I inched toward him, my purpose momentarily forgotten, aside from needing to appear at ease. My hand loosened around the wooden train nearly embedded in my palm. From a glimpse at the toy, I recalled the note inside, featuring the lone destination I could fathom. And I hoped, with every ounce of my being, that once there, I wouldn’t be turned away.

“One ticket,” I replied with a voice almost level. “To Amesboro, please.”

Chapter 19

If my wait in the laundry cart lasted a decade, the minutes until the bus’s arrival spanned a century. Suffice it to say, I was the first to board.

Over the next hour and a half, through the lulling motion of the drive, I shifted often in my seat: to stay alert, to gauge boarding passengers, to not miss my stop. By the time we rolled into Amesboro, I was more than ready to hustle off.

I scanned what appeared the town’s central street, with shops and a drugstore and—yes, a post office! Equipped with every address in the area, the place was a perfect resource.

But my challenges didn’t end when I walked through the door.

From behind the counter, a towering middle-aged woman with short sandy-brown hair scrutinized my approach. An incoming telegram clacked away in the background.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, for troubling you,” I began. “It’s just that I’ve come to town to visit a family, the Jansens, and…I don’t have their new address.” At her silence, I continued. “See, my father worked with theirs. Up in the Copper Country. So I was hoping you might—”

“And you are?” she asked flatly.

I was reluctant to provide my actual name, aware that a statewide hunt could be underway. But her owlish eyes told me she could detect a lie through the thickest of forests, and what was more, a tentative answer might give her cause to phone the authorities.

“Fenna, ma’am. I’m Fenna Vos.”

“Fenna, you say?”

I froze at her change of tone. The mix of intrigue and recognition summoned my nerves to the surface.

“Over in Holland,” she said, “my baby niece shares your Christian name. Your family, they’re from the old country?”

Relief didn’t keep me from stammering. “M-my parents are, yes…or were.” I pushed through the sting of thinking about Papa in the past tense.

She didn’t press for details, gratefully. “Well,” she said, “as to the matter of your request, I do abide by a standard rule: for propriety’s sake, I never personally disclose residents’ private information without their say-so.”

Disappointment tugged at me. Not defeat, however. Not after what it took to achieve this much. Maybe a phone operator would help, or a chatty customer at a general store—or at a beauty parlor, better yet.