Mr. Byrne reaches over and touches his wife’s shoulder, and she smiles at him. With a loud rumble the car springs to life and we set off. The Byrnes are having an animated conversation in the front seat, but I can’t hear a word.

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, MR. BYRNE PULLS INTO THE DRIVEWAY of a modest beige stucco house with brown trim. As soon as he turns off the car, Mrs. Byrne looks back at me and says, “We’ve decided on Dorothy.”

“You like that name?” Mr. Byrne asks.

“For goodness’ sake, Raymond, it doesn’t matter what she thinks,” Mrs. Byrne snaps as she opens her car door. “Dorothy is our choice, and Dorothy she will be.”

I turn the name over in my mind: Dorothy. All right. I’m Dorothy now.

The stucco is chipped and paint is peeling off the trim. But the windows are sparkling clean, and the lawn is short and neat. A domed planter of rust-colored mums sits on either side of the steps.

“One of your tasks will be to sweep the front porch, steps, and walkway every day until the snow comes. Rain or shine,” Mrs. Byrne says as I follow her to the front door. “You will find the dustpan and broom inside the hall closet on the left.” She turns around to face me, and I nearly bump into her. “Are you paying attention? I don’t like to repeat myself.”

“Yes, Mrs. Byrne.”

“Call me ma’am. Ma’am will suffice.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The small foyer is gloomy and dark. Shadows from the white crocheted curtains on every window cast lacy shapes on the floor. To the left, through a slightly open door, I glimpse the red-flocked wallpaper and mahogany table and chairs of a dining room. Mrs. Byrne pushes a button on the wall and the overhead light springs on as Mr. Byrne comes through the front door, having retrieved my bag from the truck. “Ready?” she says. Mrs. Byrne opens the door to the right onto a room that, to my surprise, is full of people.

Albans, Minnesota, 1929

Two women in white blouses sit in front of black sewing machines with the word Singer spelled out in gold along the body, pumping one foot on the iron lattice step that moves the needle up and down. They don’t look up as we enter, just keep watching the needle, tucking the thread under the foot and pressing the fabric flat. A round young woman with frizzy brown hair kneels on the floor in front of a cloth mannequin, stitching tiny pearls onto a bodice. A gray-haired woman sits on a brown chair, perfectly erect, hemming a calico skirt. And a girl who appears only a few years older than me is cutting a pattern out of thin paper on a table. On the wall above her head is a framed needlepoint that says, in tiny black-and-yellow cross-stitching, KEEP ME BUSY AS A BEE.

“Fanny, can you stop a minute?” Mrs. Byrne says, touching the gray-haired woman on the shoulder. “Tell the others.”

“Break,” the old woman says. They all look up, but the only one who changes position is the girl, who puts down her shears.

Mrs. Byrne looks around the room, leading with her chin. “As you know, we have needed extra help for quite some time, and I am pleased to report that we have found it. This is Dorothy.” She lifts her hand in my direction. “Dorothy, say hello to Bernice”—the woman with frizzy hair—“Joan and Sally”—the women at the Singers—“Fanny”—the only one who smiles at me—“and Mary. Mary,” she says to the young girl, “you will help Dorothy get acquainted with her surroundings. She can do some of your scut work and free you up for other things. And, Fanny, you will oversee. As always.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fanny says.

Mary’s mouth puckers, and she gives me a hard look.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Byrne says. “Let’s get back to work. Dorothy, your suitcase is in the foyer. We’ll discuss sleeping arrangements at supper.” She turns to leave, then adds, “We keep strict hours for mealtimes. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, supper at six. There is no snacking between meals. Self-discipline is one of the most important qualities a young lady can possess.”

When Mrs. Byrne leaves the room, Mary jerks her head at me and says, “Come on, hurry up. You think I got all day?” Obediently I go over and stand behind her. “What do you know about stitching?”

“I used to help my mam with the mending.”

“Have you ever used a sewing machine?”

“No.”

She frowns. “Does Mrs. Byrne know that?”

“She didn’t ask.”

Mary sighs, clearly annoyed. “I didn’t expect to have to teach the basics.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“I hope so.” Mary holds up a flimsy sheet of tissue paper. “This is a pattern. Ever heard of it before?”

I nod and Mary continues, describing the various features of the work I’ll be doing. The next few hours are spent doing tasks no one else wants to do—snipping stitches, basting, sweeping up, collecting pins and putting them in pincushions. I keep pricking myself and have to be careful not to get blood on the cloth.

Throughout the afternoon the women pass the time with small talk and occasional humming. But mostly they are quiet. After a while I say, “Excuse me, I need to use the lavatory. Can you tell me where it is?”

Fanny looks up. “Reckon I’ll take her. My fingers need a rest.” Getting up with some difficulty, she motions toward the door. I follow her down the hall into a spare and spotless kitchen and out the back door. “This is our privy. Don’t ever let Mrs. Byrne catch you using the one in the house.” She pronounces catch “kitch.”

At the back of the yard, tufted with grass like sparse hair on a balding head, is a weathered gray shed with a slit cut out of the door. Fanny nods toward it. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“The longer you’re in there, the longer my fingers get a break.”

The shed is drafty, and I can see a sliver of daylight through the slit. A black toilet seat, worn through to wood in some places, is set in the middle of a rough-hewn bench. Strips of newspaper hang on a roll on the wall. I remember the privy behind our cottage in Kinvara, so the smell doesn’t shock me, though the seat is cold. What will it be like out here in a snowstorm? Like this, I suppose, only worse.

When I’m finished, I open the door, pulling down my dress.

“You’re pitiful thin,” Fanny says. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Hongry.

She’s right. My stomach feels like a cavern. “A little,” I admit.

Fanny’s face is creased and puckered, but her eyes are bright. I can’t tell if she’s seventy or a hundred. She’s wearing a pretty purple flowered dress with a gathered bodice, and I wonder if she made it herself.

“Mrs. Byrne don’t give us much for lunch, but it’s prolly more’n you had.” She reaches into the side pocket of her dress and pulls out a small shiny apple. “I always save something for later, case I need it. She locks up the refrigerator between meals.”

“No,” I say.

“Oh yes she does. Says she don’t want us rooting around in there without her permission. But I usually manage to save something.” She hands me the apple.

“I can’t—”

“Go ahead. You got to learn to take what people are willing to give.”

The apple smells so fresh and sweet it makes my mouth water.

“You best eat it here, before we go back in.” Fanny looks at the door to the house, then glances up at the second-floor windows. “Whyn’t you take it back in the privy.”

As unappetizing as this sounds, I am so hungry I don’t care. I step back inside the little shed and devour the apple down to the core. Juice runs down my chin, and I wipe it with the back of my hand. My da used to eat the apple core and all—“where all the nutrients are. It’s plain ignorant to throw it out,” he’d say. But to me the hard cartilage is like eating the bones of a fish.

When I open the door, Fanny strokes her chin. I look at her, puzzled. “Evidence,” she says, and I wipe my sticky jaw.

Mary scowls when I step back into the sewing room. She shoves a pile of cloth at me and says, “Pin these.” I spend the next hour pinning edge to edge as carefully as I can, but each time I put a completed one down she grabs it, inspects it hastily, and flings it back at me. “It’s a sloppy mess. Do it again.”