All for a Sister by Allison Pittman Page A

best in the summer mornings, after a long, sticky night in the airless room, and agreeable after lunch, because it meant another day was half-over. And while frigid winter mornings made the washup nearly intolerable, it was far, far worse at night, because after the cleaning came the darkness.
    Eyes closed and face stinging, Dana reached blindly for the towel she knew to be hanging just in front of her to the left. Not finding it with her fingers, she opened her eyes to see the ragged,grayish cloth folded around Carrie’s nose. When she’d finished blowing, she held it out, saying, “Do you need this?”
    “I’m fine, thank you.” Dana rushed back to her bed to dry her face on her blanket. It was somewhat cleaner, anyway.
    “Two minutes, or you’re too late!” Mrs. Karistin fixed her key into the lock, and the familiar groaning of the opening door spurred the girls into quicker action. “Two minutes, or too late!”
    Dana dropped her dress over her head and threaded her arms through the sleeves. With stiff fingers, she tied the closure at the back of her neck, then smoothed the front, hoping to generate some warmth from the wool. Satisfied, she took her place standing at the end of her bed, arms straight at her sides, eyes forward, and waited for Mrs. Karistin’s inspection. One by one, the other girls took their places. The smallest one, directly across from Dana, stood stock-still, chin quivering. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old, and she’d cried morning, noon, and night since her arrival six days ago. Dana still didn’t know her name—the girl hadn’t spoken a single word—but Dana knew she’d been arrested for breaking into a blacksmith’s shop to steal coal.
    Mrs. Karistin made sure to inform them of each new arrival’s transgressions.
    At that moment, having announced, “Time has ticked, girls. Time has ticked,” the big woman made her way down the narrow aisle between the bunks, turning her square head slightly left, slightly right, greeting each girl in turn.
    “Apple Thief . . . Pickpocket . . . Window Breaker . . .” She stopped at little Coal Grubber and clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels.
    “Tears again today? Poor little Coal Grubber. Tears again today.” And then she moved on, as if she’d given sufficient affection, stopping again to grip Carrie’s pointy chin in her heavy,cigar-shaped fingers. “And what to call you, my little fresh face? What to call you? From the looks of it, I could call you Bramble Head, but there’s no crime in that. At least not out there.” She jerked her head in the vague direction of the window high on the wall. “In here, though, we don’t like our girls running around like they’re two steps off the street. We’re here to help you, turn you around, as they say. Turn you around. Looks like your first lesson today will be with a comb, if we’ve got one up to the task. Might have to go with a razor.” Mrs. Karistin smiled at that—a rare sight that revealed a uniform row of small, gray teeth—and drew Carrie closer. “But I suppose you might be more comfortable with a razor after all, wouldn’t you?”
    “Her name’s Carrie,” Dana said, unable to take the sound of the woman’s voice any longer. It was deceptively high and sweet, like it had been designed to read fairy tales, but with a singsong quality that conjured nothing but revulsion and fear. Sensing new prey, but not dropping her grip on the first, Mrs. Karistin whipped her head around, her smile taking on a sinister quality.
    “Well, good morning, Baby Killer. Imagine that, opening your mouth when you’ve no reason to speak. Imagine that.” She turned back to Carrie. “Looks like you’ve found yourself a new friend, Carrie.” She stopped for a moment and looked up, as if considering. Practicing, before adding, “Cutter. Carrie Cutter. Yes, I think that’s just perfect for you.”

    Breakfast was, by far, the best meal of the day for