"W'ere tar?" Sally echoed, patting her hands against the bulging
gunnysack her father carried.

"Here's the car," Daddy answered, pointing to the sack.

"You . . . sold it, Dad?" Dick demanded. "How much?"

"Five dollars." Daddy's jaw tightened. "They called it junk.
Well, the grub will last a little while. . . ."

"And when Gramma's rested, we can pull the trailer and kind of
hike along toward them apples," Grandpa said stoutly.

But Grandma looked as if she'd never be rested. She lay quite
still except for the breath that blew out her gray lips and drew
them in again, and her closed eyes were hollow. The other six
stood around and gazed at her in terror. Anyone else could be
sick and the earth went on turning, but . . . Grandma!

They were too intent to notice the car stopping beside them until
a man's voice said, "Sorry, folks, but you'll have to move on.
Against regulations, this is."

"We're Americans, ain't we?" Grandpa blustered, shaken with
anxiety and anger. "You can't shove us off the earth."

"Be on your way in twenty-four hours," the man said, pushing back
his coat to show the star on his vest. "I'm sorry, but that's the
way it is."