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Just
about
then
three
orderlies
went
trotting
past
,
all
headed
for
the
west
wing
,
yelling
at
the
folks
clustered
around
the
TV-room
door
to
go
outside
and
wait
for
the
all-clear
.
The
third
in
line
was
Brad
Dolan
.
He
did
n't
even
look
at
me
as
he
went
past
,
a
fact
that
pleased
me
to
no
end
.
As
I
went
on
down
toward
the
kitchen
,
it
occurred
to
me
that
the
team
of
Elaine
Connelly
and
Paul
Edgecombe
would
probably
be
a
match
for
a
dozen
Brad
Dolans
,
with
half
a
dozen
Percy
Wetmores
thrown
in
for
good
measure
.
The
cooks
in
the
kitchen
were
continuing
to
clear
up
breakfast
,
paying
no
attention
to
the
howling
fire
.
alarm
at
all
.
"
Say
,
Mr.
Edgecombe
,
"
George
said
.
"
I
believe
Brad
Dolan
been
lookin
for
you
.
In
fact
,
you
just
missed
him
.
"
Lucky
me
,
I
thought
.
What
I
said
out
loud
was
that
I
'd
probably
see
Mr.
Dolan
later
.
Then
I
asked
if
there
was
any
leftover
toast
lying
around
from
breakfast
.
"
Sure
,
"
Norton
said
,
"
but
it
's
stone-cold
dead
in
the
market
.
You
runnin
late
this
morning
.
"
"
I
am
,
"
I
agreed
,
"
but
I
'm
hungry
.
"
"
Only
take
a
minute
to
make
some
fresh
and
hot
,
"
George
said
,
reaching
for
the
bread
.
"
Nope
,
cold
will
be
fine
,
"
I
said
,
and
when
he
handed
me
a
couple
of
slices
(
looking
mystified
--
actually
both
of
them
looked
mystified
)
,
I
hurried
out
the
door
,
feeling
like
the
boy
I
once
was
,
skipping
school
to
go
fishing
with
a
jelly
fold-over
wrapped
in
waxed
paper
slipped
into
the
front
of
my
shirt
.
Outside
the
kitchen
door
I
took
a
quick
,
reflexive
look
around
for
Dolan
,
saw
nothing
to
alarm
me
,
and
hurried
across
the
croquet
course
and
putting
green
,
gnawing
on
one
of
my
pieces
of
toast
as
I
went
.
I
slowed
a
little
as
I
entered
the
shelter
of
the
woods
,
and
as
I
walked
down
the
path
,
I
found
my
mind
turning
to
the
day
after
Eduard
Delacroix
's
terrible
execution
.
I
had
spoken
to
Hal
Moores
that
morning
,
and
he
had
told
me
that
Melinda
's
brain
tumor
had
caused
her
to
lapse
into
bouts
of
cursing
and
foul
language
...
what
my
wife
had
later
labelled
(
rather
tentatively
;
she
was
n't
sure
it
was
really
the
same
thing
)
as
Tourette
's
Syndrome
.
The
quavering
in
his
voice
,
coupled
with
the
memory
of
how
John
Coffey
had
healed
both
my
urinary
infection
and
the
broken
back
of
Delacroix
's
pet
mouse
,
had
finally
pushed
me
over
the
line
that
runs
between
just
thinking
about
a
thing
and
actually
doing
a
thing
.
