supper,andboilwaterfortea.Afterwardthe
mensitquietlyandsmoketheirlongpipesof
tobaccobythefires.
InanotherareaarethetentsoftheIrish.
Atnight,theircamproarswithloudlaugh-
ing.Theydrinkfromjugsthatmyfathertells
mearefullofstrongspirits.Theyplaymusic
ontheirfiddles.
Aftersupper,I wanderoffbymyself
intothedesertaroundourcamp.It’speace-
fulhere.Thecoolairstrokesmyface.I hear
softrustlingsoflittlenightcreatures.Bythe
moon’ssilverlight,I spya fewstubbygreen
plantshereandthere.Someofthemsenda
spicy,pleasantsmellintothenightair.
I oftengatherbitsof plantsandputthem
ina pouchI carry.Backhome,mymotherused
manyplantstohealoursicknessesandwounds.
Shetaughtmehowtodrytheseplantsand
makehealingteas.Sheevengavemebitsof her
specialones,incaseweshouldneedthem.In
mypouchI haveganjiangforthestomach, ren
shenforcolds,andseveralothers.I carrythese
littlebitsof homewhereverI go.
NowI spya plantthatremindsmeofone
inmypouch.I haveseenthisonebefore.The
localpeopleherecallit DesertTea.It’sa lot
liketheonemothercallsmahuang. I already
havesomeoftheseDesertTeastemsdried
andbundledinmypouch.Butit couldn’t
hurttopicksomemore.
Allofa suddenI heara noise—akindof
rasping.It’scomingfrombehinda littlegroup
ofrocksjustahead.CautiouslyI goforward.
There,I seeMr.Moran.He’scurledupon
theground,gaspingforbreath.Inthemoon-
lighthisfacelooksghastly white above the
darkbeard.
I trytobackaway,but he sees me. We
stareat eachotherfora long minute. Again I
feelthathardballofanger in my stomach.
Mr.Moranstartscoughing again.
“C a n’t—gasp!—breathe,”he whispers.
“Happenswithoutwarning.” He lies back,
wheezing.“Tomorrow... big day.. .” Sweat
tricklesdownhisface.
I takea deepbreath.The hard ball melts
justa little.“Youaresick?” I say. I come
closer.I pointtohisbigchest. “Please,” I say,
“I willlisten?”
Moranfrownsandgrunts. But he doesn’t
sayno.
I putmyeartohischest. His shirt is dirty
andsweaty,andhesmellssour. I hold my
breathandlisten.I heara clicking, wheezing
noise.
It soundsexactlylikemy Auntie Lin. She
usedtobreathethiswaywhen she had a sick-
nessofthelungs.I thinkhard, and then I
rememberwhatmymother used to do when
thishappenedtoAuntie.She would make
a teawithhermahuangherb. After Auntie
drankit,shewouldfeelbetter.
I standtherefora minute. Then I decide.
“Waithere—please!”
I runbacktoourcampfire. Over the fire
thereis stillboilingwaterin our kettle. I pull
someofthedriedDesertTea stems out of my
pouch.I makea strongtea. I carry it back
verycarefullytoMoran.I don’t spill a drop.
“Drink,”I tellhim.“This is good medi-
cine.”Hesniffsat thecupand scowls. I’mHURRY UP! COMING THROUGH!MEW-
EEEE! I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THE RAILROAD...
I FEEL RAILROADED!