“Susannah’s hurt herself.” The gunslingerwas up and looking at her, laughter lost in concern.

“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 Susannah wincedaway from his touch at first, her eyes filling with tears.

“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 Susannah thoughtJoe still looked pissed that she had interrupted his comedy routine in suchdrastic (not to mention messy) fashion, and in a way she didn’t blame him. He’dbeen doing a really good job; she’d gone and spoiled it. Aside from the pain,which was abating a little now, she was horribly embarrassed, remembering thetime she had started her period in gym class and a little trickle of blood hadrun down her thigh for the whole world to see—that part of it with whomshe had third-period PE, at any rate. Some of the girls had begun chanting Plugit UP!, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

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 dinner in its place, but perhaps only for the time being.

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.”

Susannah began to give him a gratefulsmile, but it hurt the sore place and started it bleeding again, too. Shedidn’t know what else might change in the immediate future thanks to the dumb,unhealing sore, but she did know she was done listening to jokes forawhile. She’d need a transfusion if she did much more laughing.

“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. Susannah had noticed that thefirst time she’d used it. The wallpaper was pink, with green leavesand—what else?—wild roses. The john looked perfectly modern exceptfor the ring, which was wood instead of plastic. Had he carved it himself? Shedidn’t think it was out of the question, although probably the robot hadbrought it from some forgotten store of stuff. Stuttering Carl? Was that whatJoe called the robot? No, Bill. Stuttering Bill.

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. Susannah was a littleencouraged. When she was done, she rinsed out Joe’s facecloth before thebloodstains could set and leaned close to the mirror. What she saw made herbreathe a sigh of relief. Slapping her hand incautiously to her face like thathad torn the entire top off the sore, but maybe in the end that would turn outto be for the best. One thing was for sure: if Joe had a bottle of hydrogen peroxideor some kind of antibiotic cream in his medicine cabinet, she intended to givethe damned mess a good cleaning-out while it was open. And ne’mine how much itmight sting. Such a cleansing was due and overdue. Once it was finished, she’dbandage it over and then just hope for the best.

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, Susannah plucked the sheet ofnotepaper from the stack of towels. Who had left it here? Joe? She doubted itlike hell. She turned the paper over. Here the same hand had written:

In the other room, Joe continued to speakand this time Roland burst out laughing instead of just chuckling. It soundedto Susannah as if Joe had resumed his monologue. In a way she could understandthat—he’d been doing something he loved, something he hadn’t had a chanceto do in a good long stretch of years—but part of her didn’t like the ideaat all. That Joe would resume while she was in the bathroom tending to herself,that Roland would let him resume. Would listen and laugh while she wasshedding blood. It seemed like a rotten, boys-clubby kind of thing to do. Shesupposed she had gotten used to better from Eddie.