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proper places. He never had been a neat man, and his proper material element seemed to be a kind of usable but ultimately incomprehensible chaos.
    His medicine bottles were deposited randomly throughout the office, and his instruments lay about on table tops, shelves and chairs. It was as if the logic which science brought to his mind had been imposed upon some older and less ordered beast.
    Billie was whimpering slightly when Mr. Withers brought him into the room.
    â€œJust lay him down there,” my father said, and Mr. Withers gently placed Billie on the black cushioned table in the middle of the room.
    My father stepped over to the table and began loosening the patchwork quilt covering Billie. “How long has he been sick?” he asked.
    â€œâ€™Bout a week,” Mr. Withers said. “He ain’t been no better in a while.”
    My father brought one of the kerosene lanterns over to the table for light.
    â€œHi there,” he said brightly when Billie opened his eyes and stared languidly at the light.
    â€œYou’re not feeling too well, I guess,” my father said, comfortingly.
    Billie squinted and tried to answer.
    â€œNo, no,” my father said, “just rest still. We’ll have you out playing ball in no time.”
    Billie’s eyes closed slowly. He had a small, beautiful face, a mountain boy’s face, open and unvarnished as the day he was born. Beneath the glaze, his eyes seemed to be greenish with spots of brown. His hair was light brown streaked with blond. His skin was stretched tight against his cheek bones. In the lantern light it looked as smooth and shiny as unpainted porcelain.
    â€œYou treat him at all?” my father asked Mr. Withers.
    â€œI dist wrapped ’im up and kep’ ’im by the far,” Mr. Withers said. He thought a moment, then added: “Mah wife’s people come over and prayed fer ’im.”
    My father tugged gently at Billie’s chin, slowly prying open his mouth. He peered in for a moment, delicately pressing down on Billie’s tongue with a depressor. He sniffed his breath then listened to his heart.
    I watched my father carefully and saw a slight wincing of his eyes. I had seen that look before, a tiny drawing together of the eyebrows and narrowing of the eyes. It was so subtle a gesture I doubted any but me had ever detected it.
    It meant Billie Withers was most likely dying.
    Mr. Withers watched my father closely. One of his hands nervously fingered the carpenter’s loop in his overalls while the other rhythmically squeezed his crumpled gray hat.
    Finally, my father turned to him. “Is your wife at home?”
    â€œShe’s dead,” Mr. Withers said. He continued to stare at Billie.
    â€œI didn’t catch your name, I don’t believe.”
    â€œWithers. John Withers.”
    My father walked over to the medicine chest and took out a bottle of dark-colored serum. He filled a hypodermic needle with a large dosage.
    â€œYour boy has diphtheria, Mr. Withers,” he said. “Have you ever heard of that?”
    Mr. Withers nodded. “Can you hep ’im?”
    â€œWell, this medicine is supposed to do some good. Your boy has a pretty advanced bad case right now. This medicine sometimes has some bad things about it. Most of the time it’s all right though. I think we’d better go ahead and use it.”
    â€œDist do what you can fer ’im,” Mr. Withers said. “I’d ’preciate it.”
    Billie’s body rustled gently on the table, and Mr. Withers’ lips parted as if his own breath were tied to the boy’s.
    My father smiled. “Could be he’ll be playing with his brothers and sisters in a couple of days,” he said.
    â€œNaw,” Mr. Withers said. “He’s mah onliest kid.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “He took sick all of a sudden.”
    My father held up the hypodermic so Mr. Withers could see it