The nearest hospitals overflowed with people from the Homestead.
“We don’t have enough for all the kids,” the social worker blurted, rushing into Milly’s room. “You didn’t fill out your questionnaire!”
Milly raised her bandaged hands.
“Sorry.” The social worker studied a screen. “Oh, you’re”—she gulped—“his daughter. What’s your birthday, hon?”
Milly responded, switching the digit of her birth day and birth month.
Records weren’t found at the Homestead.
“Well, young lady, then you’re old enough for emancipation. Do you want that?”
The age of emancipation in Utah had been raised to seventeen.
“What do I have to do?”
“Just stay in school.”
“The Church?”
“Not necessarily. Mayberry requested extra efforts for you. Salt Lake? You could stay in a dorm.”
“What’s that like?”
“Some tests, then public schools, private teachers, and corporate money.”
Milly nodded.
“Do you know what time of day you were born?”
Milly shook her head.
As the sun set, the social worker noted the current time in the birth record. “Mildred, these notes say you asked about an antidepressant. Do you need that?”
“No. Drugs weren’t allowed.”
“It’s not a bad drug. It’s medicine.”
“I just saw an old bottle.”
“Whose?”
I know whose …
“I don’t know,” said Milly. “The name was torn off the label. I wonder if … never mind.”
“OK. Would you like a fresh start? To choose your own last name? A new one?”
Milly nodded.
The prescription bottle was mine.
Upon discharge, the nurse smiled. “Your hands healed perfectly, Mildred — nails, fingerprints, and all.”
The social worker presented the card. “Hello, Miss Newhouse.”
Fingers trembling, Milly gripped her pristine ID. “A new home.”
Hand upon Milly’s shoulder, the social worker said, “That’s safe.”
If only that were true. But still, there’s a lot in a name.
And that day was Milly’s first seventeenth birthday.