Mama set out the fire and tucked all six of us in bed. or rather pulled a blanket over the six of us. i am the oldest. i am twelve. i sit here and write in the tent, the lamp providing little light for me. i watch as the other 5 fall into a half sleep. no one can reallly sleep with the dry ground bulging beneath them.an uncomfortable month has gone by for us, living off of stale bread for eight people. there is me, and then maggy, who is ten, cuddled in a small corner. the twins, thomas and ted, are sprawled out on the ground, snoring. ruth and joy, who are 3 and 5 hold hands as they slowly go wrong from the tent. this picture is not right. all of our family packed in one small tent, mama and papa sleeping on hay outside, the river our future, its just not right. its a long way from right. im closing this, and i hope there will be enough grain for me in the morning. goodnight.
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