Then an amazing thing happened inside me. It seemed that the blows were
descending on someone else, not me. The pain of them was a dull,
far-away thing. Weak, fragile child that I was (known among the other
children as "Skinny Gregory" and "Spider-Legs") a man's slow fury was
kindling in me ... let Lan beat me for a year. It didn't matter. When I
grew up I would kill him for this.

I began to curse boldly at him, calling him by all the obscene terms I
had ever learned or heard. This, and the astounding fact that I no
longer squirmed nor cried out, but physically yielded to him, as limp as
an empty sack, brought him to a puzzled stop. But he sent me an extra
blow for good measure as he flung me aside. That blow rattled about my
head, missing my shoulders at which it had been aimed. I saw a shower
of hot sparks soaring upward into a black void.

I woke with water trickling down my face and all over me. I heard, far
off, my uncle's voice calling, cajoling, coaxing, with great fright
sounding through it....

"Johnnie, Johnnie ... I'm so sorry ... Johnnie, only speak to me!" He
was behaving exactly like Aunt Millie when she had St. Vitus' dance.

He began tending me gently like a woman. He built a fire and made some
coffee over it--he had brought coffee and some lunch. I crouched white
and still, saying not a word.

Landon squatted with his back turned, watching the coffee. His shotgun,
leaning against the tree-trunk, caught my eye. I crept toward that
shotgun. I trembled with anticipatory pleasure. God, but now I would pay
him back!...