“I had two of those Burger King X-tras for lunch,” he is saying now. “I love those, because the cheese is actually hot.” His fleshy lips-oddly small lips for such a large man, the lips of a perch-tighten and tremble, as if tasting that exquisitely hot cheese. “I also had a shake, and on my way back home I had a couple of Mallomars. I took a nap, and when I got up I microwaved a whole package of those frozen waffles. “Leggo my Eggo!"” he cries, then laughs. It is the laugh of a man in the grip of fond recall-the sight of a sunset, the firm feel of a woman’s breast through a thin silk shirt (not that Barry has, in Henry’s estimation, ever felt such a thing), or the packed warmth of beach sand.

“Most people use the toaster oven for their Eggo waffles,” Barry continues, “but I find that makes them too crispy. The microwave just gets them hot and soft. Hot… and soft.” He smacks his little perch lips. “I had a certain amount of guilt about eating the whole package.” He throws this last in almost as an aside, as if remembering Henry has a job to do here. He throws out similar little treats four or five times in every session… and then it’s back to the food.

Barry has now reached Tuesday evening. Since this is Friday, there are plenty of meals and snacks still to go. Henry lets his mind drift. Barry is his last appointment of the day. When Barry has finished taking caloric inventory, Henry is going back to his apartment to pack. He’ll be up tomorrow at Six A.M… and sometime between seven and eight, Jonesy will pull into his driveway. They will pack their stuff into Henry’s old Scout, which he now keeps around solely for their autumn hunting trips, and by eight-thirty the two of them will be on their way north. Along the way they will pick up Pete in Bridgton, and then the Beav, who still lives close to Derry. By evening they will be at Hole in the Wall up in the Jefferson Tract, playing cards in the living room and listening to the wind hoot around the eaves. Their guns will be leaning in the corner of the kitchen, their hunting licenses hung over the hook on the back door.