Her stomach was so tight that she had no appetite, but she forced herself to swallow her corn cake. Having sat stiffly at her desk for the whole morning, she felt achy all over. She slid out of her seat and put her weight on her feet gingerly, testing to see if her legs would tremble. They seemed steady enough, so she stepped to the stove in the middle of the room. It was unlit, for the weather was warm these days; the water pail sat on the floor next to it, with the dipper hanging from one of the stove’s handles. She ladled up some water and began to drink thirstily.

Before she had finished, a little girl came into the schoolhouse and approached the stove.

“Please, miss, would you dip for me, too?”

Startled, Hanna almost dropped the dipper. On the other side of the stove, the girl was looking at her. She couldn’t have been more than about seven years old, wearing a calico dress under a pinafore made from flour sacks. Her face was pale and freckled, her reddish hair in two tight braids bound with thread. She was missing both of her front teeth, and her cheek had a smear of dirt on it.

Hanna filled the dipper again and held it out toward the girl, who took it from her carefully. She drank the full measure and handed the dipper back to Hanna.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Hanna said, but the words came out barely more than a whisper.

The girl frowned. “Somethin’ wrong with your voice?” she asked.

Hanna felt her eyes grow hot; she blinked hard to forestall tears. It was her first conversation with another pupil: a little girl who apparently thought the only thing wrong or odd about Hanna was her voice.

She cleared her throat. “No, I’m fine,” she said, louder this time. “There’s some dirt on your face. May I?” She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wetted it. The girl took a step closer so Hanna could wipe her cheek.

Hanna smiled, and the girl smiled back.

Once all the students were settled again, three desks remained empty; the pupils who sat in them had not returned after their dinners. Miss Walters rapped on her desk with the pointer. She stood and walked to one side of the room. The blackboard wrapped around three walls; she took up a piece of chalk and stood near the board on the left wall.

“First Reader class, please come forward.”

The First Reader class was two children: the little girl whose face Hanna had wiped, and a boy with a prominent cowlick.

“Pearl, where were you born?”

“I was born in Minnesota, miss.”

Miss Walters wrote Minnesota on the blackboard. “Did you live on a farm in Minnesota?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Freddie, what about you?”

“Ohio, miss. My pa is from there. Then we lived in Illinois, where my ma is from.”