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From a distance, there was nothing that might differentiate the barn that stood in front of her from any one of the thousands like it that pepper that part of the country. There were no signs of its history, and there were no signs of life. If she hadn’t been there when it had been built, and if she hadn’t spent the years she had within its walls, she would have had no reason to guess its holy designation. The switchgrass had, by then, reclaimed the land around the barn, standing tall enough to brush the tips of her fingers