Her own swollen in time like a ripe jelly cocoanut. Aiming at the stars.
Soft tugging—
No? He was crying again.
Nonsense.
"Nevah min', son, com' to yo' mahmie." She was loving and awake. No, it couldn't be—something was wrong—he wasn't crying. Was she still dreaming? No! She was nursing the brat! Here—his cold head pegging at her armpit—here—tugging away at her very gizzard.
She began to feel for him. A soft, cool, flat something met her hand. His forehead, most likely. Sweat—was it that hot—or was he sick—the ague—fever—the rain water—crying—
Still he managed to be on the floor yelling. How was that? Was he a dual being?
Here he was at her breast, gnawing away at it. And there he was down on the floor, howling.
Absurd!