Harris Valley, Pennsylvania. 1898.
Midnight.

The muted thunder of wagon wheels wakes me from shallow sleep.

Outside my darkened window, the clop and hard breath of horses. A rattling wagon pulls close to the house, then slows, then stops. Men's raised voices group together then fall apart. Disappointment veiled by revelry and drink. I hear Mother in the kitchen, dividing my attention. I throw off the blanket and run barefoot to the window. Cold air pushes through thin glass and I shiver. Father's inky silhouette stands in the narrow lane, one arm raised. He cries out and now-distant voices reply. His arm drops to his side. He turns toward the house and appears to stumble then catch himself. The long black line of the rifle cradled in his arms points skyward. Pots clatter from the kitchen and I run to the door that separates my room from the living area—this includes a sitting space, a dining area, and kitchen. Our whole world is but three rooms and a pair of outhouses, a world held together by warped wooden planks and warmed by a rusted black stove that eats coal faster than we can fill it.

I am lucky to have my own room, even if it's small. Though I'm little, I'm not able to take three large steps in any direction. Father says I'm a runt but Mother says a nine-year-old boy has room to grow. I hope to get big, but not so big I can't fit in my room. I like it too much.

I see more clearly now because Mother has lit the kitchen lanterns. There's enough space between my bedroom door and the frame to stick a finger, so light comes through easy, coats the dark walls and disrupts the shadows in the corners and beneath my bed. I step softly to the door—it wouldn't do for them to know I'm up—and put an eye to the gap. If I swivel my head, I can see the entire kitchen and the dining table, but not much else. I'm cold in nothing but long johns but want to hear about the trip. Mother has the stove going and I smell the warming onion soup she'd taken from the icebox. She puts on a kettle for coffee. Father slams the door and the house rattles. Mother wipes her hands on her apron in a way she does when she's upset, like she's wringing it dry.