mouth. He holds a glass of water to my lips and it’s sweet and cool. He presses my hand and says I’m a great old soldier and why wouldn’t I? Don’t I have the soldier’s blood in me? The tubes are not in me anymore and the glass jars are gone. Sister Rita comes in and tells Dad he has to go. I don’t want him to go because he looks sad. He’s like Paddy Clohessy the day I gave him the raisin.When he looks sad it’s the worst thing in the world and I start crying. Now what’s this? says Sister Rita. Crying with all that soldier blood in you? There’s a big surprise for you tomorrow, Francis.You’ll never guess. Well, I’ll tell you, we’re bringing you a nice biscuit with your tea in the morning. Isn’t that a treat? And your father will be back in a day or two, won’t you, Mr. McCourt? Dad nods and puts his hand on mine again. He looks at me, steps away, stops, comes back, kisses me on the forehead for the first time in my life and I’m so happy I feel like floating out of the bed. The other two beds in my room are empty.The nurse says I’m the only typhoid patient and I’m a miracle for getting over the crisis. The room next to me is empty till one morning a girl’s voice says, Yoo hoo, who’s there? I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or someone in the room beyond. Yoo hoo, boy with the typhoid, are you awake? I am. Are you better? I am. Well, why are you here? I don’t know. I’m still in the bed.They stick needles in me and give me medicine. What do you look like? I wonder,What kind of a question is that? I don’t know what to tell her. Yoo hoo, are you there, typhoid boy? I am. What’s your name? Frank. That’s a good name. My name is Patricia Madigan. How old are you? Ten. Oh. She sounds disappointed. But I’ll be eleven in August, next month. 193