“It’ll be easier on you,” pa says. “It’ll keep it from rubbing together.”
“I can last it,” Cash says. “We’ll lose time stopping.”
“We done bought the cement, now,” pa says.
“I could last it,” Cash says. “It ain’t but one more day. It don’t bother to speak of.” He looks at us, his eyes wide in his thin grey face, questioning. “It sets up so,” he says.
“We done bought it now,” pa says.
I mix the cement in the can, stirring the slow water into the pale-green thick coils. I bring the can to the wagon where Cash can see. He lies on his back, his thin profile in silhouette, ascetic and profound against the sky. “Does that look about right?” I say.
“You don’t want too much water, or it won’t work right,” he says.
“Is this too much?”
“Maybe if you could get a little sand,” he says. “It ain’t but one more day,” he says. “It don’t bother me none.”
Vardaman goes back down the road to where we crossed the branch and returns with sand. He pours it slowly into the thick coiling in the can. I go to the wagon again.
“Does that look all right?”
“Yes,” Cash says. “I could have lasted. It don’t bother me none.”
We loosen the splints and pour the cement over his leg, slow.
“Watch out for it,” Cash says. “Don’t get none on it if you can help.”