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that? Huh?”
    Anna Mae could not imagine Walter helping anyone, let alone risking his own safety.
    Stanley threw his head back to shake the last of the chips into his mouth. He wiped his face on his sleeve. “Anyway, Dad went back to the hospital to see if Dobie was still alive. That’s why they were looking for you.” He shrugged. “I guess they don’t trust me to watch Davie.” 
    “You’re not supposed to call Mr. Siminoski ‘Dobie,” she said. “Aunt Sarah says not to call older people by their first names. And you’re not supposed to put your feet on the table either.”
    “Dobie! Schmobi! What’s the difference?” He blew up the empty chip bag. “He is probably dead anyway.” He whacked the inflated bag. “Pow! Just like that. Gone!”
    “You’re a creep!” she said and went back to the kitchen. She pulled a chair to the cupboard above the counter and stepped up to reach the peanut butter. Suddenly Stan was in the kitchen, shaking the chair so violently that she had to hold onto the shelf to keep from falling.
    “Who you callin’ a creep?” Stanley shouted.
    “Quit it!” she yelled.
    “Say you’re sorry!”
    “I’m SORRY!”
    He let go of the chair and went back to the dining room.
    Anna Mae climbed down and began fixing David’s sandwich. The older Stanley got, the meaner he became. He was becoming just like his father, who never seemed to care about anyone else’s feelings. Why did her uncle rush off to the hospital anyway? Why would he care about Mr. Siminoski?
    She put the sandwich on a plate, set it in front of David then sat down across from him. She hoped that by the time Aunt Sarah and Uncle Walter came home they would have forgotten about being mad at her.
     
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Walter and Sarah arrived at St. Luke’s Burn Unit twenty minutes after Dobie’s coworkers had gone. Across the hall from swinging doors that said Hospital Personnel Only, Irene Siminoski sat on a corner chair in the waiting room, her auburn hair pulled carelessly back from her wrinkled, tear-streaked face. Her fifteen-year-old son, George, sat next to her, wiping his thick glasses on the tail of his white shirt. Respectfully quiet, Sarah sat next to him. Walter stayed in the hall, pacing around with his hands in his pockets.
    “Who’s that?” George asked, squinting into the hall.
    “That’s my husband,” said Sarah.
    “What’s he doing here?” George asked.
    “He—ah—he’s your father’s friend.”
    George put on his glasses. “No, he isn’t.”
    The double doors to the treatment room swung open, sending the acrid smell of antiseptic into the hallway. A doctor in a yellow gown, splattered with orange betadine, snapped off his gloves and walked over to Walter. “I’m Doctor Heiss,” he said, pulling down his facemask. “Are you here for Mr. Siminoski?”
    “I am,” said Walter. “But I’m only a friend. His wife is in the waiting room.”
    George rushed out of the waiting room and pushed between the doctor and Walter, saying, “I’m his son. You talk to me.”
    Doctor Heiss brushed aside the teenager who followed him into the waiting room. Mrs. Siminoski jumped to her feet. “How is he? How’s my husband?”
    Dr. Heiss thoughtfully placed his soiled surgical gloves into a swing top wastebasket. George, a head taller than his mother, stood behind her. Walter and Sarah were a respectful distance away.
    The doctor was talking so low that Walter couldn’t hear so he moved closer. “. . . and the burns on his arms and face are extensive. However, the chances of your husband making it through this, barring complications. . . ”
    “What complications?” Walter interrupted.
    George shot Walter a hostile glance.
    “The most likely complication in third degree burns is infection. That’s why sterility is vital. As a matter-of-fact, I can only permit one person to see him now. And you need to be prepared. At this stage, well, it looks bad—very bad.”
    Irene stepped forward.