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adiated multiple shadows, like the spokes of a wheel. “When we’re strong—when we’re one again—
we’re going to find her and take her. I tell you that as your leader. And even if her steam doesn’t cure
the sickness that’s eating us, it’ll be the end of the rotten—”
That was when the girl spoke inside her head. Rose could not see Abra Stone’s angry smile, but she
could feel it.
(don’t bother coming to me, Rose)
In the back of John Dalton’s Suburban, Dan Torrance spoke four clear words in Abra’s voice.
“I’ll come to you.”
8
9
“Billy? Billy!”
Billy Freeman looked at the girl who didn’t exactly sound like a girl. She doubled, came together,
and doubled again. He passed a hand over his face. His eyelids felt heavy and his thoughts seemed
somehow glued together. He couldn’t make sense of this. It wasn’t daylight anymore, and they sure as
hell weren’t on Abra’s street anymore. “Who’s shooting? And who took a shit in my mouth? Christ.”
“Billy, you have to wake up. You have to . . .”
You have to drive was what Dan meant to say, but Billy Freeman wasn’t going to be driving
anywhere. Not for awhile. His eyes were drifting shut again, the lids out of sync. Dan threw one of
Abra’s elbows into the old guy’s side and got his attention again. For the time being, at least.
Headlights flooded the cab of the truck as another car approached. Dan held Abra’s breath, but this
one also went by without slowing. Maybe a woman on her own, maybe a salesman in a hurry to get
home. A bad Samaritan, whoever it was, and bad was good for them, but they might not be lucky a
third time. Rural people tended to be neighborly. Not to mention nosy.
“Stay awake,” he said.
“Who are you?” Billy tried to focus on the kid, but it was impossible. “Because you sure don’t
sound like Abra.”
“It’s complicated. For now, just concentrate on staying awake.”
Dan got out and walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, stumbling several times. Her legs,
which had seemed so long on the day he met her, were too damned short. He only hoped he wouldn’t
have enough time to get used to them.
Crow’s clothes were lying on the seat. His canvas shoes were on the dirty floormat with the socks
trailing out of them. The blood and brains that had splattered his shirt and jacket had cycled out of
existence, but they had left damp spots. Dan gathered everything up and, after a moment’s
consideration, added the gun. He didn’t want to give it up, but if they were stopped . . .
He took the bundle to the front of the truck and buried it beneath a drift of old leaves. Then he
grabbed a piece of the downed birch the F-150 had struck and dragged it over the burial site. It was
hard work with Abra’s arms, but he managed.
He found he couldn’t just step into the cab; he had to pull himself up by the steering wheel. And
once he was finally behind the wheel, her feet barely reached the pedals. Fuck.
Billy gave a galumphing snore, and Dan threw another elbow. Billy opened his eyes and looked
around. “Where are we? Did that guy drug me?” Then: “I think I have to go back to sleep.”
At some point during the final life-or-death struggle for the gun, Crow’s unopened bottle of Fanta