"Mebbe okay for sick folk."
"Yeh. Or the homeless."
"Me, I got a second story."
"Me, too."
Everyone was talking at once. Everyone but Paul. He felt a hard lump in his stomach. He would refuse to go ... unless they took Misty, too. The storekeeper rapped on the counter for silence. "Fellers, let's hear Mr. Beebe out."
Grandpa took a moment before he went on. "Tide's supposed to come up higher," he announced. "Four feet higher."
"Four feet! Why, that'll flood the whole island. Every house, every store. Even the Fire House and the churches!"
"But that's only half the reason. Government says there could be an epidemic of the typhoid, 'cause of all the dead chickens and fish a-rottin' and mebbe"—Grandpa avoided Paul's eyes—"mebbe dead ponies."
The talk ceased. There was a sudden exodus. Men sloshing heavy-footed out of the store, getting into their boats, going home to their families, figuring out how to break the news.
"Come, Paul," Grandpa beckoned.