Grandpa's voice was stern. "All morning heelyacopters been carryin' off the sick. Now they're comin' for folks as is well."
"Not me, they ain't!" Grandma flared up. "They can jes' count me out! I'm too old to start riding acrost the sky in an eggbeater."
"All righty! Mebbe ye prefers stayin' here and havin' sharks and crabs slinkin' into yer house and grabbin' ye." He winked at the children. "Recomember the day when that crab pinched yer Grandma when she was bendin' over, gatherin' oysters? Why, she went off like one o' them big rockets from Wallops Beach."
Grandma turned her back and began slicing bread with a vengeance.
"But what'll happen to Misty?" Maureen asked in alarm.
"I'll stay with Misty," Grandma announced without turning around. "Much as I dislikes treating ponies like folks, I admit to a kinship when she's having a baby."
Grandpa cut open the can of beans with his knife. "Paul," he growled, "mebbe ye can explain things to yer Grandma."
"It's true, Grandma," Paul said, helping himself to the heel of bread. "Tide's coming back four foot higher, and the island's going to be contamin—going to be spoilt rotten with dead chickens and stinky fish and snakes and mushrats and maybe even dead horses." He looked at Grandpa, wishing he hadn't said that. Then he went on quickly. "Health officials want everybody to clear out. They say there could be a fierce epidemic."
No one spoke. Grandma sat down at the table and stared vacantly. She brushed imaginary crumbs into her hand.
"Wa-al, Idy," Grandpa said, "ye can have yer druthers. Do ye want to stay and take a chance on losin' Paul and Maureen to the typhoid? Or do ye want to light out now, afore the tide pushes us out?"