“Lay down, Rosasharn,” Ma said. “Lay down an’ res’. I’ll try to figger some way to dry you off.”
Winfield said, “Ma!” and the rain roaring on the roof drowned his voice. “Ma!”
“What is it? What you want?”
“Look! In the corner.”
Ma looked. There were two figures in the gloom; a man who lay on his back, and a boy sitting beside him, his eyes wide, staring at the newcomers. As she looked, the boy got slowly up to his feet and came toward her. His voice croaked. “You own this here?”
“No,” Ma said. “Jus’ come in outa the wet. We got a sick girl. You got a dry blanket we could use an’ get her wet clothes off?”
The boy went back to the corner and brought a dirty comfort and held it out to Ma.
“Thank ya,” she said. “What’s the matter’th that fella?”
The boy spoke in a croaking monotone. “Fust he was sick—but now he’s starvin’.”
“What?”