Doctor Sleep: A Novel

curiosity.
    Sometimes she could make people do things. Not everyone, not even half of everyone, but a lot of people were very open to suggestions. (Probably they were the same ones who thought the stuff they sold on TV really would take away their wrinkles or make their hair grow back.) Abra knew this was a talent that could grow if she exercised it like a muscle, but she didn’t. It scared her.
    There were other things, too, some for which she had no name, but the one she was thinking about now did have one. She called it far-seeing. Like the other aspects of her special talent, it came and went, but if she really wanted it—and if she had an object to fix upon—she could usually summon it.
    I could do that now.
    “Shut up, Abba-Doo,” she said in a low, strained voice. “Shut up, Abba-Doo-Doo.”
    She opened Early Algebra to tonight’s homework page, which she had bookmarked with a sheet on which she had written the names Boyd, Steve, Cam, and Pete at least twenty times each. Collectively they were ’Round Here, her favorite boy band. So hot, especially Cam. Her best friend, Emma Deane, thought so, too. Those blue eyes, that careless tumble of blond hair.
    Maybe I could help. His parents would be sad, but at least they’d know.
    “Shut up, Abba-Doo. Shut up, Abba-Doo-Doo-For-Brains.”
    If 5x - 4 = 26, what does x equal?
    “Sixty zillion!” she said. “Who cares?”
    Her eyes fell on the names of the cute boys in ’Round Here, written in the pudgy cursive she and Emma affected (“Writing looks more romantic that way,” Emma had decreed), and all at once they looked stupid and babyish and all wrong. They cut him up and licked his blood and then they did something even worse to him . In a world where something like that could happen, mooning over a boy band seemed worse than wrong.
    Abra slammed her book shut, went downstairs (the click-click-click from her dad’s study continued unabated) and out to the garage. She retrieved the Shopper from the trash, brought it up to her room, and smoothed it flat on her desk.
    All those faces, but right now she cared about only one.
    7
    Her heart was thumping hard-hard-hard. She had been scared before when she consciously tried to far-see or thought-read, but never scared like this. Never even close.
    What are you going to do if you find out?
    That was a question for later, because she might not be able to. A sneaking, cowardly part of her mind hoped for that.
    Abra put the first two fingers of her left hand on the picture of Bradley Trevor because her left hand was the one that saw better. She would have liked to get all her fingers on it (and if it had been an object, she would have held it), but the picture was too small. Once her fingers were on it she couldn’t even see it anymore. Except she could. She saw it very well.
    Blue eyes, like Cam Knowles’s in ’Round Here. You couldn’t tell from the picture, but they were that same deep shade. She knew .
    Right-handed, like me. But left-handed like me, too. It was the left hand that knew what pitch was coming next, fastball or curveb—
    Abra gave a little gasp. The baseball boy had known things.
    The baseball boy really had been like her.
    Yes, that’s right. That’s why they took him .
    She closed her eyes and saw his face. Bradley Trevor. Brad, to his friends. The baseball boy. Sometimes he turned his cap around because that way it was a rally cap. His father was a farmer. His mother cooked pies and sold them at a local restaurant, also at the family farmstand. When his big brother went away to college, Brad took all his AC/DC discs. He and his best friend, Al, especially liked the song “Big Balls.” They’d sit on Brad’s bed and sing it together and laugh and laugh.
    He walked through the corn and a man was waiting for him. Brad thought he was a nice man, one of the good guys, because the man—
    “Barry,” Abra whispered in a low voice. Behind her closed lids, her eyes moved rapidly back and forth like those of a sleeper in the grip of a vivid dream. “His name was Barry the Chunk. He fooled you, Brad. Didn’t he?”
    But not just Barry. If it had been just him, Brad might have known. It had to be all of the Flashlight People working together, sending the same thought: that it would be okay to get into Barry the Chunk’s truck or camper-van or whatever it was, because Barry was good. One of the good guys. A friend.
    And they took him . . .
    Abra went deeper. She didn’t bother with what