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    Harli Lotts (not her real name) knows her audience better than just about anyone I've ever met in online media. The fact is as a woman your better feminine instincts (the ones that locate male nonsense) will never allow you to trust a man whom you've know only from videoconferencing to a marriage after meeting once. I've been there before myself, and let me assure you that this is not unusual.


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    He even helped a couple get over when their time came.

    That job lasted awhile, long enough for the Saxophone President to turn the White House keys over to the Cowboy President.

    The woman from Room 217 was there, as he had known she would be. Partly because, in a deep part of his mind, he had been expecting this.

    She was sitting naked on the toilet with her legs spread and her pallid thighs bulging. She saw him, and her lips stretched back in a grin. Although he had always thought it would be Horace Derwent who would eventually show up. Because of all the undead things in the Overlook, she had been the worst.

    He wanted to stay there forever, only getting up to pee in the sink. His mother called, even though it was four in the morning. The image of how she would look, teetering on the edge of the counter with her butt hanging over the porcelain (even if there was no one there to see) made her wrinkle her nose. When it did, he would say thank you very much and board a bus. Next up was Weston, after that came a nursing home on Martha's Vineyard, and boy, that gig didn't last long.

    Now that he had warned his mother, he had no interest in talking to her. It had happened after Danny had ventured into Room 217 at the Overlook. In one hand she had the hammer from her little box of widow's tools. She saw movement and whirled, hammer upraised, to hit whoever (whatever) was hiding behind the door. Scared of her own shadow, people sometimes sneered, but who had a better right than Wendy Torrance? If he woke up next to a woman, he thought of Deenie and the kid in the Braves t-shirt. He even thought of the stolen blanket, which he had left in the stormdrain. On his third day the head nurse smelled booze on his breath and it was seeya, wouldn't want to beya.

    Shattered vertebrae and broken ribs heal, but they never cease crying out. It reminded him of the Overlook, where the defective boiler had been the very least of the dangers.

    Winifred and Daniel Torrance lived in the mid-South for awhile, then drifted down to Tampa. One early morning in March of 1981, Wendy called Dick and asked if he could come. He and his mother lived in a cramped second-floor tenement apartment.

    » Close your eyes, Dick Hallorann had told him once upon a time. If you see something bad, close your eyes and tell yourself it's not there and when you open them again, it will be gone.

    If he opened the bathroom door now, she would finish the job. Then he woke his mother and told her not to go into the bathroom because there was a bad thing there. Although he was now eight and in the third grade, he was sucking his thumb. She went to the bathroom door and stood looking at it.

    He compromised by putting his ear against the door. Once that was done, he went back to bed and sank deep beneath the covers. She was afraid — Danny had made her afraid — but she had to go, and she had no intention of using the sink as he had. They'd keep him on for awhile — he was good at what he did — but then would come a day. New Paltz gave way to Sturbridge, where he got drunk at an outdoor folk concert and woke up the next day in jail with a broken wrist.

    Sometimes Dick Hallorann (he of the powerful hunches) came up from Key West to visit with them. Danny, she said, had awakened her in the night and told her not to go in the bathroom. Danny left the little room next to his mother's and crossed the hall. Thanks to facial injuries she'd suffered at the Overlook, she now snored—a soft queep-queep sound—and he could hear it coming from her bedroom. He knew better, even then (he was possessed of powerful hunches and intuitions himself), but sometimes you had to know. This was something he had found out at the Overlook, in a room on the second floor.

    The wind gusted and a dying palm tree beside the building clattered its leaves. They always left the bathroom door open when no one was using the shower or the toilet, because the lock was broken. Reaching with an arm that seemed too long, too stretchy, too boneless, he turned the knob and opened the door. He was eight now, and capable of at least some rational thought even in his horror.

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