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Lyle thought a moment.
"Jib? Jib!" His eyes brightened. "It's a sailing
term. Is that what you mean, Jean?"
"Jib," Uncle Jean said, nodding. "Jib." He
grimaced as if in great pain. Then he sat back, brought
his hands to his head, and screamed, "JIB!"
"Oh, no."
"Hey, Jean," the attendant closest to us cried,
running over.
"JIB! JIB!"
Another attendant arrived and then another.
They helped Uncle Jean to his feet. Around us, the
other patients began to become unnerved. Some
shouted, some laughed, a young girl, maybe five or
six years older than I, began to cry.
Uncle Jean struggled against the attendants for
a while and looked at me. Spittle moved down the
corners of his mouth as his head shook with the effort
to repeat, "Jib, jib." They led him away.
Nurses appeared and more attendants followed
to help calm down the patients.
"I feel terrible," I said. "I should have stopped
when you told me to."
"Don't blame yourself," Lyle said, "something
like that usually happens."
Lyle continued to eat a little more of his stew,
but I couldn't put anything in my mouth. I felt so sick
inside, so empty and defeated. I had to get out of here;
I just had to.
"What happens now?" I asked him. "What will
