnly, still focused on washing up. “Thank you .”
    With lantern in hand, I tell him good night, then quietly make my way through the kitchen and front room, creeping up the stairs until I finally reach the no-frills bathroom at the end of the hallway. Once I close the door, I fumble to find the switch to the battery powered-overhead light. It makes a lonely buzzing sound and lets out a greenish sort of light, but it illuminates the room better than the camp lantern. Of course, there’s no lock on the door. I noticed that last night but figured it must be just one more oddity about the Amish. Or else privacy just isn’t important to this family. At least I’m relatively assured that no one will come busting in here at this hour. It must be nearly 2:00 by now.
    I’m just peeling off my dirty clothes and looking forward to a nice hot shower—counting my blessings that Zach’s dad had the sense to install a propane hot water heater—when I realize I have nothing clean to put on after my shower. I left my backpack, which is nearly empty anyway, in the barn loft.I’m just hanging my less-than-clean T-shirt on a peg, deciding that I’ll have to sleep in that, when I hear a quiet tapping on the door. Snatching up a towel, I hold it in front of me. “Someone’s in here,” I hiss at the door.
    â€œIt’s just me,” Katy whispers as the door cracks open. “Here.” She dangles what looks like a flannel nightgown through the slit. “I thought you could use this.”
    â€œYou’re an angel,” I declare as I take the garment.
    She quietly giggles, then shuffles down the hallway.
    After a long, hot shower, armed with a block of soap that smells faintly like cheese, I rub myself warm with a stiff, rough, line-dried towel that makes my skin tingle and finally pull the thick flannel nightgown over my head. Very cozy!
    I know it’s ironic, but as I tiptoe down the hall to the girls’ bedroom, I feel extremely grateful for these unexpected Amish “luxuries.” How wonderful to have indoor plumbing, hot water, clean and dry clothes, and a real bed! As I slip between the sheets, which feel much softer tonight, I utter another silent prayer.
    This time it’s a prayer of thanksgiving, first and foremost for the miracle that occurred out in the barn tonight, but also for these simple comforts. I smile to think of what Lizzie would think of me right now—feeling so delighted with so little. As I drift off to sleep, I vaguely decide that many of life’s delights are simply a matter of perspective.

8
    W hen I wake up on my second morning at the Miller house, Zach’s sisters make no special efforts to be quiet as they get dressed. I’m not sure if it’s because they no longer consider me a “guest” or just didn’t realize I was there when they got up. It doesn’t matter anyway since despite getting only a few hours of sleep, I’m wide awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed in the borrowed nightgown, I watch, mesmerized, as the three sisters help each other dress for school. They seem to have a routine all worked out—almost like