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the levels on the gas tanks and refill them as necessary. At the Lapps’ house, she had waved shyly at Rebecca, who was playing Parcheesi on the front porch with her sister.
    Like most Amish children, Rebecca’s primary language was Pennsylvania Dutch. She didn’t begin to learn English until her first day of school. Dylan knew enough Pennsylvania Dutch to say hello and good-bye, but not enough to have an entire conversation.
    “Guder mariye,” she had said in Pennsylvania Dutch.
    “Good morning,” Rebecca had replied in heavily accented English.
    “Wie bischt du heit?”
    “I am fine,” Rebecca had said slowly, the frown on her face indicating how much effort it took for her to form the words. “How are you?”
    The girls had continued their give-and-take on each subsequent visit, Dylan picking up more Pennsylvania Dutch and Rebecca learning more English. Their conversations had grown longer and longer as time passed. Because of the restrictions imposed on interactions with outsiders, however, they had remained little more than acquaintances until Dylan took part in Take Your Daughter to Work Day when she was ten.
    Dylan remembered the day well.
    Her heart had skipped a beat when the door to My Souvenirs opened. Her first customer. And it was Rebecca. As Rebecca approached the counter, Dylan tried to remember all the things her mother had told her during their brief training session that morning. What was the most important thing? Oh, yeah. Greet the customer with a smile in your voice to match the one on your face.
    “Good morning, Rebecca. Good morning, Mrs. Lapp.”
    Rebecca’s mother nodded in reply and quickly turned her attention to several wood bread boxes on display. Rebecca returned Dylan’s greeting. “Good morning, Dylan. May I speak to your mother?”
    “She’s in the back checking inventory. I’m running the register today. Is there something I can help you with?”
    Rebecca looked back at Mrs. Lapp, who gave her a nod of encouragement. Clearly nervous, Rebecca placed a folded quilt on the counter. “I finished this yesterday. The other quilts your mother has for sale are so beautiful that mine might not belong. Do you think you could find a place for it in the shop?”
    Dylan spread the quilt on the counter and examined the intricate patterns. She might not be able to tell one stitch from another, but she recognized talent when she saw it. Rebecca was only nine years old. How had she managed to create something so accomplished? Dylan couldn’t imagine duplicating the feat. For her, coloring without going outside the lines was accomplishment enough.
    “This is beautiful. You did this by yourself?”
    Rebecca nodded, her cheeks turning bright red. “I would like to begin earning my keep. I have more quilts at home and I could make another in a few weeks’ time. If I brought them in, do you think someone might want to buy them?”
    “I think they’ll walk out of the store as soon as you bring them in.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really.” Dylan carefully refolded the quilt. “What kind of machine did you use?”
    Rebecca held up her hands and smiled as if Dylan had just told the world’s funniest joke.
    “Duh,” Dylan said, feeling her cheeks burn. “No electricity, Dylan.”
    “My mother has a machine she runs by tapping her foot against a pedal, but I’m better with my hands.”
    Dylan thought Rebecca’s comment was meant more to ease her embarrassment than to impart information. She appreciated Rebecca’s thoughtfulness.
    Rebecca darted her eyes at her mother, then leaned forward. “That didn’t sound like pride, did it?” she asked in a whisper.
    Dylan had smiled, simultaneously touched and amused by Rebecca’s desire to downplay her obvious gift. “It sounded like a statement of fact to me. But I won’t tell if you won’t. It’ll be our secret.”
    Dylan wondered how many other secrets she and Rebecca shared. When Rebecca’s thoughts turned to the future, did she