(no subject)
"Can I give you some advice?" the young woman asks as they prepare to get off the plane.
Roland nods, his eyes on the moving line.
"Leave town."
"That," Roland says, absently, "is the plan."
She hesitates. "Look, I don't talk to strangers on planes, it's just -- "
"Stop." Roland is very calm. "Stop right there." Because he knows that she knows; no need to speak of it. No need to make it ugly, or draw attention.
She stands in the aisle, reaches for the overhead bin, draws out a long blue coat -- dark blue, nearly black. "Just take this, okay? It's going to be cold."
He doesn't see her on the concourse, and he doesn't see her in the terminal. It's night, and by the time he finds his way out, she's gone.
***
The coat fits.
The wrists are a little short for him. No matter. It fits across his shoulders, and he can button it. And it is cold -- the wind a knife, if nothing else, and Roland knows he'll need the coat where he's going.
He does not intend to take the bus.
From his vantage point he can see the glow that's the city proper -- a dozen wheels at least, he thinks, before he gets there. He could get there by morning. The air is dry; there's no smell of snow.
He starts walking, dim.
The red eyes he sees very clearly in the night. The shape takes a while longer, in the shadows: a horse, massive, ugly, evil-looking.
A waste of bullets, mayhap, but worth it.
When he's close enough, Roland shoots out the eyes and moves on.
It's a long, cold walk down Peña Boulevard in the middle of the night; Roland has made long, cold walks before. Midnight finds him in Stapleton; he steps on a near-empty bus after a tired woman (the dim don't pay fare) and rides the rest of the way into town. Dim gets him a cup of coffee after a ride on the 15 bus, and Roland watches the sun come up over a long avenue that never gets really quiet.
A billboard catches his attention around four: a horse, a steer. Some words he can make out; he squints at these.
STOCK SHOW, they say.
Roland Deschain (sitting in an all-night diner -- a Denver landmark since 1942, say the menus -- on Colfax Avenue, US 40, one of the thoroughfares that bisects the city and runs through the Rocky Mountains and down the other side) contemplates this billboard, and the horse on it, and smiles.
Roland nods, his eyes on the moving line.
"Leave town."
"That," Roland says, absently, "is the plan."
She hesitates. "Look, I don't talk to strangers on planes, it's just -- "
"Stop." Roland is very calm. "Stop right there." Because he knows that she knows; no need to speak of it. No need to make it ugly, or draw attention.
She stands in the aisle, reaches for the overhead bin, draws out a long blue coat -- dark blue, nearly black. "Just take this, okay? It's going to be cold."
He doesn't see her on the concourse, and he doesn't see her in the terminal. It's night, and by the time he finds his way out, she's gone.
***
The coat fits.
The wrists are a little short for him. No matter. It fits across his shoulders, and he can button it. And it is cold -- the wind a knife, if nothing else, and Roland knows he'll need the coat where he's going.
He does not intend to take the bus.
From his vantage point he can see the glow that's the city proper -- a dozen wheels at least, he thinks, before he gets there. He could get there by morning. The air is dry; there's no smell of snow.
He starts walking, dim.
The red eyes he sees very clearly in the night. The shape takes a while longer, in the shadows: a horse, massive, ugly, evil-looking.
A waste of bullets, mayhap, but worth it.
When he's close enough, Roland shoots out the eyes and moves on.
It's a long, cold walk down Peña Boulevard in the middle of the night; Roland has made long, cold walks before. Midnight finds him in Stapleton; he steps on a near-empty bus after a tired woman (the dim don't pay fare) and rides the rest of the way into town. Dim gets him a cup of coffee after a ride on the 15 bus, and Roland watches the sun come up over a long avenue that never gets really quiet.
A billboard catches his attention around four: a horse, a steer. Some words he can make out; he squints at these.
STOCK SHOW, they say.
Roland Deschain (sitting in an all-night diner -- a Denver landmark since 1942, say the menus -- on Colfax Avenue, US 40, one of the thoroughfares that bisects the city and runs through the Rocky Mountains and down the other side) contemplates this billboard, and the horse on it, and smiles.