We climb into our beds with ash under our fingernails and the smell of smoke in our hair. The generator is down for the night, and the dormitory is pitch-black. Mrs. Thomas has banned candles for tonight, because open flames inside the buildings will tempt fate, and how could she sleep knowing that we’re still in danger of being burned alive?

“You can manage without light for one night, my dears,” she says. “Better safe than sorry.”

I close my eyes and wait for sleep to take me. My blistered arm aches, and the two aspirin that Mrs. Thomas gave me from her personal medicine supply have done little to blunt the pain. I’m exhausted, but my mind is wide-awake, and when I close my eyes, all I see are flames roaring in the trees and embers sparking the grass.

Mrs. Thomas shines her torch into the room for her nightly head count, and Lottie and I simultaneously turn so that our faces are visible in the spotlight. Stuffed pillows under the blankets don’t fool Mrs. Thomas or the Elephant.

“You two can have a candle for an hour,” Mrs. Thomas whispers. “You’ve earned it, hey?”

Lottie strikes a match and lights the wick. We’ve been granted a special privilege by an adult, and to refuse it would be rude. Mrs. Thomas lingers. We wait, made nervous by her attention.

“A little bird tells me that Mr. Vincent wants to give two special girls a Golden Sun Award for bravery,” she says. “There’ll be a presentation night, and Mrs. Vincent is sure to take pictures for the Missionary Foundation newsletter. People in America will know your names and your faces. Imagine that. You’ll be famous.”

“A Golden Sun?” I’m in awe. “For certain?”

“For absolute certain.” Mrs. Thomas edges farther into the room, the bringer of good news. “Plus, your parents will be notified, and they’ll get a special letter to frame and hang on the wall so everyone knows how clever you are.”

Mother will be pleased. Golden Sun Awards are rare, and she’ll be sure to tell Father how many have been given out and how few are chosen for the honor.

“Tell me your favorite food and I’ll make sure the kitchen girls cook it for the celebration dinner,” Mrs. Thomas says. And to look at her, you’d think she was the one about to receive an award.

Lottie throws me a frown, surprised to be asked for her personal menu suggestions. We eat what we’re given, and we’re grateful for it.

“Roast beef,” I say off the top of my head. “And corn bread with butter.”

Simple food, easy to make. Anything more complicated might seem that I’m taking advantage of Mrs. Thomas’s goodwill, and that might, in turn, bring out her spiteful side.