Erma gasped for breath, her cheeks soaked with hot tears. It was only with The Grapes of Wrath that she had felt such emotion. Conscious of the noise that emanated from her throat inflamed by passion, she closed her eyes and tried to control her excitement. In vain: Hemingway’s words were stronger than the human body.
She reopened the novel—the third she had taken with School for Crusoes and The Star Rover; the last one—and reread the last paragraph:
“Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions.”
Erma closed her eyes, curled up on her side, turned her neck twice, suppressed a yawn, put her head on the back of her clasped hands, and embraced sleep. She al
