"Grandpa," Brently's imploring 7-year-old eyes looked panicked. Brently trudged from his two-story house across the dry lawn to Grandpa Burrell's porch. Burrell was a porch-sitter whenever the chores were done and the weather allowed it. He held his arms out to his favorite grandson.
"What'sa matter, son?" Grandpa knew the answer even before asking. Brently's asthma-strained breaths could be heard before he'd left his own porch 20 yards away. The child often sought comfort in Grandpa's lap during attacks.
"It's bad, Grandpa," Brently wheezed, climbing onto Grandpa Burrell. The Kansas sky was vividly blue with just a few clouds, the temperature in the nineties; this was harvest weather - hot, dry, and breezy - bringing asthmatic people like Brently a heap of trouble.
Brently's long brown legs reached the ground as he draped himself over Grandpa. He smelled the familiar smells of being on Grandpa's lap: peppermints and pipe tobacco. These were his favorite smells because he so loved his Grandpa.