Quite a kid he thought as he walked down to Danny's room. All of that and then some.

The overhead was still on. Jack crossed to the bunk setup, and as he glanced at the table beside it, his skin crawled into goose flesh. The short hairs on his neck prickled and tried to stand erect.

He could hardly see the nest through the clear Pyrex bowl. The inside of the glass was crawling with wasps. It was hard to tell how many. Fifty at least. Maybe a hundred.

His heart thudding slowly in his chest, he took his pictures and then set the camera down to wait for them to develop. He wiped his lips with the palm of his hand. One thought played over and over in his mind, echoing with

(You lost your temper. You lost your temper. You lost your temper.)

an almost superstitious dread. They had come back. He had killed the wasps but they had come back.

In his mind he heard himself screaming into his frightened, crying son's face: Don't stutter/

He wiped his lips again.

He went to Danny's worktable, rummaged in its drawers, and came up with a big jigsaw puzzle with a fiberboard backing. He took it over to the bedtable and carefully slid the bowl and the nest onto it. The wasps buzzed angrily inside their prison. Then, putting his hand firmly on top of the bowl so it wouldn't slip, he went out into the hall.

“Coming to bed, Jack?” Wendy asked.

“Coming to bed, Daddy?”

“Have to go downstairs for a minute,” he said, making his voice light.

How had it happened? How in God's name?

The bomb sure hadn't been a dud. He had seen the thick white smoke start to puff out of it when he had pulled the ring. And when he had gone up two hours later, he had shaken a drift of small dead bodies out of the hole in the top.

Then how? Spontaneous regeneration?

That was crazy. Seventeenth-century bullshit. Insects didn't regenerate. And even if wasp eggs could mature full-grown insects in twelve hours, this wasn't the season in which the queen laid. That happened in April or May. Fall was their dying time.

A living contradiction, the wasps buzzed furiously under the bowl.

He took them downstairs and through the kitchen. In back there was a door which gave on the outside. A cold night wind blew against his nearly naked body, and his feet went numb almost instantly against the cold concrete of the platform he was standing on, the platform where milk deliveries were made during the hotel's operating season. He put the puzzle and the bowl down carefully, and when he stood up he looked at the thermometer nailed outside the door. FRESH UP WITH 7-up, the thermometer said, and the mercury stood at an even twenty-five degrees. The cold would kill them by morning. He went in and shut the door firmly. After a moment's thought he locked it, too.

He crossed the kitchen again and shut off the lights. He stood in the darkness for a moment, thinking, wanting a drink. Suddenly the hotel seemed full of a thousand stealthy sounds: creakings and groans and the sly sniff of the wind under the eaves where more wasps' nests might be hanging like deadly fruit.

They had come back.

And suddenly he found that he didn't like the Overlook so well anymore, as if it wasn't wasps that had stung his son, wasps that had miraculously lived through the bug bomb assault, but the hotel itself.

His last thought before going upstairs to his wife and son

(from now on you will hold your temper. No Mattes What.)

was firm and hard and sure.

As he went down the hall to them he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

17. The Doctor's Office

Stripped to his underpants, lying on the examination table, Danny Torrance looked very small. He was looking up at Dr. (“Just call me Bill”) Edmonds, who was wheeling a large black machine up beside him. Danny rolled his eyes to get a better look at it.

“Don't let it scare you, guy,” Bill Edmonds said. “It's an electroencephalograph, and it doesn't hurt.”

“Electro-”

“We call it EEG for short. I'm going to hook a bunch of wires to your head- no, not stick them in, only tape them-and the pens in this part of the gadget will record your brain waves.”

“Like on `The Six Million Dollar Man'?”

“About the same. Would you like to be like Steve Austin when you grow up?”

“No way,” Danny said as the nurse began to tape the wires to a number of tiny shaved spots on his scalp. “My daddy says that someday he'll get a short circuit and then he'll be up sh… he'll be up the creek.”

“I know that creek well,” Dr. Edmonds said amiably. “I've been up it a few times myself, sans paddle. An EEG can tell us lots of things, Danny.”

“Like what?”

“Like for instance if you have epilepsy. That's a little problem where-”

“Yeah, I know what epilespy is.”

“Really?”

“Sure. There was a kid in my nursery school back in Vermont-I went to nursery school when I was a little kid-and he had it. He wasn't supposed to use the flashboard.”

“What was that, Dan?” He had turned on the machine. Thin lines began to trace their way across graph paper.

“It had all these lights, all different colors. And when you turned it on, some colors would flash but not all. And you had to count the colors and if you pushed the right button, you could turn it off. Brent couldn't use that.”

“That's because bright flashing lights sometimes cause an epileptic seizure.”

“You mean using the flashboard might've made Brent pitch a fit?”

Edmonds and the nurse exchanged a brief, amused glance. “Inelegantly but accurately put, Danny.”

“What?”

“I said you're right, except you should say `seizure' instead of `pitch a fit. ' That's not nice… okay, lie just as still as a mouse now.”

“Okay.”

“Danny, when you have these… whatever they ares, do you ever recall seeing bright flashing lights before?”

“No…,

“Funny noises? Ringing? Or chimes like a doorbell?”

“Huh-uh.”

“How about a funny smell, maybe like oranges or sawdust? Or a smell like something rotten?”

“No, Sir.”

“Sometimes do you feel like crying before you pass out? Even though you don't feel sad?”

“No way.”

“That's fine, then.”

“Have I got epilepsy, Dr. Bill?”

“I don't think so, Danny. Just lie still. Almost done.”

The machine hummed and scratched for another five minutes and then Dr. Edmonds shut it off.

“All done, guy,” Edmonds said briskly. “Let Sally get those electrodes off you and then come into the next room. I want to have a little talk with you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Sally, you go ahead and give him a tine test before he comes in.”

“All right.”

Edmonds ripped off the long curl of paper the machine had extruded and went into the next room, looking at it.

“I'm going to prick your arm just a little,” the nurse said after Danny had pulled up his pants. “It's to make sure you don't have TB.”

“They gave me that at my school just last year,” Danny said without much hope.

“But that was a long time ago and you're a big boy now, right?”

“I guess so,” Danny sighed, and offered his arm up for sacrifice.

When he had his shirt and shoes on, he went through the sliding door and into Dr. Edmonds's office. Edmonds was sitting on the edge of his desk, swinging his legs thoughtfully.

“Hi, Danny.”

“Hi.”

“How's that hand now?” He pointed at Danny's left hand, which was lightly bandaged.

“Pretty good.”

“Good. I looked at your EEG and it seems fine. But I'm going to send it to a friend of mine in Denver who makes his living reading those things. I just want to make sure.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me about Tony, Dan.”

Danny shuffled his feet. “He's just an invisible friend,” he said. “I made him up. To keep me company.”

Edmonds laughed and put his hands on Danny's shoulders. “Now that's what your Mom and Dad say. But this is just between us, guy. I'm your doctor. Tell me the truth and I'll promise not to tell them unless you say I can.”