Dr. Bolz came to the house that afternoon. He was a frail and diminutive man who, in repose, seemed to be a creature of exceptional elegance and grace; but the fact was that he was indescribably clumsy. He seemed always to be tripping over his own feet and dropping things. The Williamses always referred to him privately as Dr. Butter-fingers; but in spite of this alarming personal trait, Annabel had perfect faith in his competence as a physician.

He was not a stammerer but he spoke haltingly and in sentences that had no definite endings to them; so that when he gave a diagnosis, one had to guess at its meaning. On this day Dr. Bolz left her with a vague impression that Clinton had contracted some insignificant summer malady called cat fever, which could be cured with plenty of blankets and the administering of his pills every four hours. But on the second day, he assured her that she had misunderstood his diagnosis: the patient had pneumonia. He told her to stop giving the pills altogether; instead, he injected into Clinton’s buttock a powerful new drug. On the fifth day of this new treatment, Dr. Bolz pronounced the patient cured. Clinton could get out of bed whenever he felt able; and it was the doctor’s professional opinion that Annabel might now safely question the boy about his trip.

Annabel’s curiosity had had too much time to grow in her. By now it had become a thing of unrecognizable proportions, a demon over whom her reason had no control whatever. When Clinton told her that Berry-berry had left Key Bonita by the time he himself had arrived, and that he, Clinton, had merely taken the next bus home—Annabel was not only disappointed but dissatisfied as well. She would not leave the subject alone.

“Do you mean to tell me a boy travels thousands of miles to see his brother, and then he gets on the next bus and comes home?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Annabel could think of no immediate question with which to counter this absurd answer. She sat in the undersized rocking chair next to his bed, silent for a moment, and stared at the portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the opposite wall.

“Well,” she said at length, “how d’you feel? Dr. B. says you can get dressed and come downstairs whenever you want to.”

“Oh, I don’t feel that good yet.”

“Your temperature’s almost normal. Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel stronger. Clinton, what did Berry-berry’s friends have to say about him?”

“Who?”

“Surely you met some of his friends, people who knew him!”

Clinton remained silent.