“I’m fine,” Bessie said. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long.”

“Not at all,” Lizzy said warmly, and pushed Big Bertha’s starter button.

But nothing happened. She pushed it again. Still nothing. She pumped the accelerator pedal, but she knew that wasn’t the problem. She tried again. “The battery, maybe?” she hazarded. “I’m not sure how often Myra May drives this car.”

“Oh, dear,” Bessie moaned. “Don’t tell me we’re stranded!”

“Looks like maybe we are,” Lizzy said with a sigh. “At least it’s stopped raining, and it’s a little cooler.” She picked up her handbag, opened the door, and got out. “We’re no more than a couple of miles from town. I can walk back and send someone to pick you up.”

“To heck with that,” Bessie said smartly. “I’m not too old to walk.”

But as it turned out, Lizzy and Bessie didn’t have to walk all the way to town. They had gone about halfway, walking along the side of the dirt road, when Lizzy heard a vehicle chugging up behind them. She turned to look.

It was Mr. Clinton’s old red Ford two-seater taxi, from Monroeville. Many people preferred to pay him to drive them home to Darling, instead of waiting all afternoon for the train. Sometimes, he brought more than one passenger, dropping them off along the way. Often, people flagged him down from the road and he took them where they needed to go, either to Darling or Monroeville, depending on which way he was headed. Most of the time, he charged only fifteen cents for a one-way trip (a nickel less than the twenty-cent train ticket).

This afternoon, he had just one passenger. In the backseat of the taxi sat Violet Sims, her red felt cloche askew, her taffy-colored curls slightly bedraggled. Her face was drawn and tired.

When she saw Lizzy and Bessie, she sat up straight and leaned forward to tap Mr. Clinton on the shoulder. “Stop!” she cried. “We need to pick these ladies up!”

Mr. Clinton, a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth, braked the Ford. “You gals goin’ into Darlin’?” he asked in his cracked voice. “Well, come on. Hop in. One up here in front with me, one in the back with the little mother.”

Bessie climbed into the front seat. Lizzy opened the back door and got in beside Violet—and saw, to her surprise, that Violet was holding something in her arms, tightly wrapped in a pink flannel receiving blanket.

“Oh, my!” she whispered, leaning closer. Violet pulled the blanket back so Lizzy could see. The little face was round and pink, the mouth like a rosebud. “Why, it’s a baby!” Lizzy exclaimed. “A beautiful baby!”

Bessie turned around in the front seat as Mr. Clinton put the Ford in gear and they chugged off. “A baby!” she asked. “Why, Violet, wherever did you—”

“She’s my sister’s baby,” Violet said. Her delicate heartshaped face was pale and the freckles stood out on her nose. “Baby Dorothy.” She traced the baby’s cheek with the tip of her finger. “My sister died last week.”