It wasn't until I read the sign on the building that I realized where we were: Grey Stone Orphan Asylum for Young Girls. We were now on West 34th Street. It was a simple, brim-stoned, four-story building with columns of nine or so windows covering each floor.

The woman let go of her harsh grip on the neck of my shirt and plopped me in a blue chair outside a large office. I had a feeling this was a chair where bad kids sit. The woman looked in her late twenties, short and stocky. She had on a wedding ring. The matron in the office addressed the woman as Mrs. Irena Lambert, and she worked for the Children's Aid Society. Oh, goody.

I was left alone in the hall as she was summoned to the director of admissions office and spoke intensly to the middle-aged woman behind a desk. I fidgeted slightly as I listened to her give a speech about how she "saved" me from the plight of the streets.

"Rodger," Mrs. Lambert began, "the girl has no possessions, and I'm positive she has had no education." I rolled my eyes. Back home I attended Fallon's Brooke Private High School, but she didn't need to know that.

"Not been educated? At fifteen?" The director woman seemed astonished.

"I have sent Miss Anthons over to see her father and have him sign the child over to the care of the Society. If he refuses, the court will certainly overule his imput."

"Well, I suppose the girl can work as a matron..." the woman thought.

Mrs. Lambert looked satisfied. "Excellent idea, the girl can look after the younger children. She seems responsible for the most part; the mother must've taught her manners before she died."

It was then that I had remebered learning about cities in the 1800s shipping children out west as indentured farmhands or mother's helpers from history class. Joy to the world. But still, the asylum could be worse.

"Come here," Mrs. Lambert requested harshly as she left the office. "The philosophy here at Grey Stone is a very simple one," she explained. "Through the powers of prayer, cleanliness, and hard work, the fallen may find their way back to Jesus Christ., our Lord and Savior. In our asylum, we do not only teach studies of the world, but reform that will cleanse your very soul and to remove the stains of sins you have committed. Here you may redeem yourself and, God willing, save yourself from eternal damnation." she paused, glancing at my terrified expression.
"Breakfast is at 6:00. Prayer is at 6:30. Work begins at 7:00. Lunch is at-"

"Excuse me, miss?" I interrupted politely, raising a finger. "I think I should go." Mrs. Lambert glared at me right in the eye, staring into my soul. I didn't like it. "You see, my father was taken from-"

Mrs. Lambert shushed me. "Don't ever interrupt me, girl. Did no one ever tell you that it's bad manners to interrupt? Or were you too busy whoring with the boys to listen? Is that what it was?"

I shook my head, very offended. "No, ma'am." I replied weakly.

"Are you simpleminded? Is that what it is?" she asked, smirking. "Are you a simpleton?" I shook my head. "I decide when or if you're allowed to leave. And I think I can safely say it could be quite some time. What's your name?"

"Hailey, ma'am." I answered softly. This woman was really pushing it.

"Hailey what?"

"Contadino."

"We have a Hailey already. What's your middle name?" she demanded.

"I don't have one, ma'am." I said, frowning.

Mrs. Lambert raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps not on your birth certificate. But I'm sure I can think of one or two names for you now." she grumbled. "What's your confirmation name?"

"Margarette." I mumbled to the floor.

"Then you may call yourself Margarette." I just stared at her as she looked at me expectantly. "'Thank you, ma'am.'" she reminded.

I swallowed. "Thank you, ma'am."

She nodded, satisfied, and led me up a set of stairs. We paused at a room at the far end of a long corridor. It reminded me of a version of the nurse's office at my school. Standing before a desk stood a woman in a white uniform, holding a clipboard. Well that's never good. I shakily followed Mrs. Lambert into the room. "Strip to your underclothing," the nurse said.

I did as I was told and she examined me. She asked if I had any illnesses before. I shook my head to their relief. The nurse filled out some medical paperwork, writing my name as Margarette, my birthdate (which I made up), my former place of residence, and if I had been vaccinated. "We seldom accept girls older than eleven," she said with a contemptuous smile. "You will have to work extra hard and help with the smaller ones."

Then I was handed a hand-me-down uniform which barely fit me and was itchy. She turned to Mrs. Lambert. "The girl is in good health. There shouldn't be any problems."

Mrs. Lambert nodded and walked to the door.

"Wait, ma'am, what about my-" I stuttered, scrambling over to her, wanting to know if she would help my grandfather.

Mrs. Lambert paused in the doorway, turned quickly, and shot me an understanding grin. "You should be fine here," she affirmed. "I'll make sure your father writes you a letter."

She then left the room. This sucked.

It was then that I was introduced to Sister Bridget, who was a matron in charge of the smaller ones. She was a headstrong, stocky woman with a fearsome hand. She pointed to my bed in one of the rows of about one hundred cots.

"Second from the left wall."

She turned and expected me to follow her without question. I stopped, and she glared at me unpleasently. "This is a place of behavior and goodness. You will be expected to follow instructions from your matrons, your teachers, and other authoratative figures." I nodded swiftly and hurried after her.

"We will send for your belongings tomorrow. But anything questionable among your possessions and will will forbid it."

I knew I didn't have any belongings in this world, and if I did, I'm sure Mrs. Rivera sold them.

Up the hall, we arrived in a classroom where girls were in the midst of reading and writing on their slates.

"We have classes all year," Sister Bridget explained, much to my dismay.

My palms sweated as Sister Bridget silenced the teaching nun with her appearance.

"Sit down," I was commanded. As the class continued, I looked out the small window, and pretended to not know the answers so I wouldn't be bothered with.

Finally after two hours of pain, I followed the ocean of girls into the cafeteria. I became excited at the sight of food: heated beef, tomatos, cabbage soup, and fruit. As the scent wafted through the air, I could barely finish the mealtime prayer.

I shoveled the food into my mouth in seconds at a time, but when I tried to eat another bite, a hand soared down and knocked my food off my fork.

"Mind your manners, girl. You are setting an example," a fair-skinned matron scolded. She then moved to another table to reprimand another girl. I stared at the meat that had rolled on the floor. I was so tempted to pick it up.

The sound of spoons clinking soup bowls filled the air. My stomach pained with hunger. I noticed girl's staring at me through their slurps. Most were in between four and seven. Some actually looked a year or two younger than me. I caught a small Irish girl's gaze, but she quickly turned back down to her plate. These girls obviously didn't make friends.

Before I could finish eating, Sister Bridget grabbed my arm. She ordered me to collect the plates. Shyly, I got up and followed her, but not without tucking an apple in my pocket for later.

Two other girls soon joined me. One girl was thin and boney with short, tangled curls. The other was taller with a small nose and so help me God yellow eyes. I scrubbed the dishes as I watched the two whisper and giggle to each other.

"Hurry up, girl," the scrawny girl said. "the faster you get done, the sooner we can leave."

"Sorry," I muttered under my breath and continued with the dishes.

A shatter rang through the small kitchen, and I looked down to see fractures of a white plate at my feet. I turned to see the scrawny girl sneering at me.

"Did you drop this plate?" screamed the matron from the other side of the kitchen. She stomped over to me.

I was really confused. The boney girl giggled quietly.

"No," I stuttered.

"Angela and Veronica have been washing dishes for a year now."

"Well..." I began, "I didn't even touch it."

"I saw her," spoke the taller girl with yellow eyes.

"Hand me the apple in your pocket," commanded the matron.

I slowly dipped my hand into the front pocket of the small uniform and pulled out the apple, handing it over reluctantly.

"You will give up your breakfast priveleges for tomorrow. We do not have extra plates for you to break as you wish." the matron stormed out, holding the only piece of my dinner in her hands.

"Why would you do that?" I rebuked.

"You should know the rules," the boney girl whispered sharply back.

"But you broke the plate."

"No, our rules!" the tall girl added.

"We are in charge. We run this place, and you'd better do what we say."

I was too bitter to respond. They were younger than me, and maybe taller. I knew I should teach them to shut up, but that would be stupid. I've never fought anybody in my life, physically, because I never had reason. I held my anger in, finished the dishes without another word, and then left the kitchen.

After a long series of prayers, we were harshly instructed for bedtime at 7:30. Rain poured down from the skies and hit the windows. I was told to help the younger girls in undressing and helping them to their beds.

When eight o'clock came, the lights were blown out and the noises began. Countless coughs and sneezes, muffled whimpers and cries and sniffles, and giggling from the older girls mashed in with the rainstorm. I was somewhat happy for all the noise. Silence would have forced me to think back on the day, how I hated this place and how depressed I was feeling. I was determined to find out what happened to my grandfather and get back to 2013, even if it meant escaping a dry bed that rested safely behind stone walls.