He was afraid he had hurt Bill by running away this morning. He wanted, too, to know that Bill didn't blame him for anything.
But it was not the kind of question he could put into words.
He held P. T. and waved as the dusty little Italian car turned into the main road.
He thought he saw them wave back, but it was too far away to be sure.
His mother had never allowed him to have a dog, but she made no objection to P. T. being in the house.
P. T. jumped up on his bed, and he slept all night with P. T.'s body curled against his chest.
THIRTEEN Building the Bridge
He woke up Saturday morning with a dull headache. It was still early, but he got up.
He wanted to do the milking. His father had done it ever since Thursday night,
but he wanted to go back to it, to somehow make things normal again.
He shut P. T. in the shed, and the dog's whimpering reminded him of May Belle and made his headache worse.
But he couldn't have P. T. yapping at Miss Bessie while he tried to milk.
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