“You can’t,” Ma said. “You’re too far along.”
“No, I ain’t. An’ I’m a-goin’.” Ma measured coffee into the water. “Rosasharn, you wasn’t to the pancakes las’ night.” The girl didn’t answer. “What you wanta pick cotton for?” Still no answer. “Is it ’cause of Al an’ Aggie?” This time Ma looked closely at her daughter. “Oh. Well, you don’ need to pick.”
“I’m goin’.”
“Awright, but don’ you strain yourself.”
“Git up, Pa! Wake up, git up!” Pa blinked and yawned. “Ain’t slep’ out,” he moaned. “Musta been on to eleven o’clock when we went down.”
“Come on, git up, all a you, an’ wash.” The inhabitants of the car came slowly to life, squirmed up out of the blankets, writhed into their clothes. Ma sliced salt pork into her second frying pan. “Git out an’ wash,” she commanded.
A light sprang up in the other end of the car. And there came the sound of the breaking of twigs from the Wainwright end. “Mis’ Joad,” came the call. “We’re gettin’ ready. We’ll be ready.”
Al grumbled, “What we got to be up so early for?”
“It’s on’y twenty acres,” Ma said. “Got to get there. Ain’t much cotton lef’. Got to be there ’fore she’s picked.” Ma rushed them dressed, rushed the breakfast into them. “Come on, drink your coffee,” she said. “Got to start.”
“We can’t pick no cotton in the dark, Ma.”