She could not turn her head away, so she closed her eyes tightly. For a long moment, she was terrified that her legs would buckle. She stiffened her knees and pressed them together so hard that the bones hurt.

Too much. She had thought she was getting through the days as she needed to, but today had been too much. First all those families keeping their children out of school. Then Dolly’s brainless question about her eyes, and now this vicious contempt . . .

She forced her eyes open, unlocked her knees, and began moving. When she reached the schoolhouse, she did not remember walking there. Once in her seat, she heard Miss Walters ask, “Hanna, do you know where Dolly is?”

“Her father—I mean Mr. Swenson—fetched her home, miss,” she said.

She was astonished by her own voice. It was as if someone else had spoken, as if she herself had shrunk to the size of a dried pea and another person had taken over her body, moving, speaking calmly.

The afternoon passed in a blur.

When she was finally back at the house, she hurried up the stairs to her half of the attic and threw herself down on her bed. She had thought she was going to burst into tears, and was surprised when her eyes remained dry.

She pulled the sheet over her head and curled up on her side. She didn’t move until her breathing was no longer ragged.

And then Mama came to her.

“You remember what I said? About when you feel sad, miss me too much, feel angry?”

Yes, Mama. No, Mama.

She did remember. But at that moment, she didn’t want to.

“You stop thinking about yourself. That’s where the sadness is, inside you. You look outside instead. At other people. You do things for other people, it fills you with good feelings, less room for the bad ones.”

Hanna turned onto her back and mouthed the words into the sheet over her face. Mama, I can’t. I’m too tired.

“Always, it starts with one thing. One small thing.”

She groaned, threw off the sheet, and sat up. “One thing. That’s all. Then I’m coming back to bed.”

Startled, she realized that she had spoken out loud. She went around the board partition and picked up Papa’s boots, his best pair, the ones he wore to church and to go calling. Downstairs in the kitchen, she donned her apron. She put a small lump of beeswax into a pan on the stove. While the wax melted, she lit the lamp and held a plate above the flame. The plate was chipped and cracked, unsuitable for the table. It was now used for collecting lampblack. She added castor oil to the melted wax, then took everything into the lean-to, where she knelt on the floor.