“You hear me?”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t hear me?”

Dutchy looks at him. “Never worked as a hay baler. Don’t even know what that is.”

“Whaddaya think?” the man says to the woman. “He’s a tough one, but we could use a kid this size.”

“I reckon he’ll fall in line.” Stepping up to Dutchy, she says, “We break horses. Boys aren’t that different.”

“Let’s load ’im up,” the man says. “We got a drive ahead of us.”

“You’re all set?” Mr. Curran says, coming toward us with a nervous laugh.

“Yep. This is the one.”

“Well, all right! If you’ll just follow me over here, we can sign those papers.”

It’s just as Dutchy predicted. Coarse country people looking for a field hand. They don’t even walk him down off the stage.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” I whisper.

“If he lays a hand on me . . .”

“You can get placed somewhere else.”

“I’m labor,” he says. “That’s what I am.”

“They have to send you to school.”

He laughs. “And what’ll happen if they don’t?”

“You’ll make them send you. And then, in a few years—”

“I’ll come and find you,” he says.

I have to fight to control my voice. “Nobody wants me. I have to get back on the train.”

“Hey, boy! Stop yer dallying,” the man calls, clapping his hands so loudly that everyone turns to look.

Dutchy walks across the stage and down the steps. Mr. Curran pumps the man’s hand, pats him on the shoulder. Mrs. Scatcherd escorts the couple out the door, Dutchy trailing behind. In the doorway he turns and finds my face. And then he’s gone.

It’s hard to believe, but it’s not yet noon. Two hours have passed since we pulled into the station. There are about ten adults milling around, and a half-dozen train riders left—me, a few sickly looking teenage boys, and some homely children—undernourished, walleyed, beetle browed. It’s obvious why we weren’t chosen.

Mrs. Scatcherd mounts the stage. “All right, children. The journey continues,” she says. “It is impossible to know what combination of factors makes a child suitable for a certain family, but to be perfectly frank, you would not want to be with a family that doesn’t welcome you wholeheartedly. So—though this may not seem like the desired outcome, I tell you that it is for the best. And if, after several more attempts, it becomes clear that . . .” Her voice wavers. “For now, let’s just worry about our next destination. The good people of Albans, Minnesota, are waiting.”

Albans, Minnesota, 1929

It’s early afternoon when we arrive in Albans, which, I can see as we pull up to the depot, is barely a town at all. The mayor is standing on the open-air platform, and as soon as we disembark we are herded in a ragtag line to a Grange Hall a block from the station. The brilliant blue of the morning sky has faded, as if left out too long in the sun. The air has cooled. I am no longer nervous or worried. I just want to get this over with.

There are fewer people here, about fifty, but they fill the small brick building. There’s no stage, so we walk to the front and turn to face the crowd. Mr. Curran gives a less florid version of the speech he gave in Minneapolis and people begin to inch forward. They generally appear both poorer and kindlier; the women are wearing country dresses and the men seem uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes.

Expecting nothing makes the whole experience easier to bear. I fully believe that I will end up on the train again, to be unloaded at the next town, paraded with the remaining children, and shuttled back on the train. Those of us who aren’t chosen will likely return to New York to grow up in an orphanage. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. At least I know what to expect—hard mattresses, rough sheets, strict matrons. But also friendship with other girls, three meals a day, school. I can go back to that life. I don’t need to find a family here, and perhaps it will be for the best if I don’t.

As I am thinking this, I become aware of a woman looking at me closely. She is about my mother’s age, with wavy brown hair cropped close to her head and plain, strong features. She wears a high-necked white blouse with vertical pleats, a dark paisley scarf, and a plain gray skirt. Heavy black shoes are on her feet. A large oval locket hangs on a gold chain around her neck. The man standing behind her is stout and florid, with shaggy auburn hair. The buttons of his waistcoat strain to confine his drumlike girth.

The woman comes close to me. “What’s your name?”

“Niamh.”

“Eve?”

“No, Niamh. It’s Irish,” I say.

“How do you spell it?”

“N-I-A-M-H.”

She looks back at the man, who breaks into a grin. “Fresh off the boat,” he says. “Ain’t that right, missy?”

“Well, not—” I begin, but the man interrupts me.

“Where you from?”

“County Galway.”

“Ah, right.” He nods, and my heart jumps. He knows it!

“My people’re from County Cork. Came over long ago, during the famine.”

These two are a peculiar pair—she circumspect and reserved, he bouncing on his toes, humming with energy.

“The name would have to change,” she says to her husband.

“Whatever you want, m’dear.”

She cocks her head at me. “How old are you?”

“Nine, ma’am.”

“Can you sew?”

I nod.

“Do you know how to cross-stitch? Hem? Can you do backstitching by hand?”

“Fairly well.” I learned stitches sitting in our apartment on Elizabeth Street, helping Mam when she took in extra work darning and mending and the occasional full dress from a bolt of cloth. Much of her work came from the sisters Rosenblum downstairs, who did fine finish work and gladly passed along to Mam the more tedious tasks. I stood beside her as she traced patterns in chalk on chambray and calico, and I learned to make the wide simple chain stitches to guide the emerging shape of the garment.

“Who taught you?”

“My mam.”

“Where is she now?”

“Passed away.”

“And your father?”

“I’m an orphan.” My words hang in the air.

The woman nods at the man, who puts his hand on her back and guides her to the side of the room. I watch as they talk. He shakes his floppy head and rubs his belly. She touches the bodice of her blouse with a flat hand, gestures toward me. He stoops, hands on his belt, and bends close to whisper in her ear. She looks me up and down. Then they come back over.

“I am Mrs. Byrne,” she says. “My husband works as a women’s clothier, and we employ several local women to make garments to order. We are looking for a girl who is good with a needle.”

This is so different from what I was expecting that I don’t know what to say.

“I will be honest with you. We do not have any children and have no interest in being surrogate parents. But if you are respectful and hardworking, you will be treated fairly.”

I nod.

The woman smiles, her features shifting. For the first time, she seems almost friendly. “Good.” She shakes my hand. “We’ll sign the papers, then.”

The hovering Mr. Curran descends, and we are led to the table where the necessary forms are signed and dated.

“I think you’ll find that Niamh is mature for her years,” Mrs. Scatcherd tells them. “If she is brought up in a strict, God-fearing household, there is no reason to believe she can’t become a woman of substance.” Taking me aside, she whispers, “You are lucky to have found a home. Do not disappoint me, or the Society. I don’t know if you’ll get another chance.”

Mr. Byrne hoists my brown suitcase onto his shoulder. I follow him and his wife out of the Grange Hall, down the quiet street, and around the corner to where their black Model A is parked in front of a modest storefront with hand-lettered signs advertising sales: NORWEGIAN SARDINES IN OIL 15 CENTS, ROUND STEAK, 36 CENTS/LB. Wind rustles through the tall sparse trees that line the road. After laying my suitcase flat in the trunk, Mr. Byrne opens the rear door for me. The interior of the car is black, the leather seats cool and slippery. I feel very small in the backseat. The Byrnes take their places in the front and don’t glance back.