The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

Susan tricked me into writing.
Jamie was practicing his letters at the table in the evening after the dishes
were washed. I sat down at my place and watched him. “Show Ada why
you’re left-handed,” Susan suggested.
Jamie grinned. He moved his pencil from his left hand to his right.
Immediately the pencil started to skitter across the page. His letters went from
small and neat to large and shaky.
“You’re fooling,” I said, laughing at his grin.
“I’m not,” he said. “I can’t do it in this hand.”
“You try,” Susan suggested. “Try your left hand first.” She took a fresh
piece of paper and wrote a few letters on it. “Copy that.”
I tried, but it was impossible. Even when I used my right hand to hold the
page steady, my left hand couldn’t control the pencil at all.
“You’re definitely right-handed,” Susan said. “Move the pencil over, and
you’ll see.”
With my right hand, it was easy. I copied Susan’s letters and they looked
almost as good as her own.
“Well done,” Susan said. “You’ve just written your name.”
“That’s my name?”
Jamie looked over my shoulder. “Ada,” he said, nodding.
Susan took the pencil back. “And this is Jamie,” she said. “And here’s
Susan.” Then she gave Jamie the pencil. “Keep on with your work,” she said.
“Ada, would you put on some more coal?”
I put the coal on, but first, when Susan wasn’t looking, I slid the paper into
my pocket. I’d borrow a pencil the next time she was out. I’d try it again.
One afternoon near the end of November when I rode over to help Fred, he
met me in the yard with a wide grin. “Come look what I’ve found,” he said. I
dismounted, tied Butter’s head, unslung my crutches, and followed him to the
door of the tack room. He showed me a strange-looking saddle on a stand. It
had a normal seat, and one normal stirrup, but it also had two odd crooked