The sun rose hot and angry over the Thompson family farm, turning the sky a bleached white and casting long shadows over the dry, cracked fields. A thin layer of dust coated everything: windowsills, fence posts, even the sleeping dog under the porch. The soil, once soft and rich, had turned to brittle clay. Crops wilted before they ever reached waist-high. The well ran low by midday, and the chickens clucked restlessly in the heat, too tired to lay.

Pa Thompson wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a sunburned hand. His flannel shirt was faded, his boots worn thin. He stood silently at the edge of the cotton field, staring at rows of shriveled plants. “Second bad harvest in a row,” he muttered, half to himself. Inside their one-room farmhouse, Ma stirred a pot of watery grits over the fire. Her strong hands, cracked from scrubbing and planting, moved automatically. She wore a faded calico dress and a look of quiet worry. Baby Jo slept in a wooden cradle by the hearth, his tiny fist curled around a button Sarah had sewn into a cloth doll.

Sarah, ten, was clever and serious, with braided hair and a quiet strength. She helped Ma churn butter, when there was cream, and swept the floor with care. Her little brother Ben, just eight, was always barefoot and busy with critters, chasing frogs and watching birds from the barn rafters. But even Ben had grown quiet lately. Laughter was scarce on the Thompson farm.

Every day was the same: dawn to dusk of scraping, mending, hoping. But hope was running out. That summer, a traveling peddler named Mr. Collins came clattering down the dusty road with his mule cart full of buttons, ribbons, and tin spoons. But, more importantly, he brought something else, stories. And, with these stories he lit a flame of hope. “Have you heard about Oregon?” .......

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