The Dark Tower

Patrick nodded at once, but Roland had now traveled with him long enough to know that such a nod meant little or nothing. Eager to please, that’s what he was. If you asked him if nine and nine made nineteen, he would nod with the same instant enthusiasm.

“When you can’t see it anymore from where you’re sitting . . .” His own words seemed to be coming from far away, now. He’d just have to hope that Patrick understood. The tongueless boy had taken out his pad, at least, and a freshly sharpened pencil.

That’s my best protection, Roland’s mind muttered as he stumbled back to his little pile of hides between the campfire and Ho Fat II. He won’t fall asleep while he’s drawing, will he?

He hoped not, but supposed he didn’t really know. And it didn’t matter, because he, Roland of Gilead, was going to sleep in any case. He’d done the best he could, and it would have to be enough.

“An hour,” he muttered, and his voice was far and wee in his own ears. “Wake me in an hour . . . when the star . . . when Old Mother goes behind . . .”

But Roland was unable to finish. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. Exhaustion grabbed him and bore him swiftly away into dreamless sleep.

SEVEN