mouth. He holds a glass of water to my lips and its sweet and cool. He
presses my hand and says Im a great old soldier and why wouldnt I?
Dont I have the soldiers 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 dont want him to
go because he looks sad. Hes like Paddy Clohessy the day I gave him
the raisin.When he looks sad its the worst thing in the world and I start
crying. Now whats this? says Sister Rita. Crying with all that soldier
blood in you? Theres a big surprise for you tomorrow, Francis.Youll
never guess. Well, Ill tell you, were bringing you a nice biscuit with
your tea in the morning. Isnt that a treat? And your father will be back
in a day or two, wont 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 Im so happy I feel like floating out of the bed.
The other two beds in my room are empty.The nurse says Im the
only typhoid patient and Im a miracle for getting over the crisis.
The room next to me is empty till one morning a girls voice says,
Yoo hoo, whos there?
Im not sure if shes 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 dont know. Im 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 dont know what to tell
her.
Yoo hoo, are you there, typhoid boy?
I am.
Whats your name?
Frank.
Thats a good name. My name is Patricia Madigan. How old are
you?
Ten.
Oh. She sounds disappointed.
But Ill be eleven in August, next month.
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