Jake was nodding, saying something Callahan barely heard.

And what Jake said didn’t matter. What that other voice said-the voice of something

(Gan)

perhaps too great to be called God-did.

The boy must go on, the voice told him. Whatever happens here, however it falls, the boy must go on. Your part in the story is almost done. His is not.

They walked past a sign on a chrome post (CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION), Jake’s special friend Oy trotting between them, his head up and his muzzle wreathed in its usual toothy grin. At the top of the steps, Jake reached into the woven sack Susannah-Mio had brought out of Calla Bryn Sturgis and grabbed two of the plates-the ’Rizas. He tapped them together, nodded at the dull ringing sound, and then said: “Let’s see yours.”

Callahan lifted the Rugerjake had brought out of Calla New York, and now back into it; life is a wheel and we all say thankya.

For a moment the Pere held the Ruger’s barrel beside his right cheek like a duelist. Then he touched his breast pocket, bulging with shells, and with the turde. The skoldpadda.

Jake nodded. “Once we’re in, we stay together. Always together, with Oy between. On three. And once we start, we never stop.”

“Never stop.”

“Right. Are you ready?”

“Yes. God’s love on you, boy.”

“And on you, Pere. One… two… three.” Jake opened the door and together they went into the dim light and the sweet tangy smell of roasting meat.

TWO

Take went to what he was sure would be his death remembering two things Roland Deschain, his true father, had said. Battles that last five minutes spawn legends that live a thousand years. And You needn’t die happy when your day comes, but you must die satisfied, for you have lived your life from beginning to end and ka is always served.