THAT NIGHT, ELSA LAY awake long after the kids had said their prayers and fallen asleep on either side of her. Moonlight illuminated the canvas walls, setting the small interior aglow. Careful not to disturb the kids, she found a scrap of paper and a pencil and sat up to write.

Dear Tony and Rose,

Greetings from California!

After a grueling drive that was more fun than any of us expected, we came to the San Joaquin Valley. It’s a beautiful place. Mountains. Crops that are green and growing, rich brown earth.

Our tent is near a river. We’ve made friends with folks from the South. The kids are excited to start school tomorrow. How are things with you?

You can write to us care of General Delivery at the Post Office in Welty, California.

Pray for us as we pray for you.

Love,

Elsa, Loreda, and Ant

THE NEXT MORNING, ELSA woke before the sun rose and began carrying water back to the campsite, putting it on to boil on the stove.

In the darkness, smoke drifted from tent to tent; she heard the clang of water buckets being filled, of grease popping in cast-iron pans. People began to walk toward the road. Men, women, children.

At seven o’clock, she wakened the children, got them dressed, and herded them out of the tent, where she fed them some hot mush (not enough, but she knew now she had to save every single penny), and used the newly boiled, strained, and cooled water to wash their hair and faces. She was so grateful the kids had done laundry yesterday.

Ant tried to wiggle free. “Why do I gotta be cleaner?”

“Because today is the first day of school,” Elsa said.

“Yippee!” Ant said, jumping up and down.

Loreda took a step back. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Education is everything, Loreda. You know that. You will be the first Martinelli to go to college.”

“But—”

“No buts. Hard times don’t last. Education does and y’all are behind the grind these days. Hurry up. We have a walk ahead of us.”

“How am I supposed to go to school with no shoes?” Ant said. “Didja think of that?”

Elsa stared down at her son in horror. How in God’s name had she forgotten that salient fact? “I . . . we . . .”

“Elsa?”

She turned, saw Jean walking toward her, carrying a scuffed, holey pair of boy’s shoes. “I saw you carrying water,” Jean said. “I figured you was washing the kids for school.”

“I forgot my son had no shoes. How could I—”

Jean touched her shoulder, gave her a reassuring squeeze. “We do the best we can, Elsa. Here, these shoes belonged to Buster. He’s outgrown ’em. You give ’em back when Ant outgrows them.”

Elsa couldn’t find words to express her gratitude. This generosity was nothing short of stunning, coming as it did from one with so little.

“It’s how we get by,” Jean said, patting Elsa’s arm.

“Th-thank you.”

“The school’s a mile south.” Jean cocked her head to the south. “They ain’t real welcomin’ there.”

“I’d say that’s true of the whole state so far,” Elsa said.

“Yep.”

“After you get ’em set in school, you’d best go register with the state. The relief office is north of here about two miles in Welty. You want them to know you’re here.”

Relief.

Elsa’s stomach tightened at the thought. She nodded. “So, south to school and then go back north two miles from here to town. Got it.”

Elsa handed Ant the shoes and loved how happy they made him. “All right, Martinellis,” she said as he laced them up. “Let’s go.”

They walked out to the main road and turned south, joining a group of children walking in the same direction. There were probably nine children aged six to ten. Loreda was the oldest child in the group. Elsa was the only adult.

A blunt-nosed school bus rumbled past, spitting rocks and blowing dust. It didn’t stop for the migrant children.

They passed a county hospital with a gray ambulance parked out front, and finally came to the school. Green grass and trees gave it an inviting look. A crowd of laughing, talking kids swarmed the yard. They were clean and well dressed. The migrant children moved woodenly, silently, among them.

“Look at them, Mom,” Loreda said. “New clothes.”

Elsa tipped Loreda’s chin up with one finger, saw the tears gathering in her daughter’s eyes. “I know what you’re feeling, but don’t you dare cry,” Elsa said. “Not about this, not with all you’ve been through to get here. You’re a Martinelli, and you’re as good as anyone in California.”

Tucking her children’s hands in hers, she took them across the grass, beneath the billowing American flag.

Inside, the hallways were full of children. Elsa noticed the looks thrown their way and saw how the better-dressed children avoided them. A bulletin board held flyers for field trips and school functions and advertised the upcoming PTA meeting.

Elsa headed into the first office she saw. She stood with her children in front of a long counter. A placard on it read: BARBARA MOUSER, ADMINISTRATION.

Elsa cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

The woman seated at a desk behind the counter looked up from her paperwork.