Keeko drew a sharp breath. She could make home. Never in her life had she felt as she felt now. Home!
Marcel ripped his knife in an opposite diagonal on the reverse of the wood. The force he applied seemed almost vicious.
"Are—you glad?"
"I—s'pose so."
"You—s'pose so? Of course you are. There's your poor sick mother."
"Yes."
The girl's reply was almost inaudible. Marcel wrenched the wood in half with his powerful hands. It snapped, and he examined the pronged ends critically.
With an effort Keeko bestirred herself from her despondency.
"Yes," she cried desperately. "I must get home. I want to. I love my mother, Marcel. She's suffered. Oh, how she suffers. Yet through it all she thinks only of me. She schemes and hopes only for me. Maybe I can't hope to save her life, but I can tell her the things that'll let her die almost happy. It's the best I can do, and I—I'm glad to do it."
Marcel nodded over his two pieces of wood.