afraid he will cough again and spill it all out.
“Please—drink!” I say.
He takes a sip. “Ugh! Filthy stuff!” he
wheezes. He reaches to pour it out into the
sand. “No—please!” I say. “Drink. Please!”
Mr. Moran glares at me. Then he seems
to decide. He pinches his nose between his
fingers and drinks it down in several gulps.
“Ugh!” He lies back, spluttering and coughing
and spitting.
I hold out a little bundle of stems. “Take
more,” I tell him. “Make water—very hot.” I
make motions to show he should put the herb
into the cup, and then pour in hot water.
Mr. Moran seems to understand. He
glares at me, but he takes the bundle. “If I get
sicker, you’ll catch it, boy,” he grumbles. He
doubles up coughing again.
I back away and hurry off to camp. But
all night long, I worry. What if I did the
wrong thing?THE NEXT DAY, we’re all up extra
early. Today is the big day!
The men work like demons. They barely
pause for breath. And they’re thirstier than
ever. I can hardly keep up with the voices
calling me for water.
There, right up ahead of me, is Mr.
Moran! His face is still a little pale. He is
moving a little more slowly than usual, but he
is working! He coughs a little. But he doesn’t
look out of breath like he did before.
Now he sees me. He beckons me to come.
My heart starts to thump in my chest. But I
walk over.