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Show 62 to be grateful for. He had not suffered brain damage or optic damage, and though the small of his back was crushed by being sat on, and though one of his heels was pressed into his buttock by having the opposite ankle pulled across it like a figure 4, and though he received an intermittent fist in his back and had his face pushed into the ground between blows, the ground at least was grassy here, and the smell of crushed clover was sweet. He had resigned himself to wrestling all night, but it was over by the time the clouds smoked red in the west. His elbows were scraped raw and the knees of his overalls were in shreds when he was left alone, sitting on an anvil-shaped rock with his head in his hands. He limped home through early-evening shadows, after turning the boulder back into place to hide the plates and scattering leaves over where he had dug. He had his mother's trowel in his pocket, and he would restore it without her seeing him do it. He had lost, but it had not been a fair fight. * * * A summer cold had ripened into deep bronchitis. His sinuses had filled with sludge and the porous bone made sickening little squeaks when he pressed his fist to his forehead to ease the throbbing. His breath was foul when he checked it in the palm of his hand. He ran through a box of kleenex every three or four days, and snorted at meals. His mother nagged him to go to the doctor and his father told him if he'd quit chasing around and get some sleep he might shake the damned thing. Otherwise he'd still have it when he started school. Lorin decided they were probably right, and that was what he was going to do. He didn't mention his stomach pains because he didn't want to worry them, and he didn't tell them he and |
