humans and the heads of animals, no places called Fedic or Castle Discordia.
Most of all, there are no gunslingers. John Kennedy was the last, her chauffeur Andrew was right about that.
"Broughtyou hot chocolate, "Eddie says and holds it out to her. It's the perfect cup of hot chocolate, mit schlag on top and little sprinkles of nutmeg dotting the cream; she can smell it, and as she takes it she can feel his fingers inside his gloves and the first flakes of that winters snow drift down between them. She thinks how good it is to be alive in plain old New York, how great that reality is reality, that they are together in the Year of Our Lord-
What Year of Our Lord?
She frowns, because this is a serious question, isn't it? After all, Eddie's an eighties man and she never got any further than 1964 (or was it '65?). As for Jake, Jake Chambers with the toord CHRISTMAS printed on the front of his happy hat, isn't he from the seventies? And if the three of them represent three decades from the second half of the twentieth century, what is their commonality? What year is this?
"NINETEEN," says a voice out of the air (perhaps it is the voice of Bango Skank, the Great Lost Character), "this is NINETEEN, this is CHASSIT. All your friends are dead."
With each word the world becomes more unreal. She can see through Eddie and Jake. When she looks doion at the polar bear she sees it's lying dead on its rock island with its paws in the air. The good smell of hot chocolate is fading, being replaced by a musty smell: old plaster, ancient wood. The odor of a hotel room where no one has slept for years.
No, her mind moans. No, I want Central Park, I want Mr.
MERRY and Mr. CHRISTMAS, I want the smell of hot chocolate and the sight of December's first hesitant snowflakes, I've had enough of Fedic, In-World, Mid-World, and End-World. I want Afy-World. I don't care if I ever see the Dark Tower.
Eddie's and Jake's lips move in unison, as if they are singing a song she can't hear, but it's not a song; the words she reads on their lips just before the dream breaks apart are
FOUR
"Watch out for Dandelo."
She woke up with these words on her own lips, shivering in the early not-quite-dawn light. And the breath-seeing part of her dream was true, if no other. She felt her cheeks and wiped away the wetness tihere. It wasn't quite cold enough to freeze die tears to her skin, but just-a-damn-bout.
She looked around the dreary room here in the Fedic Hotel, wishing witfi all her heart tfiat her dream of Central Park had been true. For one thing, she'd had to sleep on the floor-the bed was basically nothing but a rust-sculpture waiting to disintegrate-and her back was stiff. For another, the blankets she'd used as a makeshift mattress and the ones she'd wrapped around her had all torn to rags as she tossed and turned. The air was heavy with their dust, tickling her nose and coating her throat, making her feel like she was coming down with the world's worst cold. Speaking of cold, she was shivering. And she needed to pee, which meant dragging herself down the hall on her stumps and half-numbed hands.
And none of that was really what was wrong with Susannah Odetta Holmes Dean this morning, all right? The problem was that she had just come from a beautiful dream to a world
(this is NINETEEN all your friends are dead)
where she was now so lonely that she felt half-crazy with it.
The problem was that the place where the sky was brightening was not necessarily the east. The problem was that she was tired and sad, homesick and heartsore, griefstruck and depressed. The problem was that, in this hour before dawn, in this frontier museum-piece of a hotel room where the air was full of musty blanket-fibers, she felt as if all but the last two ounces of fuck-you had been squeezed out of her. She wanted the dream back.
She wanted Eddie.
"I see you're up, too," said a voice, and Susannah whirled around, pivoting on her hands so quickly she picked up a splinter.
The gunslinger leaned against the door between the room and the hall. He had woven the straps into the sort of carrier with which she was all too familiar, and it hung over his left shoulder.