“Body sleep, the hurt body. It sleep and heal. But you,” Sandy leaned over and with his long forefinger touched Frederick lightly on the chest, “you not sleep.”
“But I—How could I—?” Before the steady gaze of those calm eyes Frederick’s protest died. He did not understand, but he was remembering. After a moment he asked simply, “Where am I going?”
This was what it meant. Sandy had a plan for him to run away. Well, he would try it. He was not afraid. Freedom sang in his blood. And so Sandy’s reply caught him like a blow.
“Back. Back to Covey’s.”
“No! No!”
All the horror of the past six months was in his cry; the bowl dropped to the floor; shivering, he covered his face.
The pressure of Sandy’s hand upon his shoulder recalled him. The terror gradually receded and was replaced by something which seemed to surround and buoy him up. He could not have told why. He only knew he was not afraid. But he wanted to live. He must live. He looked up at Sandy.
“Covey will kill me—beat me to death.” There was no terror in his voice now, merely an explanation. Sandy shook his head.
“No.” He was picking up the thick bowl. It had not broken, but its contents had spilled over the scrubbed floor. Sandy scraped up the bits of food and refilled the bowl from an earthen erode on the hearth. Frederick sat watching him. Sandy observed how he made no move—just waited. And his heart was satisfied. This boy will do, he thought. He has patience—patience and endurance. Strength will come. Once more he handed the bowl to Frederick.
“Eat now, boy,” he said.