said very clearly:

"Will you please bring me a drink of water?"

It was perfectly awful, because he said it so politely and very
carefully, as if he were trying not to bother somebody. And there
was no drink to give him. I thought of the people in stories who lie
on deserts and battle-fields burning in agonies of fever, but I
couldn't remember reading about anybody dying of fever on a rock in
the middle of the sea. I dipped my handkerchief in the pool just
beside me and laid it, all dripping, on Greg's forehead. I didn't
know whether it was a proper First Aid thing to do, but he seemed to
like it and was still again, holding my hand. Presently he said:

"Mother, why isn't there a drink?"

"This is awful, Chris," Jerry said.

Then I thought of the rain-pools. There were lots, of course, in the
hollows of the Monster, but we had nothing to scoop up the water
with. Greg's forehead was just as hot as ever, and he thrashed about
and hurt his shoulder and cried miserably.

I don't know how Jerry could have thought of so many things; for it
was he who thought of very carefully breaking the bottom off the
root-beer bottle and using it for a cup. Of course the bottom might
have cracked all to pieces, but it was quite heavy and Jerry was
very careful. It came off wonderfully well, though rather jaggy.
Jerry tried to grind the cutty edges off by rubbing them against the
rock, but it didn't work. Then we remembered being very thirsty once