It took a while to sieve all the flour. Then Hanna had to repeat the whole process with the bag of cornmeal. For a brief moment as she shook the sieve, she wondered how she would ever get all the work done once she was in school—it was hard enough when she had the whole day.

Before she was sick, Mama used to work in the shop all day, and she still kept house. Their Los Angeles home hadn’t been perfect, but they’d always had hot food and clean clothes, and that was more than plenty. Hanna was determined to do the same.

Hanna sat up very straight, hands folded in her lap, feet drawn in beneath her skirt. Any moment now, Mr. Harris would be calling.

“I’ve already talked to him some,” Papa had told her that morning. “I mentioned that Mama was Chinese.”

“What did he say?”

Papa shrugged. “Not much. Something like, ‘Well now, I wasn’t expecting that.’”

Hanna felt her spirits lift a little and immediately tamped them down. It wasn’t a nasty response, but then again, it could mean almost anything. She had spent the day wondering what she should say to Mr. Harris, rehearsing different lines in her head. In a moment of panic, she had fetched her arithmetic book to go over decimals. Maybe he would ask her questions about her grade levels, and arithmetic was her weakest subject. But after a few minutes, she put the book away. If she didn’t know it well by now, she was not going to be able to learn it in an afternoon.

She tidied up quickly after supper, took off her apron, and redid her braid. Then she sat in the chair next to the lamp table and coaxed herself into stillness. Mama had taught her that—how to sit still and breathe deeply when she was feeling especially twitchy or distressed.

All the same, she jumped when a knock sounded on the door.

Mr. Harris came in and took off his hat. He had a full brown beard and very blue eyes. He greeted Papa with a handshake. The two men sat down opposite her.

She sensed Mr. Harris’s response on seeing her for the first time. The quick glance, the even quicker look away, unspoken curiosity clouding the air. Hanna hadn’t made up her mind if this was better or worse than when people just plain stared at her.

“Would you like coffee or tea, Mr. Harris?” Hanna asked. Her voice trembled a little, but she managed to steady it.

“No, thank you,” he said. Again, Hanna recognized the kind of astonishment she’d perceived before in so many other people. She speaks, she speaks English, she speaks English politely!