As my head bows to the hot afternoon sun I see the little swirls of dust, like miniture cyclones, kicked up by my bare feet from the dusty road. Feet accustumed to doing without the protection of shoes that were being saved for the school year ahead. Still, the earth was hot as July baked the ground bending the dainty wildflowers as though in obeyance. I moved to the edge of the sunken road to find relief in the shadow of a tree, hoping a breeze would take sweat from me in the usual, cooling way it did, but none was to be found, only the heaviness of trying to breathe. I trudge on, knowing the need to keep going, wondering why I was chosen for the task, Harry was five years older than I and he didn't look that sick to me. Still, mom said I was to go, so I went. At the bottom of the hill, looking out across the shimmering field of Mr. Proudy's, I was amazed at how distorted the heat made those silos look. I moved faster when I saw the oak tree that stood guard over the well, anticipating feeling the cold water on my face. Getting there I pumped furiously with one hand as I splashed water with the other. I didn't care that my overalls were all wet, they would dry before I got home anyway, but I did get chills and goose bumps from the fast evaporation. As I turned to leave, I noticed the birds had gathered to drink from what water remained in a puddle on the ground. On the road I paused and looked at the quarter mile climb I had to make to get back to the house and realized it was going to be harder going uphill than down but also carrying the burden I did I would have to stop more often. I don't know why Evie couldn't have gone, she was older and stronger than me. I know she was stronger 'cause I couldn't whip her.  The one thing the heat doesn't bother are flies. They buzz around me and I can't shoo them with my hands full. I notice then, the remains of a dead possum in the hollow where rain had washed the dirt away from the tree roots. I see again the puffs of dust as I take each step, my toes almost dissapearing in it and the cockleburrs that scratch my feet where they have attached themselves to the frayed cuffs of my overalls. Mom could have chose Annie too..she's older, even if she is a girl. Finally getting to the driveway, I turn up the slope into the front yard, cross the yard and into the house. There, bent over the crying two year old Alma, my mom is trying to comfort the feverish child. She straightens and turns to me arranging her face as she might her dress but not before I see the worried and haggard expression. She reaches for the water, dips the rag quickly and as she washes the sick little girl, the crying dissapates into sleep and my mom  gives me a glance of appreciation I will never forget.