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wooden doll had been robbed of its eyes and hair; her mother handed it back to her with a sigh. “I’m sorry, sweet one. I’ll fix it for you when I can.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” Zamatryna said. She felt very grown up suddenly, and she knew what to do. She carried the wooden doll to her Uncle Darroti, who sat hugging himself on his bed, his face working, and placed it on his lap. “She lost her hair and eyes, Uncle. Will you make new ones for her?”
    He didn’t look at her. He stared into the air above her head and said tonelessly, “I don’t know how.”
    â€œYes you do, Uncle. Of course you do! You made them the first time.”
    â€œThat was at home. I don’t know how anymore.”
    She touched his hand. It was very cold. “You’ll learn,” she said. She began to climb into his lap, because once he had liked it when she did that, but he didn’t respond, didn’t unfold his arms, still didn’t look at her. It was like climbing a tree, except that tree branches bent when you climbed them, and Uncle Darroti didn’t bend.
    â€œZamatryna,” her father said quietly. “Don’t. He doesn’t want it.”
    She got down again, feeling scolded. “I wanted to help. I thought—”
    â€œI know. Come here.” She went to Erolorit, and he bent and picked her up and held her for a long time, as he had not done since she was much smaller. “I know you were trying to help,” he said into her hair. “You are a sweet, kind child, and your uncle loves you, but he cannot show it right now. He cannot show it to anyone. You must not be angry at him or upset with yourself. He is sick, and we will all try to make him better, but I think it will take a long time. Do not be upset. Can you go play with your cousins?”
    But she didn’t get the chance, because new pale people came and gestured for the family to follow with their things. This time they were taken deep into the ugly city and brought to another of the cloth buildings, much smaller than the one where they had been before. It had ten cots crammed into it, so close together that they had to crawl over each other if someone wanted to get up in the middle of the night. Their building was surrounded by others, each of which also held too many people, none of whom spoke any language they could understand. Little white houses stood between the buildings; they were the places of relief, made of hard shiny white stuff. They stank, but at least the ground was mostly clean.
    A short distance away was a much larger building filled with tables, where three times a day they ate their food: plain, dull stuff, plentiful enough but tasteless, good only for keeping life in the body. Grandfather Timbor
blessed it before each meal, his voice nearly inaudible over the uproar of voices around them. Zamatryna had never seen so many people in such a little space, and she never grew used to the smell. Babies could be bathed every two days, but anyone who could walk was only permitted to take a very short shower once a week, because water was too precious here to waste. The stink of bodies was everywhere.
    That stink never faded. They spent fifteen long, strange months in the ugly city. If indeed it was a city of Mendicants, as Erolorit had claimed, it never felt sacred. The pale people in green were kind enough, but would not let them leave. They spent most of their time at school, studying English.
    The children learned it most easily, and Zamatryna was the quickest of all. Nearly fluent after a year—a feat the Americans considered remarkable—she became the interpreter for the family. What a relief it was to be able to communicate with something other than gestures!
    They learned that they were in the desert to the north of Reno, Nevada, in a camp built to accommodate refugees from other places, places torn by warfare or decimated by plague. Their neighbors in the