‘I do worry about it!’ he said excitedly. ‘I can worry about it, can’t I?’ As soon as the words were out, he looked to her for forgiveness and found it. ‘You got to understand,’ he said more quietly, ‘this is something I—I got to—Look,’ he said, returning to exasperation, ‘can something be more important than anything else in the world, and you can’t even remember what it is?’
‘It happens.’
‘It’s happened to me,’ he said glumly. ‘I don’t like it either.’
‘You’re getting yourself all worked up,’ said Janie.
‘Well, sure!’ he exploded. He looked around him, shook his head violently. ‘What is this? What am I doing here? Who are you, anyway, Janie? What are you getting out of this?’
‘I like seeing you get well.’
‘Yeah, get well,’ he growled. ‘I should get well! I ought to be sick. Be sick and get sicker.’
‘Who told you that?’ she rapped.
‘Thompson,’ he barked and then slumped back, looking at her with stupid amazement on his face. In the high, cracking voice of an adolescent he whimpered, ‘Thompson? Who’s Thompson?’
She shrugged and said, matter-of-factly, ‘The one who told you you ought to be sick, I suppose.’