Orphan Train

rutted dirt road to the falling-down
     bridge. In places I have to crunch through the top layer of snow, thick as piecrust.
     The sharp edges lacerate my ankles. As I gaze up at the crystal stars glittering overhead,
     cold steals the breath from my mouth.
    Once I’m out of the woods and on the main road, a full moon bathes the fields around
     me in a shimmering, pearly light. Gravel crunches loudly under my boots; I can feel
     its pebbly roughness through my thin soles. I stroke the soft wool inside my gloves,
     so warm that not even my fingertips are cold. I’m not afraid—it was more frightening
     in that shack than it is on the road, with moonlight all around. My coat is thin,
     but I’m wearing what clothing I could salvage underneath, and as I hurry along I begin
     to warm up. I make a plan: I will walk to school. It’s only four miles.
    The dark line of the horizon is far in the distance, the sky above it lighter, like
     layers of sediment in rock. The schoolhouse is fixed in my mind. I just have to get
     there. Walking at a steady pace, my boots scuffing the gravel, I count a hundred steps
     and start again. My da used to say it’s good to test your limits now and then, learn
     what the body is capable of, what you can endure. He said this when we were in the
     throes of sickness on the Agnes Pauline, and again in the bitter first winter in New York, when four of us, including Mam,
     came down with pneumonia.
    Test your limits. Learn what you can endure. I am doing that.
    As I walk along I feel as weightless and insubstantial as a slip of paper, lifted
     by the wind and gliding down the road. I think about the many ways I ignored what
     was in front of me—how blind I was, how foolish not to be on my guard. I think of
     Dutchy, who knew enough to fear the worst.
    Ahead on the horizon, the first pink light of dawn begins to show. And just before
     it, the white clapboard building becomes visible halfway up a small ridge. Now that
     the schoolhouse is within sight my energy drains, and all I want to do is sink down
     by the side of the road. My feet are leaden and aching. My face is numb; my nose feels
     frozen. I don’t know how I make it to the school, but somehow I do. When I get to
     the front door, I find that the building is locked. I go around to the back, to the
     porch where they keep wood for the stove, and I open the door and fall onto the floor.
     An old horse blanket is folded by the woodpile, and I wrap myself in it and fall into
     a fitful sleep.
    I AM RUNNING IN A YELLOW FIELD, THROUGH A MAZE OF HAY BALES , unable to find my way . . .
    “D OROTHY ?” I FEEL A HAND ON MY SHOULDER , AND SPRING AWAKE . It’s Mr. Post. “What in God’s name . . . ?”
    For a moment I’m not sure myself. I look up at Mr. Post, at his round red cheeks and
     puzzled expression. I look around at the pile of rough-cut wood, the wide whitewashed
     planks of the porch walls. The door to the schoolroom is ajar, and it’s clear that
     Mr. Post has come to get wood to start the fire, as he must do every morning before
     heading out to pick us up.
    “Are you all right?”
    I nod, willing myself to be.
    “Does your family know you’re here?”
    “No, sir.”
    “How’d you get to the school?”
    “I walked.”
    He stares at me for a moment, then says, “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
    Mr. Post guides me to a chair in the schoolroom and puts my feet on another chair,
     then takes the dirty blanket from my shoulders and replaces it with a clean plaid
     one he finds in a cupboard. He unlaces each of my boots and sets them beside the chair, tsk ing over the holes in my socks. Then I watch him make a fire. The room is already
     getting warm when Miss Larsen arrives a few minutes later.
    “What’s this?” she says. “Dorothy?” She unwraps her violet scarf and takes off her
     hat and gloves. In the window behind her I see a car pulling away. Miss Larsen’s long
     hair is coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her brown eyes are clear and
     bright. The pink wool skirt she’s wearing brings out the color in her cheeks.
    Kneeling by my chair, she says, “Goodness, child. Have you been here long?”
    Mr. Post, having completed his duties, is putting on his hat and coat to make the
     rounds in the truck. “She was asleep out there on the porch when I arrived.” He laughs.
     “Scared the bejeezus out of me.”
    “I’m sure it did,” she says.
    “Says she walked here. Four miles.” He