“I have a right to be here,” Elsa said.

“Oh, really? Do you have an address in the community?”

“Well . . .”

“Do you pay taxes to support this school?”

The woman sniffed, as if Elsa smelled, and walked away, clapping her hands. “Come along, mothers. We need to plan the end-of-the-year raffle. We want to raise money to get those dirty migrants a school of their own.”

The women fell in behind Martha, waddling like chicks behind the mama duck.

Elsa did what she’d always done when faced with derision and contempt. She walked away, defeated, left the library, went out into the now-deserted schoolyard.

She was almost to the flagpole when she stopped.

No.

This was not the woman she wanted to be anymore. Not the mother she wanted to be. These women looked at her and judged her and thought they knew her. They thought she was trash.

But she wasn’t trash. And her children certainly weren’t trash.

You can do it.

Could she?

They’re bullies, Elsa. That was what Rose would say. The only way to fight a bully is to stand your ground.

Be brave, Grandpa Walt would say. Pretend if you have to.

Clutching her handbag strap, she walked back into the school. At the library door, she paused, but not for long, and then opened the door.

The women—a gaggle of geese, Elsa thought—turned to her. Mouths dropped open.

Martha took control. “I thought we told you—”

“I heard you,” Elsa said. She was literally quaking inside. Her voice wavered. “Now you will hear me. My children go to this school. I will be a part of this. Period.” She sidled into the back row and sat down, clamping her knees together, holding her purse on her lap.

Martha stared at her, lips pinched tightly together.

Elsa sat still.

“Fine. You can’t impose manners or breeding. Ladies. Sit down.”

The women took their seats, careful not to be near Elsa.

For the entire meeting—more than two hours—no one looked back at her. In fact, they were studiously avoiding her as they talked among themselves, saying things in strident voices: dirty migrants . . . live like hogs . . . lice . . . don’t know any better . . . shouldn’t be allowed to think they belong.

Elsa heard the message but didn’t care, and not caring felt good.

Almost exhilarating, in fact. For once, she had not let someone else tell her where she belonged.

“The meeting is adjourned,” Martha said.

No one moved. The women sat rigidly upright, facing Martha.

Elsa got it.

They wouldn’t walk past her.

They carry disease, you know.

Elsa faked a sneeze. Everyone jumped.

Elsa got to her feet and walked casually toward the door, taking her time. As she passed the food table, she saw all that was there: little peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches on store-bought bread with the crusts cut off, deviled eggs, a Jell-O salad, and a plate of cookies.

Why not?

They thought she was a dirty Okie anyway. What beaten dog didn’t jump at scraps?

Elsa picked up the plate of cookies and dumped all of them into her handbag. Next, she removed her headscarf and filled it with sandwiches. Then she snapped her handbag shut.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll bring a treat next time. I’m sure y’all love squirrel stew.”

She walked out of the library and let the door bang shut behind her.

A HALF HOUR LATER, Elsa got her first whiff of the camp—the stench of too many people living without sanitation on a hot May day.

At their tent, she found Loreda and Ant sitting on boxes out front playing cards. Loreda had started making the lentil stew. Smoke puffed up through the stove’s short metal pipe and drifted sideways.

At Elsa’s arrival, Ant jumped up to greet her, but Loreda remained seated. Her daughter looked up and said, “Hey,” in that new clenched voice of hers.

Ant produced a local newspaper that was stained and torn. Across the top in bold black type was the headline: “Criminal Element Rampant in Migrants Flooding into State. One Thousand Enter California Per Day.” “I found this in the trash at school. I stole it. For the fire,” he said.

“It ain’t stealing if it’s in the trash,” Loreda said.

“I have a surprise,” Elsa said.

“A good surprise?” Loreda said without looking up. “Or another bad thing happening?”

Elsa touched Loreda with the toe of her shoe. “It’s good. Come on.”

She herded her children toward the Deweys’ tent. As they approached, Elsa smelled cornbread cooking.

Elsa called out a greeting at the closed flaps.

The tent flaps opened. Five-year-old Lucy stood there in her burlap-sack dress, skinny as a stalk of alfalfa, with four-year-old Mary standing so close the two girls looked conjoined.

Lucy smiled, showing off two missing teeth. “Miz Martinelli,” she said. “What’re y’all doing here?”

“I brought you something,” Elsa said.

Inside the murky darkness that smelled of sweat, Elsa saw Jean sitting on a box, sewing by candlelight.

“Elsa,” Jean said, getting to her feet.

“Come out,” Elsa said. “I have a treat.”