Doctor Sleep: A Novel

with Casey Kingsley and some other guys in the Program to pay Twelfth Step calls on men who were over their heads in drugs or booze. Sometimes it was friends or bosses who asked for this service; more often it was relatives who had exhausted every other resource and were at their wits’ end. They’d had a few successes over the years, but most visits ended with slammed doors or an invitation for Casey and his friends to stick their sanctimonious, quasireligious bullshit up their asses. One fellow, a meth-addled veteran of George Bush’s splendid Iraq adventure, had actually waved a pistol at them. Heading back from the Chocorua hole-in-the-wall shack where the vet was denned up with his terrified wife, Dan had said, “ That was a waste of time.”
    “It would be if we did it for them,” Casey said, “but we don’t. We do it for us. You like the life you’re living, Danny-boy?” It wasn’t the first time he had asked this question, and it wouldn’t be the last.
    “Yes.” No hesitation on that score. Maybe he wasn’t the president of General Motors or doing nude love scenes with Kate Winslet, but in Dan’s mind, he had it all.
    “Think you earned it?”
    “No,” Dan said, smiling. “Not really. Can’t earn this.”
    “So what was it that got you back to a place where you like getting up in the morning? Was it luck or grace?”
    He’d believed that Casey wanted him to say it was grace, but during the sober years he had learned the sometimes uncomfortable habit of honesty. “I don’t know.”
    “That’s okay, because when your back’s against the wall, there’s no difference.”
    5
    “Abra, Abra, Abra,” he said as he walked up the path to Rivington House. “What have you gotten yourself into, girl? And what are you getting me into?”
    He was thinking he’d have to try to get in touch with her by using the shining, which was never completely reliable, but when he stepped into his turret room, he saw that wouldn’t be necessary. Written neatly on his blackboard was this:
    [email protected]
    He puzzled over her screen name for a few seconds, then got it and laughed. “Good one, kid, good one.”
    He powered up his laptop. A moment later, he was looking at a blank email form. He typed in her address and then sat watching the blinking cursor. How old was she? As far as he could calculate by their few previous communications, somewhere between a wise twelve and a slightly naïve sixteen. Probably closer to the former. And here he was, a man old enough to have salt speckles in his stubble if he skipped shaving. Here he was, getting ready to start compu-chatting with her. To Catch a Predator, anyone?
    Maybe it’s nothing . It could be; she’s just a kid, after all.
    Yes, but one who was damn scared. Plus, he was curious about her. Had been for some time. The same way, he supposed, that Hallorann had been curious about him.
    I could use a little bit of grace right now. And a whole lot of luck .
    In the SUBJECT box at the top of the email form, Dan wrote Hello Abra . He dropped the cursor, took a deep breath, and typed four words: Tell me what’s wrong .
    6
    On the following Saturday afternoon, Dan was sitting in bright sunshine on one of the benches outside the ivy-covered stone building that housed the Anniston Public Library. He had a copy of the Union Leader open in front of him, and there were words on the page, but he had no idea what they said. He was too nervous.
    Promptly at two o’clock, a girl in jeans rode up on her bike and lodged it in the rack at the foot of the lawn. She gave him a wave and a big smile.
    So. Abra. As in Cadabra.
    She was tall for her age, most of that height in her legs. Masses of curly blond hair were held back in a thick ponytail that looked ready to rebel and spray everywhere. The day was a bit chilly, and she was wearing a light jacket with ANNISTON CYCLONES screen-printed on the back. She grabbed a couple of books that were bungee-corded to the rear bumper of her bike, then ran up to him, still with that open smile. Pretty but not beautiful. Except for her wide-set blue eyes. They were beautiful.
    “Uncle Dan! Gee, it’s good to see you!” And she gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. That hadn’t been in the script. Her confidence in his basic okayness was terrifying.
    “Good to see you, too, Abra. Sit down.”
    He had told her they would have to be careful, and Abra—a child of her culture—understood at once. They had agreed that the best