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Elaine
sometimes
joins
me
for
AMC
's
so-called
Early
Bird
Matinee
,
which
starts
at
4:00
a.m.
--
she
does
n't
say
much
about
it
,
but
I
know
her
arthritis
hurts
her
something
terrible
,
and
that
the
drugs
they
give
her
do
n't
help
much
anymore
.
When
she
came
in
this
morning
,
gliding
like
a
ghost
in
her
white
terrycloth
robe
,
she
found
me
sitting
on
the
lumpy
sofa
,
bent
over
the
scrawny
sticks
that
used
to
be
legs
,
and
clutching
my
knees
to
try
and
still
the
shakes
that
were
running
through
me
like
a
high
wind
.
I
felt
cold
all
over
,
except
for
my
groin
,
which
seemed
to
burn
with
the
ghost
of
the
urinary
infection
which
had
so
troubled
my
life
in
the
fall
of
1932
--
the
fall
of
John
Coffey
,
Percy
Wetmore
,
and
Mr.
Jingles
,
the
trained
mouse
.
The
fall
of
William
Wharton
,
it
had
been
,
too
.
"
Paul
!
"
Elaine
cried
,
and
hurried
over
to
me
--
hurried
as
fast
as
the
rusty
nails
and
ground
glass
in
her
hips
would
allow
,
anyway
.
"
Paul
,
what
's
wrong
?
"
"
I
'll
be
all
right
,
"
I
said
,
but
the
words
did
n't
sound
very
convincing
--
they
came
out
all
uneven
,
through
teeth
that
wanted
to
chatter
.
"
Just
give
me
a
minute
or
two
,
I
'll
be
right
as
rain
.
"
She
sat
next
to
me
and
put
her
arm
around
my
shoulders
.
"
I
'm
sure
,
"
she
said
.
"
But
what
happened
?
For
heaven
's
sake
,
Paul
,
you
look
like
you
saw
a
ghost
.
"
I
did
,
I
thought
,
and
did
n't
realize
until
her
eyes
widened
that
I
'd
said
it
out
loud
.
"
Not
really
.
"
I
said
,
and
patted
her
hand
(
gently
--
so
gently
!
)
.
"
But
for
a
minute
.
Elaine
--
God
!
"
"
Was
it
from
the
time
when
you
were
a
guard
at
the
prison
?
"
she
asked
.
"
The
time
that
you
've
been
writing
about
in
the
solarium
?
"
I
nodded
.
