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Dear Liam,

I don’t know if you’ll ever get this letter, but I hope you do. I memorized your APO address and I’m allowed to write one

letter per week. After you went off to basic training, a horrible thing happened. Mam made me come to live at the Good Shepherd

down on Best Street, you know the place where bad girls are sent. I always thought Mam was all talk when she threatened to

send me here, but here I am.

On the very first day, the nuns gave me a fake name and a number, like they’re trying to erase who I really am. It’s like

I’m nothing. Nobody.

This place is a nightmare. All day long, we’re under the eye of the nuns and laywomen (called consecrates, whatever that is)

who run the place. I’m either totally scared or totally mad all the time. Every day starts with this really loud bell. The

old plaster hallways are like echo chambers, and the noise hurts my ears. We have to get up and go to the shower room, which

is just a big room with showers, lockers, and toilet stalls. There’s no such thing as a hot shower. The nuns and sometimes

the senior girls stand around, giving us no privacy.

The prioress, Sister Gerard, does morning announcements over the PA system, starting with “Blessed be to God.” She sounds really nice on purpose, like she’s some old-time radio announcer. Then the iron gate at the top of the dormitory unit is opened and we have to go to chapel.

There are more than a hundred girls here. We eat in a big hall at long tables. The food is really bad—tasteless oatmeal, soup,

stale bread, mystery meat—but I’m usually so hungry, I eat everything on my plate. Somebody reads scripture from a lectern.

No one is allowed to talk unless one of the nuns rings a bell or claps her hands. Think of it, Liam, a bell. Like we’re a pack of trained dogs or something. We whisper to each other all the time, but if we get caught, we get a smack

with a ruler or rosary belt, or they pull our hair really hard.

I’m getting to know a few of the girls. Some of them are in even worse trouble than I am. We have to be careful about looking

like we’re friends, because if the nuns suspect anything, they’re likely to separate us into different dorm units.

The nuns are everywhere, ordering us around, making us work at the commercial laundry. My hands are all chapped and burned

by the steam. We have to stand for hours, and it makes my back ache. When we’re not in the laundry, they make us do other

chores, like polishing the woodwork, scrubbing the floors, cleaning the halls and bathrooms, weeding or harvesting in the

garden. We get kitchen duty on rotation, where we do dishes for hours. There’s an altar bread room for making hosts for the

entire parish, and a sewing room where we have to work on mending.

Sister R is the worst, but they’re all terrible. Sometimes I think the nuns might be from a different species, because they’re

so rigid. It’s like they can’t allow themselves to unbend the least little bit, because that might force them to actually

look at what they’re doing. They might have to realize that they’re hurting the girls they’re supposed to be helping.

I try to take on the outdoor chores, because just for those few moments, I get to breathe. We grow autumn squash and potatoes

and beans. Sometimes I can sneak an apple when no one’s looking. Sister T is mean but not too bright, and I figured out that

if I pretend to hate being outside, she’ll pick me to work in the yard or on the drying lines, pegging out the laundry or

bringing it in.

Every once in a while, we get to play kickball in the yard.

As you can imagine, I’m always on the winning team.

And at night in the shower room we started a club, inspired by you.

I’ve been practicing self-defense, just like you taught me, and I showed one of the girls how it’s done.

And this other girl—her parents are under arrest in China—is really smart.

She speaks Chinese. Are you going to learn the language in Vietnam?

Oh, and a girl called Odessa is teaching us to sing Gospel spirituals.

She is an amazing singer, and she’s teaching us how to harmonize. I wish you could hear us.

I’m learning other things, too, Liam. Like how to be invisible and avoid the darting eyes of the senior girls, the lay workers,

and the nuns. How to talk to another girl without seeming to move my lips. How to pocket stray beans and apples and hickory

nuts from the garden to eat later.

Now that it’s getting colder outside, it’s getting worse inside. Cleaning the front office is the best chore in the winter,

because at least it’s warm there. I’m cold all the time and all I can think about is getting away. There are these high walls

topped with coils of barbed wire. It’s not actually barbed, but razor wire. The kind that slices your flesh to ribbons if

you touch it.

It’s hard to believe that outside these walls, it’s still 1968 and the world is still turning. Because in here, nothing ever

changes.

When there’s an infraction, like the first time I tried to run away, they send you to the closet. It’s so scary in there,

Liam, dark as night. When I’m in there, it feels like I’m living in a nightmare, only I’m awake. My heart pounds and I can

barely breathe. It almost feels like drowning. I’ve been trying to keep my head down and obey—for now. But it’s not going

to stop me from trying again. I swear it’s not.

I hope you get this letter, Liam, wherever you are. I hope you write me back. I miss you so bad, and I pray every day that

you’re staying safe.

Your sister,

Mairin Patricia O’Hara

Mairin lay on her narrow bed, the weight of the day’s labor still pressing on her. The room was filled with the soft sounds of sleeping girls, punctuated by the creak of the old building settling. She stared at the cracked ceiling, trying to steer her mind somewhere else, anywhere but here.

A faint rustling sounded in the next cot. She propped herself up on one elbow and saw Kay crouched beside the wall, illuminated

by streaks of light from the stairwell. Kay was often lost in her own world, but tonight she seemed focused, her movements

careful and deliberate. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a bit of bread. She held it up to a crevice in the

wall, her expression mild with gentle anticipation. A few seconds later, a mouse emerged, sniffing the air tentatively before

darting forward to grab the morsel. Kay’s face lit up with pure, unguarded joy.

Mairin’s heart ached at the bond between the girl and the little creature. Moments of happiness were fleeting here. She knew

Kay’s secret was a dangerous one. The nuns would never allow such a thing, Mairin thought with a quick intake of breath.

Kay glanced up, her eyes meeting Mairin’s. For a moment, fear flickered in her gaze, but Mairin gave a reassuring nod and

pressed a finger to her lips. Kay did the same, then mouthed a happy “okey dokey.” Then she relaxed and continued to offer

crumbs to her tiny friend.

Mairin silently vowed to protect Kay’s secret. In this place, tenderness was precious and worth safeguarding. She turned over,

pulling her blanket tight, and closed her eyes, holding on to the warmth of Kay’s small act of kindness.

“Ruth. Ruth.” Through the thin blanket, someone gave her foot a shake. “You slept through matins again. Get up.”

Mairin had to work hard to remember who she was. That was one of the worst things about this place—it was like they wanted

her to forget, with their endless routines and rules. Sleep was her only refuge, the only time she could visit the girl she

used to be—Mairin O’Hara, who was good at sports, who liked school, loved her friends, and missed her mother’s cooking. She

drew up the covers with a quiet “Go ’way.”

“Get up,” said the voice again. “How can you sleep through the bell?”

Denise. Her blunt voice broke through the last vestiges of sleep.

Mairin pushed herself up. “Don’t call me Ruth,” she grumbled.

There were some papers on the bed covered in her handwriting. A large red X was marked across each page.

“Hey,” she said. “That’s my letter to my brother.”

“What, you thought they’d let you write the truth about this place?” Denise asked with a sneer. “Fat chance.”

“They were supposed to put it in the mail. My brother’s a soldier. He’s going to Vietnam.”

“Try writing about how nice it is here and how you’re learning new skills every day and getting closer to God. Try that, and

they’ll let you send it.”

Mairin glared at the other girl. “Thanks for the advice.”

Denise glared back. “Anything for a friend.”

They weren’t friends. But there were little cliques and factions of girls in all the dormitories, same as there were at any

school. Denise surrounded herself with girls who egged her on when she was being mean, and snickered at the chosen victim.

Janice had a small crew of nosy gossips—the Snitches, Helen Mei called them. Most girls were more like Mairin, wary and resigned,

trying to drag themselves from one day to the next while keeping their thoughts to themselves.

To stave off the monotony, Mairin lingered over memories of the ordinary days she’d taken for granted, and the dreams she’d

once held. Here, she had no identity other than Ruth and some number that had been assigned to her. She was nothing. Nobody. No one cared that she could climb to the top of any

tree, or pick a bushel of apples in record time, or grow the best tomatoes of summer, or drive a car with a stick shift. No

one cared that she’d read Johnny Tremain three times, or that she’d memorized every song on the White Album , or that she always passed the Presidential Physical Fitness Test on the first try.

Did she hate her mother for sending her to this place? She didn’t. She couldn’t. The truth was, she missed Mam in ways that

just hollowed her out. She’d give anything to feel her mother’s warm touch, soothing her like the heating pad Mam used to

bring her when she had an earache.