“Hi, Mr. Jonas.”

“Hello, Tom.”

Tom and Mr. Jonas were alone on the street with all that beautiful junk in the wagon to look at and neither of them looking at it. Mr. Jonas didn’t say anything right away. He lit his pipe and puffed it, nodding his head as if he knew before he asked, that something was wrong.

“Tom?” he said.

“It’s my brother,” said Tom. “It’s Doug.”

Mr. Jonas looked up at the house.

“He’s sick,” said Tom. “He’s dying!”

“Oh, now, that can’t be so,” said Mr. Jonas, scowling around at the very real world where nothing that vaguely looked like death could be found on this quiet day.

“He’s dying,” said Tom. “And the doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong. The heat, he said, nothing but the heat. Can that be, Mr. Jonas? Can the heat kill people, even in a dark room?”

“Well,” said Mr. Jonas and stopped.

For Tom was crying now.

“I always thought I hated him . . .that’s what I thought . . .we fight half the time . . .I guess I did hate him . . .sometimes . . .but now . . .now. Oh, Mr. Jonas, if only . . .”

“If only what, boy?”

“If only you had something in this wagon would help. Something I could pick and take upstairs and make him okay.”

Tom cried again.

Mr. Jonas took out his red bandanna handkerchief and handed it to Tom. Tom wiped his nose and eyes with the handkerchief.

“It’s been a tough summer,” Tom said. “Lots of things have happened to Doug.”

“Tell me about them,” said the junkman.

“Well,” said Tom, gasping for breath, not quite done crying yet, “he lost his best aggie for one, a real beaut. And on top of that somebody stole his catcher’s mitt, it cost a dollar ninety-five. Then there was the bad trade he made of his fossil stones and shell collection with Charlie Woodman for a Tarzan clay statue you got by saving up macaroni box tops. Dropped the Tarzan statue on the sidewalk second day he had it.”

“That’s a shame,” said the junkman and really saw all the pieces on the cement.

“Then he didn’t get the book of magic tricks he wanted for his birthday, got a pair of pants and a shirt instead. That’s enough to ruin the summer right there.”

“Parents sometimes forget how it is,” said Mr. Jonas.

“Sure,” Tom continued in a low voice, “then Doug’s genuine set of Tower-of-London manacles got left out all night and rusted. And worst of all, I grew one inch taller, catching up with him almost.”

“Is that all?” asked the junkman quietly.

“I could think of ten dozen other things, all as bad or worse. Some summers you get a run of luck like that. It’s been silverfish getting in his comics collection or mildew in his new tennis shoes ever since Doug got out of school.”

“I remember years like that,” said the junkman.

He looked off at the sky and there were all the years.

“So there you are, Mr. Jonas. That’s it. That’s why he’s dying . . .”

Tom stopped and looked away.

“Let me think,” said Mr. Jonas.

“Can you help, Mr. Jonas? Can you?”

Mr. Jonas looked deep in the big old wagon and shook his head. Now, in the sunlight, his face looked tired and he was beginning to perspire. Then he peered into the mounds of vases and peeling lamp shades and marble nymphs and satyrs made of greening copper. He sighed. He turned and picked up the reins and gave them a gentle shake. “Tom,” he said, looking at the horse’s back, “I’ll see you later. I got to plan. I got to look around and come again after supper. Even then, who knows? Until then . . .” He reached down and picked up a little set of Japanese wind-crystals. “Hang these in his upstairs window. They make a nice cool music!”

Tom stood with the wind-crystals in his hands as the wagon rolled away. He held them up and there was no wind, they did not move. They could not make a sound.

Seven o’clock. The town resembled a vast hearth over which the shudderings of heat moved again and again from the west. Charcoal-colored shadows quivered outward from every house, every tree. A red-haired man moved along below. Tom, seeing him illumined by the dying but ferocious sun, saw a torch proudly carrying itself, saw a fiery fox, saw the devil marching in his own country.

At seven-thirty Mrs. Spaulding came out of the back door of the house to empty some watermelon rinds into the garbage pail and saw Mr. Jonas standing there. “How is the boy?” said Mr. Jonas.

Mrs. Spaulding stood there for a moment, a response trembling on her lips.

“May I see him, please?” said Mr. Jonas.

Still she could say nothing.

“I know the boy well,” he said. “Seen him most every day of his life since he was out and around. I’ve something for him in the wagon.”

“He’s not—” She was going to say “conscious,” but she said, “awake. He’s not awake, Mr. Jonas. The doctor said he’s not to be disturbed. Oh, we don’t know what’s wrong!”

“Even if he’s not ‘awake,’ “said Mr. Jonas, “I’d like to talk to him. Sometimes the things you hear in your sleep are more important, you listen better, it gets through.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jonas, I just can’t take the chance.” Mrs. Spaulding caught hold of the screen-door handle and held fast to it. “Thanks. Thank you, anyway, for coming by.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Jonas.

He did not move. He stood looking up at the window above. Mrs. Spaulding went in the house and shut the screen door.

Upstairs, on his bed, Douglas breathed.

It was a sound like a sharp knife going in and out, in and out, of a sheath.

At eight o’clock the doctor came and went again shaking his head, his coat off, his tie untied, looking as if he had lost thirty pounds that day. At nine o’clock Tom and Mother and Father carried a cot outside and brought Douglas down to sleep in the yard under the apple tree where, if there might be a wind, it would find him sooner than in the terrible rooms above. Then they went back and forth until eleven o’clock, when they set the alarm clock to wake them at three and chip more ice to refill the packs.

The house was dark and still at last, and they slept.

At twelve thirty-five, Douglas’s eyes flinched.

The moon had begun to rise.

And far away a voice began to sing.

It was a high sad voice rising and falling. It was a clear voice and it was in tune. You could not make out the words.

The moon came over the edge of the lake and looked upon Green Town, Illinois, and saw it all and showed it all, every house, every tree, every prehistoric-remembering dog twitching in his simple dreams.

And it seemed that the higher the moon the nearer and louder and clearer the voice that was singing.

And Douglas turned in his fever and sighed.

Perhaps it was an hour before the moon spilled all its light upon the world, perhaps less. But the voice was nearer now and a sound like the beating of a heart which was really the motion of a horse’s hoofs on the brick streets muffled by the hot thick foliage of the trees.

And there was another sound like a door slowly opening or closing, squeaking, squealing softly from time to time. The sound of a wagon.

And down the street in the light of the risen moon came the horse pulling the wagon and the wagon riding the lean body of Mr. Jonas easy and casual on the high seat. He wore his hat as if he were still out under the summer sun and he moved his hands on occasion to ripple the reins like a flow of water on the air above the horse’s back. Very slowly the wagon moved down the street with Mr. Jonas singing, and in his sleep Douglas seemed for a moment to stop breathing and listen.

“Air, air . . . who will buy this air . . . Air like water and air like ice . . .buy it once and you’ll buy it twice . . .here’s the April air . . .here’s an autumn breeze . . .here’s papaya wind from the Antilles . . . Air, air, sweet pickled air . . .fair . . .rare . . .from everywhere . . .bottled and capped and scented with thyme, all that you want of air for a dime!”