Orphan Train

shakes his head. “Lucky she didn’t freeze to
     death.”
    “You seem to have warmed her up nicely.”
    “She’s thawing out. Well, I’m off to get the others.” He pats the front of his coat.
     “See you in a jiff.”
    As soon as he leaves, Miss Larsen says, “Now then. Tell me what happened.”
    And I do. I wasn’t planning to, but she looks at me with such genuine concern that
     everything spills out. I tell her about Mrs. Grote lying in bed all day and Mr. Grote
     in the woods and the snow dust on my face in the morning and the stained mattresses.
     I tell her about the cold squirrel stew and the squalling children. And I tell her
     about Mr. Grote on the sofa, his hands on me, and pregnant Mrs. Grote in the hallway,
     yelling at me to get out. I tell her that I was afraid to stop walking, afraid that
     I would fall asleep. I tell her about the gloves Fanny knitted for me.
    Miss Larsen puts her hand over mine and leaves it there, squeezing it every now and
     then. “Oh, Dorothy,” she says.
    And then, “Thank goodness for the gloves. Fanny sounds like a good friend.”
    “She was.”
    She holds her chin, tapping it with two fingers. “Who brought you to the Grotes’?”
    “Mr. Sorenson from the Children’s Aid Society.”
    “All right. When Mr. Post gets back, I’ll send him out to find this Mr. Sorenson.”
     Opening her lunch pail, she pulls out a biscuit. “You must be hungry.”
    Normally I would refuse—I know this is part of her lunch. But I am so ravenous that
     at the sight of the biscuit my mouth fills with water. I accept it shamefully and
     wolf it down. While I’m eating the biscuit Miss Larsen heats water on the stove for
     tea and cuts an apple into slices, arranging them on a chipped china plate from the
     shelf. I watch as she spoons loose tea into a strainer and pours the boiling water
     over it into two cups. I’ve never seen her offer tea to a child before, and certainly
     not to me.
    “Miss Larsen,” I start. “Could you ever—would you ever—”
    She seems to know what I’m asking. “Take you home to live with me?” She smiles, but
     her expression is pained. “I care about you, Dorothy. I think you know that. But I
     can’t—I’m in no position to take care of a girl. I live in a boardinghouse.”
    I nod, a knob in my throat.
    “I will help you find a home,” she says gently. “A place that is safe and clean, where
     you’ll be treated like a ten-year-old girl. I promise you that.”
    When the other kids file in from the truck, they look at me curiously.
    “What’s she doing here?” one boy, Robert, says.
    “Dorothy came in a little early this morning.” Miss Larsen smooths the front of her
     pretty pink skirt. “Take your seats and pull out your workbooks, children.”
    After Mr. Post has come in from the back with more wood and arranged the logs in the
     bin by the stove, Miss Larsen signals to him, and he follows her back to the entry
     vestibule. A few minutes later he heads outside again, still in his coat and cap.
     The engine roars to life and the brakes screech as he maneuvers his truck down the
     steep drive.
    About an hour later, I hear the truck’s distinctive clatter and look out the window.
     I watch as it slowly makes its way up the steep drive, then comes to a stop. Mr. Post
     climbs out and comes in the porch door, and Miss Larsen excuses herself from the lesson
     and goes to the back. A few moments later she calls my name and I rise from my desk,
     all eyes on me, and make my way to the porch.
    Miss Larsen seems worried. She keeps touching her hair in the bun. “Dorothy, Mr. Sorenson
     is not convinced . . .” She stops and touches her neck, glances beseechingly at Mr.
     Post.
    “I think what Miss Larsen is trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that you will need
     to explain what happened in detail to Mr. Sorenson. Ideally, as you know, they want
     to make the placements work. Mr. Sorenson wonders if this might simply be a matter
     of—miscommunication.”
    I feel light-headed as I realize what Mr. Post is saying. “He doesn’t believe me?”
    A look passes between them. “It’s not a question of believing or not believing. He
     just needs to hear the story from you,” Miss Larsen says.
    For the first time in my life, I feel the wildness of revolt. Tears spring to my eyes.
     “I’m not going back there. I can’t.”
    Miss Larsen puts an arm around my shoulder. “Dorothy, don’t worry. You’ll tell Mr.