Tilly said, "Dessa, I smell the—" and stopped, and her eyes went up.
She went over sideways. Dessa was there, one hand under her head, easing her down to the linoleum. And the child's body went stiff, every muscle in it at once, her arms drawing up and her back arching, and a sound came out of her, a long low groan that did not sound like a child, and then the shaking began.
Toomer had seen seizures in dogs. She had never seen one in a person. She stood frozen behind the counter. Pinckney Prioleau said, "Good God," very softly. Viola Gadsden dropped her pocketbook.
And Bosun went to the office.
He did not look back. He went down the hall at a dead run and Toomer heard him hit her office door, which Cassius had pulled to, and heard his claws on it, digging, and Cassius said, "Lord," and ran after him and shoved the door open, and the dog went in and reared up against the back of it, and Toomer heard the hook rattle and the raincoat fall, and he came back up the hall with the pink backpack in his mouth, the strap in his teeth, the bag banging against his chest, the little purple-haired pony swinging from the zipper. He put it down by Tilly's head. He lay down along her back, the full length of her, pressing in. He put his head over her legs. Then he lifted his head toward the door, toward all of them standing there, and barked. Once. And waited. And once.
"I'm here," Dessa said. "I'm here, Bosun. Good boy. Good. I'm here." She had the bag open. She pulled out the towel and folded it under her sister's head with one hand, the way you'd do a thing you'd done a hundred times. She turned Tilly onto her side against the dog. She took the card out and did not look at it.
"How long," she said. "Somebody tell me how long. I don't have my watch."
"Fifty seconds," said Adelaide Prioleau.