who suddenly lost his memory in the middle of a picture show and was out of the script until the end, when he was found in Alaska.
“Make us up one, Jem,” I said. “I’m tired of makin‘ ’em up.” Our first days of freedom, and we were tired.
I wondered what the summer would bring. We had strolled to the front yard,
where Dill stood looking down the street at the dreary face of the Radley Place. “I—smell—death,” he said.
“I do, I mean it,” he said, when I told him to shut up. “You mean when somebody’s dyin‘ you can smell it?”
“No, I mean I can smell somebody an‘ tell if they’re gonna die. An old lady taught me how.”
Dill leaned over and sniffed me. “Jean—Louise—Finch, you are going to die in three days.”
“Dill if you don’t hush I’ll knock you bowlegged. I mean it, now—” “Yawl hush,” growled Jem,
“you act like you believe in Hot Steams.” “You act like you don’t,” I said. “What’s a Hot Steam?” asked Dill.
Haven’t you ever walked along a lonesome road at night and passed by a hot place?” Jem asked Dill.
“A Hot Steam’s somebody who can’t get to heaven, just wallows around on lonesome roads
an‘ if you walk through him, when you die you’ll be one too,
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