Orphan Train

is in my arms, his hot breath, slightly sour
     and sticky from his morning milk, on my cheek. Dutchy carries our bags.
    “Quickly, children,” Mrs. Scatcherd says. “In two straight lines. That’s good.” Her
     tone is softer than usual, and I wonder if it’s because we’re around other adults
     or because she knows what’s next. “This way.” We proceed behind her up a wide stone
     staircase, the clatter of our hard-soled shoes on the steps echoing like a drumroll.
     At the top of the stairs we make our way down a corridor lit by glowing gas lamps,
     and into the main waiting room of the station—not as majestic as the one in Chicago,
     but impressive nonetheless. It’s big and bright, with large, multipaned windows. Up
     ahead, Mrs. Scatcherd’s black robe billows behind her like a sail.
    People point and whisper, and I wonder if they know why we’re here. And then I spot
     a broadside affixed to a column. In black block letters on white papers, it reads:
    WANTED
    H OMES FOR O RPHAN C HILDREN
    A C OMPANY OF H OMELESS C HILDREN FROM THE E AST WILL
    ARRIVE AT
    M ILWAUKEE R OAD D EPOT , F RIDAY , O CTOBER 18.
    D ISTRIBUTION WILL TAKE PLACE AT 10 A . M .
    T HESE CHILDREN ARE OF VARIOUS AGES AND BOTH SEXES, HAVING BEEN THROWN FRIENDLESS UPON
     THE WORLD . . .
    “What did I say?” Dutchy says, following my glance. “Pig slops.”
    “You can read?” I ask with surprise, and he grins.
    As if someone has turned a crank in my back, I am propelled forward, one foot in front
     of the other. The cacophony of the station becomes a dull roar in my ears. I smell
     something sweet—candy apples?—as we pass a vendor’s cart. The hair on my neck is limp,
     and I feel a trickle of sweat down my back. Carmine is impossibly heavy. How strange,
     I think—that I am in a place my parents have never been and will never see. How strange
     that I am here and they are gone.
    I touch the claddagh cross around my neck.
    The older boys no longer seem so rough. Their masks have slipped; I see fear on their
     faces. Some of the children are sniffling, but most are trying very hard to be quiet,
     to do what’s expected of them.
    Ahead of us, Mrs. Scatcherd stands beside a large oak door, hands clasped in front
     of her. When we reach her, we gather around in a semicircle, the older girls holding
     babies and the younger children holding hands, the boys’ hands stuffed in their pockets.
    Mrs. Scatcherd bows her head. “Mary, Mother of God, we beseech you to cast a benevolent
     eye over these children, to guide them and bless them as they make their way in the
     world. We are your humble servants in His name. Amen.”
    “Amen,” the pious few say quickly, and the rest of us follow.
    Mrs. Scatcherd takes off her glasses. “We have reached our destination. From here,
     the Lord willing, you will disperse to families who need you and want you.” She clears
     her throat. “Now remember, not everyone will find a match right away. This is to be
     expected, and nothing to worry about. If you do not match now you will simply board
     the train with Mr. Curran and me, and we will travel to another station about an hour
     from here. And if you do not find placement there, you will come with us to the next
     town.”
    The children around me move like a skittish herd. My stomach is hollow and trembly.
    Mrs. Scatcherd nods. “All right, Mr. Curran, are we ready?”
    “We are, Mrs. Scatcherd,” he says, and leans against the large door with his shoulder,
     pushing it open.
    W E ’ RE AT THE BACK OF A LARGE , WOOD - PANELED ROOM WITH NO windows, filled with people milling about and rows of empty chairs. As Mrs. Scatcherd
     leads us down the center aisle toward a low stage at the front, a hush falls over
     the crowd, and then a swelling murmur. People in the aisle move aside to let us pass.
    Maybe, I think, someone here will want me. Maybe I’ll have a life I’ve never dared
     to imagine, in a bright, snug house where there is plenty to eat—warm cake and milky
     tea with as much sugar as I please. But I am quaking as I make my way up the stairs
     to the stage.
    We line up by height, smallest to tallest, some of us still holding babies. Though
     Dutchy is three years older than me, I’m tall for my age, and we’re only separated
     by one boy in the line.
    Mr. Curran clears his throat and begins to make a speech. Looking over at him, I notice
     his flushed cheeks and rabbity eyes, his droopy brown mustache and bristly