My mouth fell open. She must be talking about them women Teresa mentioned—the ones demanding that they be let vote. I couldn’t remember what Teresa called them. It was a word I’d never heard before. Feck! I thought to myself. I’d been hoping for a day out shopping, where I could get a gander at the latest styles—and maybe Mrs. Shaw might even buy me something. Or maybe a nice lunch at a posh place where I could show off my new manners. But a fecking protest march? I groaned at the thought.

I paid her little heed as she prattled on about the protest and what fine women I was going to meet. Instead, I fixed my eyes on the open road. It was late June and the weather was warm. I leaned back and let the smell of fresh flowers and mowed grass surround me. I smiled to myself. Something about the weather and the smells felt familiar. Had I enjoyed days like this in the past? I shrugged. How would I know?

We left the countryside behind and tall buildings began to appear here and there. As we drove, they became more crowded together. I surmised we must be getting close to New York City and my excitement grew. Although I’d lain in hospital there for weeks, I’d never had a chance to see it. Even the day I left with Mrs. Shaw, nothing much had registered with me. Now I sat up straight and looked around me. I didn’t expect what I saw. The streets were dirty and covered with rubbish. The smells that poured out of open doorways would make you boke.

The car stopped, stuck behind a crowd of cars, carts, carriages and bicycles, and people hurrying to and fro across the street. To my right, young women in drab clothes loitered outside a dismal-looking, soot-covered building with grimy windows. The women stared at us, a suspicious look in their eyes. One or two shouted something that I couldn’t make out, but I was sure they were cursing us. I looked at Mrs. Shaw to see had she heard them.

“Poor creatures,” she said, “locked up in that filthy building all day. You should see the conditions inside—dark and dusty and hot as Hell.”

“You’ve been in there?”

“No, not in this building. But there are dozens of them all over the city, and all of them alike. You probably never heard of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. It burned down a year ago last March. One hundred and forty-six workers perished, most of them women—women just like these. The doors were all locked and they couldn’t get out. Most died of smoke inhalation, the rest from jumping through windows. The youngest was a child of fourteen.”