Question

A. When I came back they said the boy had refused to let anyone into the room. "You can't come in," he said. "You mustn't get what I have."
I went to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced,
looking at the foot of the bed. I took his temperature.
"What is it?"
"Something like a hundred," I said. It was one hundred and two and four tenths.
"It was a hundred and two," he said.
"Who said so?"
"The doctor."
"Your temperature is all right," I said. "It's nothing to worry about."
"I don't worry," he said, "but I can't keep from thinking."
"Don't think," I said. "Just take it easy."
"I'm taking it easy,” he said, and looked straight ahead. He was holding on to
himself about something.
I sat down and opened the Pirate Book. But I could see he was not following, so
I stopped.
"About what time do you think I'm going to die?” he asked.
"You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?”

B. Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different coloured
sules with instructions for giving them.
Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of the
time to give the various capsules.
"Do you want me to read to you?”
"If you want to," said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark
what was going on.
I read from Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates; but I could see he was not follow-
ing what I was reading.
"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.
"Just the same," he said but he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very
strangely.
"Why don't you try to go to sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine."
"I'd rather stay awake."
A minute later he said to me, "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa,
if it bothers you."
"It doesn't bother me."
"No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you."
I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded and after giving him the prescribed
capsules at eleven o'clock I went out for a few minutes.
C. "What's the matter, Schatz?”
"I've got a headache."
"You better go back to bed."
"No. I'm all right."
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very
sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead
I knew he was running a temperature.
"You go to bed," I said, "you're sick."
When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.
"What is it?" I asked him.
"One hundred and two."
"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two.”
"People don't die with a temperature of one hundred and two. That's a silly way
to talk.”
"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-
four degrees. I've got a hundred and two.”
He had been waiting to die all day, since nine o'clock in the morning.
"You poor Schatz,” I said. "It's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to
die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal.
On this kind it's ninety-eight.”
"Oh,” he said and he relaxed slowly.

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