In the Basement

           (!!!Theboilerthegoddamboiler!!!)

           ThethoughtcameintoJackTorrance’smindfull-blown,edgedinbright,warningred.Onitsheels,thevoiceofWatson:

           (Ifyouforgetit’lljustcreepancreepandlikeasnotyouanyourfamblywiltenduponthefuckinmoon…she’sratedfortwo-fiftybutshe’dblowlongbeforethatnow…I’dbescaredtocomedownandstandnexttoheratahundredandeighty.)

           He’dbeendownhereallnight,poringovertheboxesofoldrecords,possessedbyafranticfeelingthattimewasgettingshortandhewouldhavetohurry.Stillthevitalclues,theconnectionsthatwouldmakeeverythingclear,eludedhim.Hisfingerswereyellowandgrimywithcrumblingoldpaper.Andhe’dbecomesoabsorbedhehadn’tcheckedtheboileronce.He’ddumpeditthepreviouseveningaroundsixo’clock,whenhefirstcamedown.Itwasnow…

           Helookedathiswatchandjumpedup,kickingoverestackofoldinvoices.

           Christ,itwasquarteroffiveinthemorning.

           Behindhim,thefurnacekickedon.Theboilerwasmakingagroaning,whistlingsound.

           Herantoit.Hisface,whichhadbecomethinnerinthelastmonthorso,wasnowheavilyshadowedwithbeardstubbleandhehadahollowconcentration-camplook.

           Theboilerpressuregaugestoodattwohundredandtenpoundspersquareinch.