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clearly. “I’m going to give him the shot now. It won’t hurt him.” He turned and quickly injected the antitoxin directly into Billie’s veins.
    â€œCan I take ’im home now?” Mr. Withers asked.
    â€œNo, I think you better not. He’s pretty tired. He needs to rest. We’ll let him sleep, see how he is in the morning. To tell you the truth, there’s nothing to do but wait.”
    Mr. Withers nodded. “Awright.”
    My father turned back to Billie and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Fine boy.” He circled his index finger gently around Billie’s ear as he sometimes did mine.
    â€œCould I stay with ’im?” Mr. Withers asked.
    My father bundled Billie up again and lifted him into his arms. “There’s plenty of room for both of you.”
    â€œI don’t want to be no trouble.”
    â€œPlenty of room,” my father repeated. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
    Mr. Withers seemed to smile, and I could see the jagged, brownish teeth his closed lips had hidden. His face seemed softer now, less lined and pitted. The lantern light gave it an orange hue, making it look as if it had been carved out of the reddish clay of the hill country.
    â€œEddie, go get me an extra blanket,” my father said to me.
    I brought the blanket into the back bedroom and watched as my father laid Billie on the bed. He listened to his heart once again, then folded the blanket double and tucked it delicately around Billie’s body.
    â€œWe’ll keep him nice and warm,” he told Mr. Withers.
    Mr. Withers took the edge of the blanket and pulled it over Billie’s chin. “When he gits in bed, he goes all the way under the covers. Even covers up his head.”
    â€œSmart boy,” my father said lightly. “That heats the bed faster.”
    â€œDist all of a sudden took sick,” Mr. Withers muttered. “Dist clumb in mah lap and took sick.”
    â€œI’ll bring a cot in for you,” my father said.
    Mr. Withers rubbed his eyes. “Naw, that’s awright. I couldn’t git no sleep. I’ll dist set in that chair there.”
    â€œYou ought to get some rest.”
    Mr. Withers shook his head. “Naw, thank you.”
    â€œWell, I’ll sit up with you awhile,” my father said. “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately, anyway.”
    â€œNow don’t go to no more trouble on ’count of me,” Mr. Withers said insistently, drawing back from this last courtesy as if too much generosity could never be repaid.
    My father pulled another chair up and sat down near Billie’s bed. “No trouble,” he said. “Have a seat yourself, Mr. Withers.”
    â€œCan I sit up, too?” I asked.
    â€œFor a while,” my father said.
    Billie moved gently under the covers and drew his small fist up near his lips. “Wife’s people prayed fer ’im,” Mr. Withers muttered. He paused, thinking. “I ain’t a churchgoer.”
    My father tilted back in the oak rocker. “You know, they’ll come a time when all of these childhood diseases will be gone. Little boys like your son here’ll never have to worry about them. Tremendous progress is being made.” He shook his head with wonderment. “Tremendous progress.”
    Mr. Withers continued to stare at Billie. “Bible says that the sins of the father are visited on the son,” he said after a moment.
    My father leaned forward and looked intently at Mr. Withers. “It’s just a disease. Nothing else.”
    Mr. Withers took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his mouth. “I never was a churchgoer.”
    â€œBelieve me,” my father said, “that has nothing to do with it. Don’t worry yourself about it.”
    â€œMy sister-in-law said that one time her uncle worked on Sunday and his little girl got sick. Crippled her. For