“And you understand that if anything like this ever happens again-”

“It won’t,” the kid says fervently. “It won’t, Professor Jones.” Although Jonesy is only an associate professor, he doesn’t bother to correct him. Someday, after all, he will be Professor Jones. He better be; he and his wife have a houseful of kids, and if there aren’t at least a few salary-bumps in his future, life is apt to be a pretty tough scramble. They’ve had some tough scrambles already.

“I hope not,” he says. “Give me three thousand words on the short-term results of the Norman Conquest, David, all right? Cite sources but no need of footnotes. Keep it informal, but present a cogent thesis. I want it by next Monday. Understood?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Then why don’t you go on and get started.” He points at Defuniak’s tatty footwear. “And the next time you think of buying beer, buy some new sneakers instead. I wouldn’t want you to catch the flu again.”

Defuniak goes to the door, then turns. He is anxious to be gone before Mr Jones changes his mind, but he is also nineteen. And curious. “How did you know? You weren’t even there that day. Some grad student proctored the test.”

“I knew, and that’s enough,” Jonesy says with some asperity. “Go on, son. Write a good paper. Hold onto your scholarship. I’m from Maine myself-Derry-and I know Pittsfield. It’s a better place to be from than to go back to.”

“You got that right,” Defuniak says fervently. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance.”

“Close the door on your way out.”

Defuniak-who will spend his sneaker-money not on beer but on a get-well bouquet for Jonesy-goes out, obediently closing the door behind him. Jonesy swings around and looks out the window again. The sunshine is untrustworthy but enticing. And because the Defuniak thing went better than he had expected, he thinks he wants to get out in that sunlight before more March clouds-and maybe snow-come rolling in. He has planned to eat in his office, but a new plan occurs to him. It is absolutely the worst plan of his life, but of course Jonesy doesn’t know that. The plan is to grab his briefcase, pick up a copy of the Boston Phoenix, and walk across the river to Cambridge. He’ll sit on a bench and eat his egg salad sandwich in the sun.

He gets up to put Defuniak’s file in the cabinet marked D-F. How did you know? the boy had asked, and Jonesy supposes that was a good question. An excellent question, really, The answer is this: he knew because… sometimes he does. That’s the truth, and there’s no other. If someone put a gun to his head, he’d say he found out during the first class after the mid-term, that it was right there in the front of David Defuniak’s mind, big and bright, flashing on and off in guilty red neon: CHEATER CHEATER CHEATER.

But man, that’s dope-he can’t read minds. He never could. Never-ever, never-ever, never-ever could. Sometimes things flash into his head, yes-he knew about his wife’s problems with pills that way, and he supposes he might have known in that same way that Henry was depressed when he called (No, it was in his voice, doofus, that’s all it was), but stuff like that hardly ever happens anymore. There has been nothing really odd since the business with Josie Rinkenhauer. Maybe there was something once, and maybe it trailed them out of their childhoods and adolescence, but surely it is gone now. Or almost gone.

Almost.

He circles the words going to Derry on his desk calendar, then grabs his briefcase. As he does, a new thought comes to him, sudden and meaningless but very powerful: Watch out for Mr Gray.

He stops with one hand on his doorknob. That was his own voice, no doubt about it.

“What?” he asks the empty room.

Nothing.

Jonesy steps out of his office, closes the door, and tests the lock.

In the comer of his door’s bulletin board is a blank white card. Jonesy unpins it and turns it over. On the flip side is the printed message BACK AT ONE-UNTIL THEN I’m HISTORY. He pins the message side to the bulletin board with perfect confidence, but it will be almost two months before Jonesy enters this room again and sees his desk calendar still turned to St Patrick’s Day.

Take care of yourself, Henry said, but Jonesy isn’t thinking about taking care of himself. He is thinking about March sunlight. He’s thinking about eating his sandwich. He’s thinking he might watch a few girls over on the Cambridge side-skirts are short, and March winds are frisky. He’s thinking about all sorts of things, but watching out for Mr Gray isn’t one of them. Neither is taking care of himself

This is a mistake. This is also how lives change forever.

Part One

CANCER

Chapter One

McCARTHY

Jonesy almost shot the guy when he came out of the woods. How close? Another pound on the Garand’s trigger, maybe just a half. Later, hyped on the clarity that sometimes comes to the horrified mind, he wished he had shot before he saw the orange cap and the orange flagman’s vest. Killing Richard McCarthy couldn’t have hurt, and it might have helped. Killing McCarthy might have saved them all.

Pete and Henry had gone to Gosselin’s Market, the closest store, to stock up on bread, canned goods, and beer, the real essential. They had plenty for another two days, but the radio said there might be snow coming. Henry had already gotten his deer, a good-sized doe, and Jonesy had an idea Pete cared a lot more about making sure of the beer supply than he did about getting his own deer-for Pete Moore, hunting was a hobby, beer a religion. The Beaver was out there someplace, but Jonesy hadn’t heard the crack of a rifle any closer than five miles, so he guessed that the Beav, like him, was still waiting,

There was a stand in an old maple about seventy yards from the camp and that was where Jonesy was, sipping coffee and reading a Robert Parker mystery novel, when he heard something coming and put the book and the Thermos aside. In other years he might have spilled the coffee in his excitement, but not this time. This time he even took a few seconds to screw on the Thermos’s bright red stopper.

The four of them had been coming up here to hunt in the first week of November for twenty-six years, if you counted in the times Beav’s Dad had taken them, and Jonesy had never bothered with the tree-stand until now. None of them had; it was too confining. This year Jonesy had staked it out. The others thought they knew why, but they only knew half of it.

In mid-March of 2001, Jonesy had been struck by a car while crossing a street in Cambridge, not far from John Jay College, where he taught. He had fractured his skull, broken two ribs, and suffered a shattered hip, which had been replaced with some exotic combination of Teflon and metal. The man who’d struck him was a retired BU history professor who was-according to his lawyer, anyway-in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, more to be pitied than punished. So often, Jonesy thought, there was no one to blame when the dust cleared. And even if there was, what good did it do? You still had to live with what was left, and console yourself with the fact that, as people told him every day (until they forgot the whole thing, that was), it could have been worse.