Ma came out of the tent and went to Casy. “You been aroun’ sick people,” she said. “Grampa’s sick. Won’t you go take a look at him?”
Casy walked quickly to the tent and went inside. A double mattress was on the ground, the blankets spread neatly; and a little tin stove stood on iron legs, and the fire in it burned unevenly. A bucket of water, a wooden box of supplies, and a box for a table, that was all. The light of the setting sun came pinkly through the tent walls. Sairy Wilson knelt on the ground, beside the mattress, and Grampa lay on his back. His eyes were open, staring upward, and his cheeks were flushed. He breathed heavily.
Casy took the skinny old wrist in his fingers. “Feeling kinda tired, Grampa?” he asked. The staring eyes moved toward his voice but did not find him. The lips practiced a speech but did not speak it. Casy felt the pulse and he dropped the wrist and put his hand on Grampa’s forehead. A struggle began in the old man’s body, his legs moved restlessly and his hands stirred. He said a whole string of blurred sounds that were not words, and his face was red under the spiky white whiskers.
Sairy Wilson spoke softly to Casy. “Know what’s wrong?” He looked up at the wrinkled face and the burning eyes. “Do you?”
“I—think so.”
“What?” Casy asked.
“Might be wrong. I wouldn’ like to say.”
Casy looked back at the twitching red face. “Would you say—maybe he’s workin’ up a stroke?”
“I’d say that,” said Sairy. “I seen it three times before.”
From outside came the sounds of camp-making, wood chopping, and the rattle of pans. Ma looked through the flaps. “Granma wants to come in. Would she better?”