“Come here, honey,” Jean said, opening her arms.

Loreda walked into the woman’s embrace, surprised by how much it helped, even from a stranger. “You’ll have to grow up, I reckon,” Jean said. “Your mom probably wants you to be young, but them days are gone.”

Loreda held back tears. She didn’t want to grow up, certainly not in a place like this.

She looked up at Jean’s kind, sad face. “So, what should I do?”

“First, go to the ditch and carry lots o’ water back. You got to boil and strain it before you drink it, mind. I’ll give you some cheesecloth. Doin’ laundry would help your mom out.”

Loreda left Jean standing outside the tent and picked up a pair of buckets and walked to the ditch. A line of women was already squatted along the banks, or on wooden planks in the brown water, washing clothes. Children played at the edges of the dirty water.

Loreda filled both buckets with the ugly water and carried them back to the tent. She passed a family of six living in a shack made of tin and wood scraps.

By the time she got back to the tent, Ant was up and sitting in the dirt. He’d obviously been crying. “Everybody left me,” he whined. “I thought—”

“I’m sorry,” Loreda said, putting her buckets down.

Ant shot to his feet and tackled her. Loreda held him tightly.

“I was scared.”

“Me, too, Antsy,” Loreda said, as comforted by the feel of him as he was by her. When he drew back, his tears were gone and his smile was back. “Wanna play catch? I got my baseball somewhere.”

“Nope. I got to boil this water and make breakfast. Then we’re gonna wash clothes.”

“Mom didn’t tell us to do that,” Ant whined.

“We’ve got to help.”

Ant looked up suddenly. “She’s comin’ back, ain’t she?”

“She’s coming back. She’s looking for work so we can move.”

“Phew. You reckon she’ll find it?”

“I hope so.”

After a breakfast of tasteless wheat cereal, Loreda washed the dishes and put everything back into boxes, which were ready for packing up when the truck returned. That way they could leave this stinking place the second Mom got back.

BY NOON, ELSA’S FINGERS ached and her hands were burned pink from bleach and lye. She had scrubbed the kitchen, dining, and sitting room floors, and then rubbed lemon-scented oil into the wood until the planks shone. She’d pulled dozens of leather-bound books out of bookshelves and dusted behind them, unable to stop herself from smelling the leather, the paper, even reading a sentence or two.

Her life as a reader felt far away.

When her cleaning was done, she scalded two plump chickens in boiling water and plucked them, her mouth watering at the idea of roasted chicken. An hour later, she hauled wet laundry outside and fed it through the metal wringer’s presses, turning the crank until her shoulders screamed at the motion. All of this she did under the watchful eye of the woman of the house, who never offered Elsa a lunch break, a glass of water, or an introduction.

“That’s it, then,” the woman said at just past five o’clock, as Elsa was in the kitchen again, ironing a man’s shirt. “You are done.”

Elsa slowly released her hold on the iron and sighed in relief. She was parched and starving. “I noticed the pantry could use some organizing, ma’am, I—”

“Touching our food? Of course not. Crime around here is sky-high since your kind moved in. Our schools are full of your dirty children.”

“Ma’am, certainly, as a Christian, you must—”

“How dare you question my faith? Out!” she said, flinging a pointed finger toward the door. “And don’t you come back. The Mexicans are better workers than you dirty Okies. They don’t sass and they don’t stay in town after the crops are done. We never should have deported them.”

Elsa was too tired and dispirited to argue. At least she’d found work. Today’s money was a start. She had to think of it like that. She said, “Fine, ma’am,” and waited to be paid.

“What?” the woman said, crossing her arms.

“My pay.”

“Oh. Right.” The woman dug into her pocket and pulled out some coins and dropped them in Elsa’s outstretched palm.

Four dimes.

“Forty cents?” Elsa said. “For ten hours?”

“Shall I take it back? I could tell my husband how insubordinate you’ve been.”

Forty cents.

Elsa walked away, pushed through the door, let it bang shut behind her. She got in the truck and drove down the driveway, trying not to panic.

Forty cents for a day’s work.

Now she knew why the folks in the camp walked to find work. Gas was already a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Tomorrow she’d join the people leaving the ditch-bank camp before dawn in the hopes of finding work in the fields. The pay had to be better than this.

But she’d be damned if her children would work in the fields. They would go to school and get an education.

Out on the main road, she saw a slim man walking along the roadside, his shoulders hunched in defeat, carrying a tattered knapsack. Black hair hung in dirty strands from a holey hat. One foot was bare.