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Dan nodded. “Good. Save us both getting frostbite. Just remember what I said. If you don’t want to
go to the hospital, keep your hands to yourself from now on.”
“Who died and left you in charge?”
“I don’t know,” Dan said. “I really don’t.”
7
Dan went back to his room and back to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He had made roughly four dozen
deathbed visits during his time at Rivington House, and usually they left him calm. Not tonight. He
was still trembling with rage. His conscious mind hated that red storm, but some lower part of him
loved it. Probably it went back to plain old genetics; nature triumphing over nurture. The longer he
stayed sober, the more old memories surfaced. Some of the clearest were of his father’s rages. He had
been hoping that Carling would take him up on it. Would go outside into the snow and wind, where
Dan Torrance, son of Jack, would give that worthless puppy his medicine.
God knew he didn’t want to be his father, whose bouts of sobriety had been the white-knuckle
kind. AA was supposed to help with anger, and mostly it did, but there were times like tonight when
Dan realized what a flimsy barrier it was. Times when he felt worthless, and the booze seemed like all
he deserved. At times like that he felt very close to his father.
He thought: Mama.
He thought: Canny.
He thought: Worthless pups need to take their medicine. And you know where they sell it, don’t you?
Damn near everywhere.
The wind rose in a furious gust, making the turret groan. When it died, the blackboard girl was
there. He could almost hear her breathing.
He lifted one hand out from beneath the comforters. For a moment it only hung there in the cold
air, and then he felt hers—small, warm—slip into it. “Abra,” he said. “Your name is Abra, but
sometimes people call you Abby. Isn’t that right?”
No answer came, but he didn’t really need one. All he needed was the sensation of that warm hand
in his. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough to soothe him. He closed his eyes and
slept.
8
Twenty miles away, in the little town of Anniston, Abra Stone lay awake. The hand that had enfolded
hers held on for a moment or two. Then it turned to mist and was gone. But it had been there. He had
been there. She had found him in a dream, but when she woke, she had discovered the dream was real.
She was standing in the doorway of a room. What she had seen there was terrible and wonderful at the
same time. There was death, and death was scary, but there had also been helping. The man who was
helping hadn’t been able to see her, but the cat had. The cat had a name like hers, but not exactly.
He didn’t see me but he felt me. And we were together just now. I think I helped him, like he helped the man
who died.
That was a good thought. Holding onto it (as she had held the phantom hand), Abra rolled over on
her side, hugged her stuffed rabbit to her chest, and went to sleep.