“I am here to enroll my children in school.”

The woman sighed heavily and got to her feet. She was dressed in a pretty blue dress with a fabric belt, silk stockings, and sensible brown shoes. Elsa noticed that her nails were well cared for and her cheeks were nice and plump.

The woman walked up to the counter, on the other side of which Elsa and the children stood. “Did you bring report cards? Transfer papers? School records?”

“We left in a bit of a rush. Times back home were—”

“Hard for you Okies. Yes.”

“We’re from Texas, ma’am,” Elsa said.

“What are their names?”

“Loreda and Anthony Martinelli. We call him—”

“Address?”

Elsa didn’t know how to answer the question. “We . . . uh.”

The woman turned her head, yelled, “Miss Guyman, come here. Squatters. Okies.”

“We’re from Texas,” Elsa said firmly.

The woman pushed a piece of paper at Elsa. “Can you read and write?”

“Oh, for gosh sakes,” Elsa said. “Of course.”

“Names and ages.” She handed Elsa a pencil.

As Elsa wrote down the children’s names, a younger woman appeared in the office, dressed in a crisp white nurse’s uniform and cap. The nurse marched over to the children, went to Loreda and began pawing through her hair.

“No lice,” the nurse said. “No fever . . . yet. How old is this girl?” the nurse asked. “Eleven?”

“Thirteen,” Elsa answered.

“Can she read?”

“Of course. She’s excellent in school.”

The nurse checked Ant’s hair. “Fine,” she said at last. “Most of your kind work the fields at eleven. I’m surprised your daughter is in school.”

“Our kind are hardworking Americans who have hit hard times,” Elsa said.

“Follow me,” Mrs. Mouser said. “Not too close.”

Elsa and the children followed the woman, who stopped at the end of the hall. “Boy. In there. Go.”

Ant grabbed Elsa’s sleeve, stared up at her.

“You’re okay,” Elsa said.

He shook his head, eyes pleading for a way out of this.

“Go,” Elsa said.

Ant sighed heavily. His shoulders slumped in defeat. With a lackluster wave, he opened the door and disappeared into the busy classroom.

“No dawdling,” the administrator said, walking on ahead.

Elsa had to force herself to keep walking. Loreda stayed close beside her.

At the last doorway, marked with a seven on it, the administrator stopped. “You,” she said to Loreda. “Go on in. See those three desks in the back corner? Sit at one of them. Don’t touch anyone or anything on your way. And for God’s sake, don’t cough.”

Loreda looked at Elsa.

“You’re as good as anyone,” Elsa said.

Loreda opened the classroom door.

Elsa saw the way the clean, well-dressed children snickered at her daughter. A few of the girls even leaned away from Loreda as she passed them. A boy with red hair held his nose and a bunch of them laughed.

It took all the strength Elsa possessed to turn away from the closed door.

ELSA WALKED BACK OUT to the main road and turned north. At the turnoff to the ditch-bank camp, she kept going. At last, she came to a small, well-tended town with a big cotton-boll-shaped sign that welcomed her to Welty, California. Main Street ran for four blocks; she saw a boarded-up theater, a city hall with columns out front, and a row of shops. She walked from shop to shop, seeing no help wanted signs in any windows.

The state relief office was off Main Street, tucked in a square full of park benches and flowering trees. A long line of people waited to get in.

She stepped into line. People didn’t look at each other, nor did they speak.

Elsa understood. She could tell by the hard, shuttered looks on the men’s and women’s faces around her that they’d waited until they had no choice but to ask for help. And they were ashamed to need anything from the government. From anyone, really. Like her, they’d always worked for what they needed, not relied on the government for a handout.

Elsa’s mind went blessedly blank as she stood there.

She finally made her way to the front of the line. Beneath a temporary awning sat a young man in a brown suit with a thin black tie over a crisp white shirt. A brimmed brown hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head.

“You here for relief?” he said, looking up, tapping his pen.

“No. I’ll find a job, but I was told I needed to register. Just in case.”

“Good advice. I wish more people heeded it. Name?”

“Elsinore Martinelli.”

He wrote something down on a red card. “Age?”

“Lord,” she said, laughing nervously. “Thirty-nine next month.”

“Husband?”

She paused. “No.”

“Children?”

“Loreda Martinelli, thirteen. Anthony Martinelli, eight.”

“Address?”

“Uh.”

“Side of the road,” he said with a sigh. “Around here?”

“About two miles south.”