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I
went
down
to
John
Coffey
.
He
wiped
away
his
tears
with
the
heels
of
his
hands
.
His
eyes
were
red
and
sore-looking
,
and
it
came
to
me
that
he
was
exhausted
,
too
.
Why
he
should
have
been
,
a
man
who
trudged
around
the
exercise
yard
maybe
two
hours
a
day
and
either
sat
or
laid
down
in
his
cell
the
rest
of
the
time
,
I
did
n't
know
,
but
I
did
n't
doubt
what
I
was
seeing
.
It
was
too
clear
.
"
Poor
Del
,
"
he
said
in
a
low
,
hoarse
voice
.
"
Poor
old
Del.
"
"
Yes
,
"
I
said
.
"
Poor
old
Del.
.
John
,
are
you
okay
?
"
"
He
's
out
of
it
,
"
Coffey
said
.
"
Del
's
out
of
it
.
Is
n't
he
,
boss
?
"
"
Yes
.
Answer
my
question
,
John
.
Are
you
okay
?
"
"
Del
's
out
of
it
,
he
's
the
lucky
one
.
No
matter
how
it
happened
,
he
's
the
lucky
one
.
"
I
thought
Delacroix
might
have
given
him
an
argument
on
that
,
but
did
n't
say
so
.
I
glanced
around
Coffey
's
cell
,
instead
.
"
Where
's
Mr.
Jingles
?
"
"
Ran
down
there
.
"
He
pointed
through
the
bars
,
down
the
hall
to
the
restraint-room
door
.
I
nodded
.
"
Well
,
he
'll
be
back
.
"
But
he
was
n't
;
Mr.
Jingles
's
days
on
the
Green
Mile
were
over
.
The
only
trace
of
him
we
ever
happened
on
was
what
Brutal
found
that
winter
:
a
few
brightly
colored
splinters
of
wood
,
and
a
smell
of
peppermint
candy
wafting
out
of
a
hole
in
a
beam
.
