But the smell was the same: a combination of must, coal oil, sour linens, and unwashed bodies. Even before she lit a lamp she knew she’d find no improvement in her surroundings. Groping at the kitchen table, she found stick matches and a lantern. When it was lit she avoided glancing around; instead, she headed straight for Willy. He looked so small curled up in a ball with his chin on his chest. He didn’t rouse, even when she brought the light near and set it on the floor. He was probably used to somebody stumbling around in the kitchen and lighting lanterns in the middle of the night. She stood a long time gazing down at him, swallowing the clot of emotion in her throat, wondering what would become of him. So young, so unloved, so alone. Tears burned her eyes. She clasped her hands beneath her chin and said a silent prayer for him. And for herself and the task she must perform. Gingerly, she perched on the edge of his bed, forcing herself not to think of the other living things that shared it with him.
