I cleared my throat, tugged at my sweatshirt, and slouched down the hall.

As I came to the back bedroom, a woman rose from the worn, flowered chair beside the boy’s bed. From the hallway she looked young, her slim face framed by shoulder-length hair.

“You must be Nyle,” the woman said. She had an accent. Very formal, very elegant. “I am Mrs. Trent.”

She put her hand out, saw my rough, dirty nails, and hesitated a moment. The skin on the back of her hand gave her age away, late forties, early fifties. We shook hands.

“Please,” Mrs. Trent said, “come with me into the hall.” She looked down once on Ezra, then led the way slowly out of the room, closing the back bedroom door behind her.

I didn’t like her shutting the door on the boy like that, shutting him inside, alone, in the dying room.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Mrs. Trent said. She moved stiffly. Tiny wrinkles clustered around the outsides of her large eyes, green eyes, the color of new acorns. The clothes she wore didn’t suit her, a threadbare housedress, an old sweater, brown sandals.

The evacuees brought nothing of their own out of the contamination zone. The taint of radiation spoiled everything, even their shoes. They all wore donated clothing.

Mrs. Trent’s hair was only a little shorter than mine, and styled the same way, parted on the side and swingy. Hers was wavy, though, while mine hung straight.

“You have brought a book,” Mrs. Trent said. “Could I see it?”

I turned the book cover side up, so she could read the title.

“I have never heard of this,” Mrs. Trent said.

“It’s about a boy who lives in a train station. I thought I could read a little to Ezra. I mean if that’s all right.”

“He may not hear you,” she said. “The doctors told us we might have a few more days before he got sick again. The illness returned much sooner than they thought.”

I nodded.

“I hope you do not mind too much our being here.”

I looked down at my feet. There was a hole in the toe of my right sock.

“I worry that your friends might disapprove of our staying in your home.”

I thought about Muncie and shrugged.

“Perhaps you do not wish to discuss such things. Ezra, too, keeps certain thoughts to himself. At the hospital Ezra hid his sickness so he might remain near his father.”

Something caught in her throat. Her green eyes turned away from me. “Then he could not hide his sickness any longer. The doctors did what they could for him. We came here. He has not spoken a word since.”

I felt a pressure in my throat like a thumb against my windpipe.

“His fever is rising.” Mrs. Trent swallowed, lifting her chin as she did. “I hope you do not mind sitting with him. He must not be alone.”

She stepped aside and opened the back bedroom door again.