“Henry's awake?” asks Momma one day.

I look at Bill. The day is dark and lumpy, and you can smell rain in the air. It's one of those days where you sit by the fire and not really do anything. Frost is on the ground in the morning now, white and delicate and shiny. I slide out of the chair in the dining room and step slowly, leaving behind my cereal. It's too dry, and scrapes my tongue. Apparently, Bill and I have ration books, too, but Momma and Gramma are holding them for “safekeeping”. Bill's still mad about it.

“Yes, he just woke up,” Mrs. Walker says. She laughs, and it's so bright it could light the entire street. She stands on the front porch, looking like she just ran out of the house. She doesn't have a hat on. She's just in her bathrobe and backet. “Dr. Tucker says he's a bit disoriented, what with the fever breaking and everything, but hasn't been able to find out what happened to him. He calls it a...a 'temporary fugue state'.” She shakes her head. “I'm just blessed that my Henry's awake again.” Mrs. Walker sees me. Her eyes are glowy and deep with color, and her smile is rosy. “Did you hear, Charlie?”

I nod. It's been three days since I last saw him. I planned to go see him today, but a part of me didn't want to. Seeing him lying in bed with nothing to do is boring. It makes me a little angry, too. What do you do? Do they still hear when they're like that?

“Oh, God bless,” Momma says.

“Can I go see him today?” I ask.

“You're sweet, Charlie, but not today. He needs time to get better, but I've just been so happy I've started telling everyone.” Mrs. Walker laughs again. Her eyes closed, like she's trying to hold back how excited she is. She grabs Momma's hand. “Thank you so much, Sarah. For everything.”

Momma holds her hand and pats it. She holds it the same way when she talks to us about something serious, when she wants to make sure we're listening to her. I guess it's the “momma” way you learn. “Think nothing of it, Helen. I don't doubt you would do the same for me.”

Mrs. Walker steps back, smiling. “Sorry, I should go back. But I – thank you so much.” She looks at me and touches my face. “The both of you.” Pulling her jacket a little tighter, she skips off the front porch and through the front gate, closing it behind her.

“Are you happy?” asks Momma. She goes back to the dining room.

“Henry's awake?” asks Gramma. “Thank the Lord. God bless him.”

Gramps doesn't say anything. He has this look on his face that's wrinkled, scrunched up.

“Bill, can you run some vegetables to the Walkers' this afternoon?” She reaches up and pulls out a cobweb from the light over the table.

“I can do it,” I say, sitting back down in my seat.

“You haven't finished your homework yet.”

“If I do, can I do it?”

“Take Bill with you.”

“I don't want to,” he says, and his words are black and angry.

“I can go over to Henry's house all by myself,” I say. “I did it before.”

Momma wants to say something. I don't know what, but she doesn't. She makes this face, small and tired, before she sighs. “Take Bill with you. Henry needs lots of vegetables to get better, right?”

That makes sense, but I'm still a little mad that Momma won't let me go alone. “I'll go after we drop off the food,” Bill says, and I'm glad to hear that. I'm wiggling in my chair for the rest of breakfast. I don't even care that the cereal is still too dry, too itchy in my mouth.