Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door. “Awright, Al, I’m comin’ out. It’s awright, Al.” Pa slid down the cat-walk. Ma heard him say, “We got sickness. Come on down here.”
The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps. Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon. “Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am. Whyn’t you git some sleep? I’ll set with her.”
“No,” Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.”
Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,” she said. “We thank you.”
The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.”
“Yes,” Ma said, “we would.”
“Or anybody.”
“Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.”
“We couldn’ a saved it.”