That was the truth of it.

Elsa nodded. “Well, I won’t get help standing here wishing life were different.”

“Ain’t it the truth?” Jean said.

The women exchanged a smile.

Jean left the tent, closed the flaps behind her. Elsa buttoned up her hooded coat and stepped into her oversized galoshes and began the walk into Welty. In this weather, it was slow going.

Nearly an hour later, splattered with mud, bedraggled by rain, Elsa stepped into the long line of people in front of the federal relief office. She stood in line for two more hours. By the time she reached the interior of the office, she was shivering violently.

“Els-s-s-inore Martinelli,” she said to the young man seated at a desk in the small office. He ran through a tin box full of red cards, pulled one out.

“Martinelli. Registered arrival in the state on April 26, 1935. Two children. One woman. No husband.”

Elsa nodded. “We’ve been here almost eight months.”

“Two pounds of beans, four cans of milk, a loaf of bread. Next.” He stamped the card. “Come back in two weeks.”

“That’s supposed to last us two weeks?” she said.

The young man looked up. “You see how many people need help?” he said. “We’re overwhelmed. There just isn’t enough money. The Salvation Army has a soup kitchen on Seventh.”

Elsa picked up her box of commodities and settled it uncomfortably in her arms. With a tired sigh, she stepped back out into the rain.

“Join us, raise your voices. Workers of the valley unite!”

Elsa looked over at the man standing at the corner, shouting; he wore a long, dark-colored duster and a hood. Rain slashed at him.

He raised a fist for emphasis. “Unite! Don’t let them make you afraid. Come to the Workers Alliance meeting.”

Elsa saw how people moved away from him, drew back. None of them could afford being seen with a Communist.

A police car rolled up, lights flashing. Two officers got out and grabbed the man and started beating him.

“You see this?” the Communist shouted. “This is in America. The coppers are hauling me away for my ideas.”

The cops shoved him into the squad car and drove away.

Elsa resettled the box of commodities in her arms and began the long walk back to the camp. It was late afternoon when she reached the field.

There were almost a thousand people living here now, more than four times the number that had been here when they had arrived.

Elsa splashed through ankle-deep mud toward her tent.

A few people were out and about, scavenging for anything that they could use.

She stopped at the Deweys’ tent. “Anyone home?”

The flaps were opened by Lucy. Elsa saw the whole family—all six of them—gathered inside. Jeb and the boys had been as unable to find work as everyone else.

Jean smiled tiredly, her hand resting on her big belly. The buttons of her dress gaped; one was missing. “Hey, Elsa. How did it go?”

Elsa reached into the box and withdrew two cans of milk, as well as a few slices of bread from the loaf she’d been given. It wasn’t much, and yet it was. The two families shared whatever good fortune came their way. “Here you go,” she said, offering the food.

“Thank you,” Jean said, giving her an understanding look.

Elsa returned to her own tent and ducked inside. The floor was mud now. No wonder people were getting sick. Ant sat on the mattress they all shared, doing his homework.

Loreda sat on an apple crate sewing a black button onto the purple dress she’d gotten at the beauty salon. At Elsa’s arrival, she looked up. “How was it?”

“Fine.” Elsa’s hands were so cold, she almost dropped the box.

Loreda got up and wrapped a blanket around Elsa, who sat down gingerly on the edge of the mattress.

“You should have seen how many people there were in line, Loreda,” Elsa said. “The soup kitchen line was twice as long.”

“Hard times,” Loreda said woodenly. It was what they always said.

“What would Tony and Rose say if they knew we were living on the dole?”

“They’d say Ant needed the milk,” Loreda said.

Elsa knew now how Tony had felt when his land died. There was a deep and abiding shame that came with asking for handouts.

Poverty was a soul-crushing thing. A cave that tightened around you, its pinprick of light closing a little more at the end of each desperate, unchanged day.

CHRISTMAS MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and clear, the first dry day in nearly a week. Elsa woke to blissful quiet. She had slept in. They all had. These days there was no reason to rise before dawn. There was no work to be found and school was closed for the holiday.

She got out of bed slowly, moving like an old woman. Indeed, she felt like one. The combination of cold, hunger, and fear had aged her. All she wanted to do was climb back in bed with her kids and cuddle under the covers and sleep. It was her only escape. But she knew how dangerous escape could be. Survival took grit and courage and effort. It was too easy to give in. No matter how afraid she was, she had to teach her children every day how to survive.

She grabbed the water jug and went outside to make coffee.

The camp wakened with her. People came out of their tents, blinking mole-like at the unexpected sunlight. Folks smiled and waved. Someone was playing a fiddle. A banjo joined in. Someone somewhere began to sing.