For a second, Mr. Sir’s pain seemed to recede. He took several long, deep breaths.
Then his head jerked violently, and he let out a shrill scream, worse than the one before.
The Warden turned to Stanley. “I suggest you go back to your hole now.”
Stanley started to go, but Mr. Sir lay in the way. Stanley could see the muscles on his face jump and twitch.
His body writhed in agony. Stanley stepped carefully over him.
“Is he—?” “Excuse me?” said the Warden. Stanley was too frightened to speak.
“He’s not going to die,” the Warden said. “Unfortunately for you.”
It was a long walk back to his hole. Stanley looked out through the haze of heat and dirt at the other boys, lowering and raising their shovels.
Group D was the farthest away. He realized that once again he would be digging long after everyone else had quit.
He hoped he’d finish before Mr. Sir recovered. He didn’t want to be out there alone with Mr. Sir.
He won’t die, the Warden had said. Unfortunately for you. Walking across the desolate wasteland,
Stanley thought about his great-grandfather—not the pig stealer but the pig stealer’s son, the one who was robbed by Kissin’ Kate Barlow.
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