All of this, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Dirt or sand or dust would sneak in between the gaps in the floorboards or the walls, and by the time the bad storms passed, those wet tea towels would be black or red or yellow with the dirt they’d kept from our lungs, and there’d be mounds of dirt around the skirting boards. Every storm was different depending on whether the soil blew in from Oklahoma or Ohio or Kansas, or maybe the farm right next door. In the beginning, we’d peer at the dirt and discuss its potential origins—analyzing the color and texture and wind direction. By the time the storms were coming almost every week, the novelty of our dirt detective game had worn off. One storm lasted a full twenty-four hours. By then, we were so accustomed to them that we didn’t even panic. We just sat in Mother and Dad’s room and we listened to the wind howl for hours on end.

“How long are we going to be stuck in here?” I muttered at one point.

“That’s the wrong way of looking at this, Lizzie,” Mother gently chided me. “We have a roof over our heads. Somewhere to shelter. We have one another.”

“We aren’t stuck in here,” Henry added. “We’re safe in here.”

But over time, even Mother had grown tired of the relentless storms, and the dust that seemed to permeate every single crevice in our lives. Now when a storm came, we just sat in a miserable, heavy silence, listening to the wind as it bathed our house and fields and vegetable garden and barn in dust.

Even on a beautiful Sunday morning on our way to church, we barely saw the sun or the bright blue sky. All we saw was the dust.

“Good morning, Mrs. Davis,” Judge Nagle greeted us, nodding politely as we mingled in the vestibule of the church before service. “And you too, Miss Lizzie.” His gaze landed on my brother and he added quietly, “Henry.”

“Good morning, sir. Mrs. Nagle, you look lovely today,” Henry said, but he rushed through the words. It was obvious he only had eyes for Betsy, who was standing beside her parents. She looked beautiful as she always did. That day she was wearing a yellow dress with a soft skirt that skimmed her calves. She’d probably made it herself, because Betsy sewed for fun even though she could afford to buy clothes ready-made.

“I love your dress, Lizzie,” she said sincerely. “Those cute little buttons! It suits you so much.”