I stared at the paper. I said, “This isn’t reading. This is drawing.” “Writing,” she corrected. “It’s like buttons and hems. You’ve got to learn those before you can sew on the machine. You’ve got to know your letters before you can read.” I supposed so, but it was boring. When I said so she got up again and wrote something along the bottom of the paper. “What’s that?” I asked. “‘Ada is a curmudgeon,’” she replied. “Ada is a curmudgeon,” I copied at the end of my alphabet. It pleased me. After.

Sometimes, Ada,” she said, “I get very tired of you setting the example for us all.

I don’t want to just survive.

What if he’d had to be put down?

Potato picking was tedious, dirty, exhausting, and cold. I rather liked it.

I wanted to talk to her when she hadn’t just been hit on the head. I wanted to know if she’d still like me when she wasn’t woozy.

Sometimes you’ve got a story you need to find the courage to tell.

She was wrong.” I shrugged. “I can say that,” I said. “It’s harder to believe it.

When we’d settled ourselves on the bed in Jamie’s room, he said quietly, “Mam was angry at everything too.

When Jamie had to use the toilet, soldiers passed him over their heads to the one at the end of the car, and back again when he was done.