He nodded. “Squatter’s camp on Sutter Road. When did you arrive in California?”

“Two days ago.”

The young man wrote all that down on her red card, then looked up. “We keep records of everyone who comes into the state. Your date for residency starts when you sign up, not when you actually arrive. There’s no state relief until you’re a resident, defined as being in the state for a year. Come back on April twenty-sixth.”

“A year?” Elsa frowned. “But . . . I hear there’s no work in the winter. Don’t folks need help then?”

The man gave her a pitying look. “The feds’ll give you some help. Commodities. Every two weeks.” He cocked his head. “That’s their line over there.”

Elsa turned, saw the even longer line down the street. “What’s commodities?”

“Beans. Milk. Bread. Food.”

“So, all those folks are standing in line for food?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Elsa felt deeply sorry for the women she saw standing over there, skinny as rails, their heads bowed in shame. “That’s not me,” she said quietly. “I can feed my children.”

For now.

TWENTY-ONE

At the end of the school day, Elsa stood at the flagpole, waiting for her children. She fought a wave of dizziness and realized that she’d forgotten to pack herself a lunch when she left this morning. After signing up for relief, she’d spent more hours walking through town, looking for work. It hadn’t taken long to realize that no store proprietor or diner owner would hire someone who looked as ragged and poor as she did.

The school bell rang; children poured out of the school. The school bus doors wheezed open in welcome for some of the children.

She saw Loreda and Ant coming her way.

Ant had a black eye and his collar was ripped.

“Anthony Martinelli, what happened?” Elsa said.

“Nuthin’.”

“Anthony—”

“Nuthin’, I said.”

She hugged her young son.

“You’re choking me,” he said, trying to get free.

Elsa forced herself to let go, and Ant pulled away. He walked on ahead, his empty lunch bag balled up in his fist.

“What happened, Loreda?”

“Some fifth-grader called him an ignorant Okie. Ant told him to take it back and when he wouldn’t, Ant punched him. The kid punched back.”

“I’ll talk to—”

“The teachers know, Mom. The principal came out and said the boy shouldn’t have punched Ant cuz we carry disease. He said, ‘You know better than to touch ’em, Johnson.’”

“He’s eight years old,” Elsa said softly.

Loreda had no answer.

“I’ll talk to him about turning the other cheek,” Elsa said. It was all she could think of. What did she know of schoolyard fights or what it took to become a man?

Up ahead, Ant walked alone along the side of the road, looking small. Vulnerable. The few cars that passed them stirred up dust and honked at him to get out of the way.

“How about teaching him to kick a bigger boy in the privates?”

“I am not going to teach my son to kick another boy in . . . that area.”

“Great. Teach him how to make an ice pack, then. Let him become a punching bag. Teach him we will always live this way.”

“Oh, Loreda,” she said. “I know how bad it is . . .”

“Do you? They ate fried chicken and had fruit-pie slices for lunch, Mom. One of them had something called a Twinkie. It smelled so good I accidentally made a sound and some of the girls laughed at me. One said, Look at her, eating a potato. And someone else said, She probably stole it.”

“Girls like that, unkind girls who think it’s funny to laugh at another’s misfortune, are nothing. Specks on fleas on a dog’s butt.”

“It hurts.”

“Yes,” Elsa said, remembering when she’d been called Anyone Else at school. “I know.”

When they turned at last toward the camp along the ditch bank, she called out for Anthony. He stopped, waited for her. “Would Papa whup me for fighting?”

“For defending yourself? No. But let’s fight with words from now on. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. How about if I say fuck you?”

Elsa almost laughed. God help her.

“No, Ant. You will not say that.”

Ant’s shoulders slumped. “I’m gonna get punched again. I know it.”

“He is,” Loreda said with a sigh.

All Elsa could think was, We all are.

THAT NIGHT, AFTER A dinner of ham-and-potato hash, Elsa got Ant settled in bed. None of them had said much during dinner. Loreda left the tent immediately after the meal, saying she couldn’t stand the stuffiness. Elsa tucked Ant in bed and sat with him.

“It’ll get better, Mom, right?” he said when he’d finished his prayers.

“Of course it will.” Elsa stroked his head, ran her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

She eased out of bed and looked down at him.

The bruise around his eye was more pronounced now. Someone had punched him in the face, made fun of him. . . . It made her want to hit something. Hard.