From inside the house he heard a cry.
She was sitting upright in bed. Her eyes were open and full of pain. He went quickly to her and touched her pulse. It was faint and reedy.
"I hurt," she whispered.
Quickly, as the doctor had taught him, he made up a shot of morphine, a full quarter grain, and gave it to her. Her eyes glazed down, but did not close.
"John," she said softly, "the children ... they ... talk to ..." She twisted on the bed and he held her with strong arms until the eyes closed again and her breathing became easy. He pushed the ruffled hair back from her eyes and straightened the awry sheets.
The vibration of his walking might have wakened the twins. He tiptoed to their bed—for they refused to be parted even in sleep.
For a second he thought that the small night-light had tricked him by shadows on shadows. He reached down to touch ...
They were gone.
He fought down sudden panic. Where can two children, deaf and dumb and blind go in the middle of the night?
Not far.