The Dark Tower

“Susa

“I’m not hurt, Roland, I just slappedmyself upside the head a little harder than I m—” Then she looked at herhand and was dismayed to see it was wearing a red glove.

Nine

Oy barked again. Roland snatched the napkinfrom beside his overturned cup. One end was brown and soaking with coffee, butthe other was dry. He pressed it against the gushing sore and Susa

“Nay, let me stop the bleeding at least,”Roland murmured, and grasped her head, working his fingers gently into thetight cap of her curls. “Hold steady.” And for him she managed to do it.

Through her watering eyes Susa

Mixed with this memory was fear concerningthe sore itself. What if it was cancer? Before, she’d always been able tothrust this idea away before it was fully articulated in her mind. This timeshe couldn’t. What if she’d caught her stupid self a cancer on her trek throughthe Badlands?

Her stomach knotted, then heaved. She kepther fine di

Suddenly she wanted to be alone, neededto be alone. If she was going to vomit, she didn’t want to do it in front ofRoland and this stranger. Even if she wasn’t, she wanted some time to getherself back under control. A gust of wind strong enough to shake the entirecottage roared past like a hot-enj in full flight; the lights flickered and herstomach knotted again at the sea-sick motion of the shadows on the wall.

“I’ve got to go… the bathroom…” she managedto say. For a moment the world wavered, but then it steadied down again. In thefireplace a knot of wood exploded, shooting a flurry of crimson sparks up thechimney.

“You sure?” Joe asked. He was no longerangry (if he had been), but he was looking at her doubtfully.

“Let her go,” Roland said. “She needs tosettle herself down, I think.”

Susa

“I’ll be back,” she said. “Don’t you boysgo and eat all the rest of that pudding on me.” The very thought of food madeher feel ill, but it was something to say.

“On the subject of pudding, I make nopromise,” Roland said. Then, as she began to turn away: “If thee feelslight-headed in there, call me.”

“I will,” she said. “Thank you, Roland.”

Ten

Although Joe Collins lived alone, hisbathroom had a pleasantly feminine feel to it. Susa

On one side of the john there was a stool,on the other a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment that made her think ofHitchcock’s Psycho (but every shower made her think of thatdamned movie since she’d seen it in Times Square). There was also a porcelainwashstand set in a waist-high wooden cabinet—good old plainoak ratherthan ironwood, she judged. There was a mirror above it. She presumed you swungit out and there were your pills and potions. All the comforts of home.

She removed the napkin with a wince and alittle hissing cry. It had stuck in the drying blood, and pulling it away hurt.She was dismayed by the amount of blood on her cheeks, lips, and chin—notto mention her neck and the shoulder of her shirt. She told herself not to letit make her crazy; you ripped the top off something and it was going to bleed,that was all. Especially if it was on your stupid face.

In the other room she heard Joe saysomething, she couldn’t tell what, and Roland’s response: a few words with achuckle tacked on at the end. So weird to hear him do that, she thought.Almost like he’s drunk. Had she ever seen Roland drunk? She realized shehad not. Never falling-down drunk, never mother-naked, never fully caught by laughter…until now.

Ten’ yo business, woman, Detta toldher.

“All right,” she muttered. “All right, allright.”

Thinking drunk. Thinking naked. Thinkinglost in laughter. Thinking they were all so close to being the same thing.

Maybe they were the same thing.

Then she got up on the stool and turned onthe water. It came in a gush, blotting out the sounds from the other room.

She settled for cold, splashing it gentlyon her face, then using a facecloth—even more gently—to clean theskin around the sore. When that was done, she patted the sore itself. Doing itdidn’t hurt as much as she’d been afraid it might. Susa

She spread the facecloth on the side of thebasin to dry, then plucked a towel (it was the same shade of pink as thewallpaper) from a fluffy stack on a nearby shelf. She got it halfway to herface, then froze. There was a piece of notepaper lying on the next towel in thestack. It was headed with a flower-decked bench being lowered by a pair ofhappy cartoon angels. Beneath was this printed, bold-face line:

And, in faded fountain pen ink:

Frowning, Susa

In the other room, Joe continued to speakand this time Roland burst out laughing instead of just chuckling. It soundedto Susa