“Drop dead,” the boy said and made a rude noise.
Ingeborg came in to relieve Jean around eight o’clock, and Jean decided to go home for breakfast. When she arrived, she tossed her jacket over a chair and wandered listlessly into the kitchen where her mother was washing the breakfast dishes.
“Any more food for a prodigal child?” Jean asked wearily.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Craig said. “Why don’t you go out on the porch? It’s such a fine day, I have Jack out there. He’ll be glad of the company.”
Jean wandered out to the porch and sat down beside Jack. He lay in the porch glider enjoying the balmy May breezes.
“Hi, Jack,” she said wearily.
“Pretty bad, was he?” Jack asked.
“Well, not as bad as some, I guess,” Jean answered, nibbling on a piece of buttered toast. “Ted seems to think he’ll need some therapy to prevent crippling. But we kept him out of the iron lung.”
“What’s he like?” Jack asked. “A real young kid?”
Jean shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “He wouldn’t give his name or address or what he was doing in town, or anything. He just swore at us.”