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“What’s eating you?” she said, removing a tray of hot biscuits from the stove.

“What’s eating you?” she said.

“What’s eating you?” she said.

Grampa could tell I was upset, and before I could slip upstairs to sulk in my room, he said, “Hiram, let’s go set in the living room and you can tell me what’s eating you. Ever since you got home from fishing, you’ve looked more miserable than a crawdad in a stew pot.”

“What’s eating you, Hank? Have I said something—” He took her hand and walked her around to the front of the school building.