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"You mean they left?" Gavin asked, astounded. "Just left without finding out how Jefferson is?"

"They couldn't have run out of the house faster if it was on fire," Luther said. "I guess we won't miss 'em none," he added.

"I can't believe it," Gavin muttered.

We made our next visit in the intensive care unit. This time the nurses let us stay nearly twenty minutes and they permitted Homer

to join us. He stood next to us, his hands crossed at his waist and never took his eyes off Jefferson's face.

When it came time to go, Homer stepped up to the tent.

"You get better, Jefferson. Get better real fast 'cause we still got a barn to paint and lots of other things to do," he said.

I took Homer's hand in mine and the three of us left, our heads bowed, each saying his own private prayer in his own way. When we stepped outside the intensive care unit, however, my heart sank. I should have anticipated it; I should have been prepared and thought what I would do, but my concern for Jefferson overrode every other thought, especially thoughts about myself.

There, standing beside the doctor, was Uncle Philip, a grim expression on his face. My eyes shifted from him to the doctor, who looked very angry, too.

"Everyone's been pretty sick with worry about you, Christie," he said. He turned to Gavin. "And your parents are beside themselves, too."

I lowered my eyes. I couldn't look at him.

"Luther and Charlotte shouldn't have permitted you to stay there," he continued. I lifted my eyes quickly and fixed them with a steel gaze on his.

"Don't you blame them for anything," I said sharply.

"Oh I don't," he said quickly. "I'm sure they didn't understand what was happening, but the point is . . ."

"What is the point?" Gavin snapped.

"The point for you, young man, is your parents are quite upset. They don't have the means to pay for your gallivanting all over the country. I have made arrangements for your instant return home," he said, pulling an airplane ticket out of his breast pocket. "I told them I would take care of this. There's a taxicab waiting outside the front entrance of the hospital to take you to the airport. You've got ten minutes to get down there," Uncle Philip said firmly.

"I'm not leaving Christie," Gavin said, stepping back to stand beside me.

"Christie's leaving too," Uncle Philip said, smiling. "She's going home."

I shook my head.

"Don't you want to be near your brother?" he asked. I looked at the doctor. "The doctor agrees that in a day or so, Jefferson will be able to be moved by ambulance and plane. We're taking him to Virginia Beach where I have already made arrangements for him to have private care at the hospital. You want your brother to have the best medical attention, don't you?"

"She's not going home with you," Gavin said. Uncle Philip glared at him a moment and then, softening his face, turned to me.

"Christie?"

"I've got to go home with him, Gavin," I said. "No, you can't. We'll go to the police; we'll tell them everything that's happened. We'll . . ."

“Not now, not with Jefferson so sick," I said.

"Don't worry. I'll be all right."

"Of course you will," Uncle Philip said. He looked at the doctor. "There's been some misunderstandings at home. Life has been hard for Christie since her parents' unfortunate deaths, but . . ."

"Misunderstandings!" Gavin cried. "You call what you did to her a misunderstanding!"

"Calm down, young man," the doctor said. "You're not in the street."

"But you don't understand . . ."

"It's not his problem to understand family matters," Uncle Philip said quickly. "You should be worrying about your parents. Your mother is sick because of this and your father . . ."