“You didn’ sleep.”
“No.”
“Well, you sleep. I seen your clothes was wet. I’ll hang ’em by the stove to dry.” She finished her work. “I’m goin’ now. I’ll pick. Rosasharn, if anybody comes, Tom’s sick, you hear? Don’ let nobody in. You hear?” Rose of Sharon nodded. “We’ll come back at noon. Get some sleep, Tom. Maybe we can get outa here tonight.” She moved swiftly to him. “Tom, you ain’t gonna slip out?”
“No, Ma.”
“You sure? You won’t go?”
“No, Ma. I’ll be here.”
“Awright. ’Member, Rosasharn.” She went out and closed the door firmly behind her. Tom lay still—and then a wave of sleep lifted him to the edge of unconsciousness and dropped him slowly back and lifted him again. “You—Tom!”
“Huh? Yeah!” He started awake. He looked over at Rose of Sharon. Her eyes were blazing with resentment. “What you want?”
“You killed a fella!”
“Yeah. Not so loud! You wanta rouse somebody?”