Its driver, a man maybe forty or so, wearing a fedora and tan jacket, got out with a broad smile of greeting. Unlocking the hardware store door, he said, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I got held up on some county business.” He motioned me inside. “What can I do you for?”

“It’s about the CCC,” I said, nodding to let him know I’d caught his joke. “Are you who I need to see about joining up?”

“That’s me! Selection Agent Owen Schieling! And I am glad to see you. You’ll complete my quota.”

He switched on a lightbulb above a scarred desk, lighting up a bit more of the long, narrow room with its floor-to-ceiling shelves and bins. “That’s better,” he said. “These gloomy afternoons—sure know winter’s coming, don’t we?”

He took some papers from a drawer, shuffled through them, and settled on one. “Now, where’s my fountain pen? Ah! Okay, now! Trawnley. That’s T-r-a-w-n-l-e-y?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Moss? What’s that short for? Moseley?”

“No, sir. Just Moss.”

“Oh. Right. And now where are you from?”

“Muddy Springs, Texas. Unless you want Louisiana. That’s where I was born and grew up.”

He looked over. “Can’t put down either of those. Regulations say you enroll in your home state.”

Dismay spread through me. “But . . .”

“Now, son, we can work it out. Why don’t you tell me what brings you to Montana?”

“I came to join my dad,” I answered. “I’d thought he was working up here, only he’s not anymore.”

“But he was, and now you’ve found your way here. Makes you downright local, far as I’m concerned.” Mr. Schieling wrote Monroe, Mont. on the form. “Now, you’re seventeen?”

“On my last birthday, in May.”

“Just a few more questions to qualify you. You unemployed?”

“Yes.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Your family on public assistance?”

“No.”

The selection agent tapped his pen. “Let’s think about that. Technically they’re supposed to be. The CCC program is for boys whose families need their help.”

I hesitated. Despite all the reasons I had to be here, having to admit need shamed me, just like it had Pa. But Mr. Schieling was trying so hard to be helpful.

“Mine could use a hand,” I admitted. “My mother’s got all my brothers and sisters still to home and nothing coming in right now. I reckon they’d be on assistance; except where they live, there’s not much relief money for anybody.”

Schieling made another check. “The way I see it, my job’s to put some common sense to the regulations.”

Outside the window, a wagon came into view. A woman was driving it, and several kids were crammed into the back, tucked among furniture and bedsheet bundles. It reminded me of my own family, that time Pa made us move.