Chapter 7

           Itwastwenty-fivemilestoHalMoores’shouseonChimneyRidge,andinHarryTerwilliger’sslowandrattlyfarmtruck,thetriptookoveranhour.Itwasaneerieride,andalthoughitseemstomenowthateverymomentofitisstilletchedinmymemoryeveryturn,everybump,everydip,thescarytimes(twoofthem)whentruckspassedusgoingtheotherwayIdon’tthinkIcouldcomeevenclosetodescribinghowIfelt,sittingbacktherewithJohnCoffey,bothofusbundleduplikeIndiansintheoldblanketsHarryhadbeenthoughtfulenoughtobringalong.

           Itwas,mostofall,asenseoflostnessthedeepandterribleacheachildfeelswhenherealizeshehasgonewrongsomewhere,allthelandmarksarestrange,andhenolongerknowshowtofindhiswayhome.Iwasoutinthenightwithaprisonernotjustanyprisoner,butonewhohadbeentriedandconvictedforthemurderoftwolittlegirls,andsentencedtodieforthecrime.Mybeliefthathewasinnocentwouldn’tmatterifwewerecaught;wewouldgotojailourselves,andprobablyDeanStantonwould,too.IhadthrownoveralifeofworkandbeliefbecauseofonebadexecutionandbecauseIbelievedtheovergrownlummoxsittingbesidememightbeabletocureawoman’sinoperablebraintumor.

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