“We’ll find it,” he said. “We’ll find what’s wrong.” He looked at me. He met my eyes. Hope filled the room like snow. All the repressed terror and dismay of my young motherhood scrambled to leave me. Light was everywhere. Light and snow. The doctor had my baby in his arms. The doctor would save him.

“Do you know the Havertys?” I said. “Robert Haverty, who owns the newspaper here?”

Two hours later we checked into the hospital. Klane had agreed to stay with Little Malcolm and Big Malcolm had come home from the plant to stay with me. The baby slept in my arms. Now my elation was gone and dark worry had come to take its place. Encephalitis. My medical dictionary said it could injure the brain. My baby’s brain could be injured, harmed, maimed. While I was out dancing with my friends my little baby’s brain was being eaten by mosquito-borne germs. While we were listening to my cousin Sally play the organ, mosquitoes had risen up from the swamps and stuck their nasty needles full of poison into my child. I should never have left him for a second. I should not have taken him outside. I should have gone home to my mother where a halfway decent doctor would have found out what was wrong weeks ago. Oh, God, don’t let anything be wrong with his brain, I prayed. If you will get him well, I swear to God I’ll believe in you. I’ll go to church every Sunday until I die. I’ll give them money. I’ll teach Sunday school.

“Rhoda.” It was Malcolm. He was filling out the entrance forms for the receptionist at the admitting desk.

“What?”

“See if you’ve got that insurance card in your purse. The one I gave you last month.”

“I’ve got it. Here, take the baby, will you? Don’t wake him up. Oh, well, never mind.” I handed Jimmy to him, a warm sleepy heavy precious little bundle. I looked down into his beautiful warm face. Oh, God, I began again. If you let anything happen to him, I’ll kill you. Goddamn you for doing this to my baby. I hate fucking mosquitoes so much. I hate this goddamn mosquito-ridden town . . .

“Rhoda.”

“Yes.”