“Yes.’’
“I’m sorry, mister. We don’t dare let no one in. The radio tells us folks out here not to open doors or even show a light.”
“I saw your light.”
“Not from the road, you didn’t! I looked.”
“I’m Kit Sloan, maybe you’ve heard the name. I’ve got to rest a minute. Bathe! Eat something, get a drink of water….”
“You mean—old lady—Mrs. Minerva Sloan’s son?”
“Yes.” Kit shivered. Bubonic, maybe, cholera. Musn’t let them know he was infected.
Chain rattled. The door opened.
Kit’s red eyes fell first upon a tall, rufous farmer with a shotgun across his arm. In the parlor behind him were four pretty girls and a plump, middle-aged woman who looked something like all four. Only one lamp was lighted and the radio was talking like firecrackers, but turned down low. The girls were young—perhaps twelve to seventeen or eighteen. Kit said,
“Thank you, sir,” to the farmer.