Wild red curls float on the breeze. She brushes them from her eyes with a shaking hand and stares up at the great ship. It pitches in the agitated grey waves. A sudden gust of wind urges her forward, but she fights to keep her feet on Ireland’s soil for just a bit longer. Her threadbare shawl does nothing to thaw the marrow-deep chill inside. She clutches it tighter. Her fingers are long, thin, and white, like bone. 

People bustle about behind her. Gaunt, grim faces shield themselves from th...