Fallout by Todd Strasser

getting annoyed with Mr. McGovern’s attitude. Mr. McGovern exchanges a look with Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, but no one says anything more.
    Sparky wriggles under the scratchy blanket. “What about our pajamas?”
    Dad shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Edward. They won’t dry down here, and this could be all the water we’ll get.”
    â€œPlease, Dad?” Sparky whines.
    â€œI said no.”
    â€œIf they put them back on, won’t their body heat eventually dry them?” Mr. Shaw asks.
    â€œWant to try it, boys?” Dad asks us.
    Even though Sparky and I are both squirmy and itchy and constantly tugging little bits of blanket from each other, I’d rather be huddling naked with him than put my damp, pee-stinky pajamas back on.
    We’ve eaten and gone to the bathroom, and now there’s nothing else to do except sit. Ronnie catches my eye and I know that he wants to talk, but I still don’t know how I feel. He may be my best friend, but my scraped elbows and throbbing knee are a reminder of last night’s fight. All he’s ever done is get me in trouble and make me think about things I don’t want to think about. Maybe it’s good that I’m sharing the blanket with Sparky, because that means I can’t go talk to him.
    Dad tries the radio, and again there’s nothing but silence and static.
    â€œDid you test it?” Mrs. Shaw asks. “I mean, before?”
    Dad doesn’t answer, which is kind of an answer in itself. Mrs. Shaw lets out a loud, dramatic sigh of disapproval.

It wasn’t long before the hole in the backyard came up to the Negro men’s chests. Now two men shoveled, filling a metal bucket, which the third hoisted out of the hole and dumped into the wheelbarrow. The men also began to encounter large rocks, some the size of basketballs, that had to be pried out of the ground and heaved onto the grass beside the hole.
    The men always arrived early in the morning and usually stayed until around five o’clock, when a pickup truck would come get them. There wasn’t room for all three in the truck cab, so one would sit in front and two would climb into the back. The man who drove the pickup was white.
    Each day the men brought metal lunch boxes and thermoses. By now they were used to me and Sparky watching and would sometimes nod at us. And sometimes they would carry on a conversation as if we weren’t there.
    One day when the sun was like a yellow oven in the sky, sweat dripped from the men’s faces. The collars of their T-shirts were dark with moisture, and the skin on their bare arms glistened. They paused often, dabbing the sweat with bandannas and shielding their eyes. I watched the muscular man climb out of the hole and unscrew the cap on his thermos. Only a drop or two came out. The other two leaned on their shovels as if they needed the support. Tracks of sweat lined their faces.
    I went into the house. It was hot in the kitchen, and Mom was sitting at the table with a tall glass of iced tea streaked with condensation. She dabbed her forehead with one of Dad’s white handkerchiefs.
    I gestured to the glass. “I think the men outside could use some.”
    Mom got up and took three glasses from the kitchen cabinet. “Get some ice.”
    I took an ice tray from the freezer. Hating the way the frosty metal stuck to my fingertips, I quickly placed the tray in the sink and ran water over it, then pulled the metal lever to crack the ice so Mom could get the pieces out. A few moments later, I carried the glasses outside on a platter.
    It was hard to tell whether the men’s grins reflected more delight or surprise.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” asked the paunchy one.
    â€œScott,” I said.
    â€œWell, Scott, much obliged.”
    In no time, the glasses were empty. Back in the kitchen, Mom raised her eyebrows. “They asked for more?”
    â€œNo, but I think they’ll need