The night sky was dark and tranquil until a foreboding clap of thunder pierced the silence. Gusts of wind tore through the woods and whipped up dirt from an unpaved road, carrying clouds of dust toward a rural village. The white wooden structures, assembled side by side, appeared to be from another era, resembling a movie set from a Hollywood western. Wind chimes jingled on a porch outside a general store as rain suddenly pelted the rooftops.

The landscape was lifeless until automobile lights cut through the night. The wipers on the aqua-colored 1967 Plymouth Fury strained to clear the torrent from the windshield, but it was a lost cause. The car came to a stop, and the front doors on each side opened. A flash of lightning illuminated two figures in drab, hooded ponchos as they stepped out into the downpour.

The driver, a male in his forties, switched on a flashlight and pointed the beam at a red barn at the top of a hill. He rested a comforting hand on his passenger’s shoulder and gestured toward—