``Big Hans made me come. Big Hans said'' --

``A fat hell on Big Hans. He's an even bigger fool than you are. Fat, hey? I taught him, dammit, and I'll teach you. Out. You want me to drop my pot?''

He was about to get up so I got out, slamming the door. He was beginning to see he was too mad to sleep. Then he threw things. Once he went after Hans and dumped his pot over the banister. Pa'd been shit sick in that pot. Hans got an axe. He didn't even bother to wipe himself off and he chopped part of Pa's door down before he stopped. He might not have gone that far if Pa hadn't been locked in laughing fit to shake the house. That pot put Pa in an awful good humor whenever he thought of it. I always felt the memory was present in both of them, stirring in their chests like a laugh or a growl, as eager as an animal to be out. I heard Pa cursing all the way downstairs.

Hans had laid steaming towels over the kid's chest and stomach. He was rubbing snow on the kid's legs and feet. Water from the snow and water from the towels had run off the kid to the table where the dough was, and the dough was turning pasty, sticking to the kid's back and behind.

``Ain't he going to wake up?''

``What about your pa?''

``He was awake when I left.''

``What'd he say? Did you get the whisky?''

``He said a fat hell on Big Hans.''

``Don't be smart. Did you ask him about the whisky?''

``Yeah.''