I was starting back toward cabin 3 when I heard the anguished shriek of a very young human being. I froze in horror. "Already?" I must have said it out loud because David, who had appeared from nowhere, said, "Huh? You better take care of Donna, Mama. She's sure crying--don't you hear her?" "Oh, is that Donna?" I was so relieved I could have kissed him. I hurried into the children's bedroom, David jabbering about something loudly and excitedly behind me. Donna was holding up one small fat hand. "Donna hurta finger!" she wailed. "Mama kiss it." Apparently she had hit her finger with one of the blocks she was stacking into piles. David was still talking excitedly. "Oh, be quiet!" I said. "Whatever it is you're talking about, it can wait. I'm very, very busy. Now hush and go play." I kissed Donna's upraised finger and, turning to leave again, noticed that she had been stacking more than just blocks. Her soft, stuffed dolls and teddy bears formed the base of a pyramid of toys that culminated, two feet up, in her little rocking chair. I charged back to cabin 3, clutching the heavy medical book. As I opened the door Mrs. Watkins shoved her teeth back into her mouth. "Did the doc git here?" she gasped. "No!" I snapped. "Now just don't be so impatient. I've got this medical book. We'll get along without the doctor." I was unreasonably angry at her. I snapped on the light and opened the book at random. I tried to concentrate on the print that swam and bounced before my eyes. Mrs. Watkins was breathing hard, and grunting spasmodically. I decided to read aloud, to keep Mrs. Watkins' mind off her troubles and to reassure her that I was capable and efficient, that I was doing something, that I wasn't just sitting idly by. A few of the words finally detached themselves from the swirling pages. "Whenever material from the bile, called bilirubin, gets into the bloodstream, it is followed by a yellowish discoloration of the skin." Maybe, I thought, there was some bilirubin loose in my blood right now. Goodness knows I felt bad enough for there to be quarts of it coursing around through my veins. And since yellow symbolizes cowardice and fear, what could be more appropriate than for my skin to take on a virulent shade of that color? Mrs. Watkins grunted, and caught her breath. "There ain't no use worryin' about anything like that now, honey," she panted. She gave a longer, sustained grunt, and then she began to laugh weekly. "There ain't no use worryin' about anything. It's all over, honey." "Over!" I threw the book onto the floor. Mrs. Watkins pulled back the blanket, uncovering herself. For the next few minutes I was a very reasonable facsimile of a whirling dervish.