The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

her knife against the edge of her plate. “Birthdays. When? Names? Real
names, not this Smith nonsense.”
“Ada and Jamie,” I said. “Smith. That’s all I know.”
She glared at me. I glared back. After a few moments her gaze softened.
“You really don’t know?”
I looked at the eggs on my plate. “I asked once,” I said. “Mam said it
didn’t matter.”
Miss Smith drew in her breath. “Okay,” she said, “Jamie’s six. You’re
older. Shall we say nine?”
I couldn’t tell by her voice how angry she was. I shrugged. Nine was fine. I
knew my numbers, eight, nine, ten.
“I’ll write your parents,” Miss Smith said. “Lady Thorton will get me their
address, and I’ll write them. They’ll tell me.” She looked us up and down.
“What does your father do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s dead.” Dead for years, either that or gone. I didn’t
know which. If I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated, I thought I could
remember him, but only as a sort of blurry shadow. A tall man. Quiet, not like
Mam.
“Oh,” said Miss Smith. “I’ll write your mother, then.”
Miss Smith was not a nice person, but the bed she put us in was soft and
clean, with smooth thin blankets and warm thicker ones. She pulled the
curtain across the window to shut out the light. I was so, so tired.
“Miss,” I asked, “whose is the pony?” I had to know, before I went to
sleep.
Miss Smith paused, her hand on the curtain. She looked out the window.
“His name is Butter,” she said. “Becky gave him to me.”
“Who’s Becky?” Jamie asked, but she didn’t reply.