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Maybe he really would sleep all the way to Boston.


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He watched Melanie Trevor patiently as she pointed out the exit doors, demonstrated how to use the little gold cup if there was a pressure loss a procedure Brian had been reviewing in his own mind, and with some urgency, not long ago , and how to inflate the life vest under the seat. When the plane was airborne, she came by his seat and asked him again if she could get him something to drink. Brian shook his head, thanked her, then pushed the button which caused his seat to recline. He closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

He never saw Melanie Trevor again. Aunt Vicky did not answer, so Dinah asked again. She knew it was true. If Aunt Vicky, who had the window seat, had brushed by her to get to the aisle in the last two or three minutes, Dinah should have felt her. So she went sooner, she told herself. Or maybe she stopped to talk with somebody on her way back. Her feeling of disquiet grew.

That goes double for children who are blind. Believe me, I know. And Dinah did believe her, because, like Dinah herself, Miss Lee had been blind since birth. Sit still and try to reason things out. Especially in situations that are new to them. Well, that certainly fit; this was the first time Dinah had ever flown in anything, let alone coast to coast in a huge transcontinental jetliner. Try to reason it out. Well, she had awakened in a strange place to find her Sighted Person gone. As for the strange silence in the cabin. The other passengers were probably sleeping.

All of them?

Bloody Disgusting!

ALL of them are sleeping? Can that be? Then the answer came to her: the movie. The ones who were awake were watching the in-flight movie. Of course. A sense of almost palpable relief swept over her. Her fingers touched a paperback book instead. A moment later she felt a zipper, and a moment after that she felt the strap.

Would Aunt Vicky go off to the bathroom and leave her purse on the seat? Would she do that when her travelling companion was not only ten, not only asleep, but blind? An animal, one with extremely sharp teeth and claws, awakened and started to snarl inside of her head. This was undoubtedly true, but it was absolutely no help to her right now.

Dinah suddenly remembered that, after they sat down, Aunt Vicky had taken her hand, folded all the fingers but the pointer under, and then guided that one finger to the side of her seat.

Four Past Midnight

The controls were there—only a few of them, simple, easy to remember. There were two little wheels you could use once you put on the headphones—one switched around to the different audio channels; the other controlled the volume. The small rectangular switch controlled the light over her seat. At least, not yet. The last one was a square button—when you pushed that one, a flight attendant came. Do you really want to do this? Yeah, I do. She pushed the button and heard the soft chime.

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Then she waited. No one came. There was only the soft, seemingly eternal whisper of the jet engines. No one spoke. No one coughed. Only the steady soft drone of the jet engines. The panic animal was yammering louder than ever. To combat it, Dinah concentrated on focussing that radar gadget, making it into a kind of invisible cane she could jab out from her seat here in the middle of the main cabin.

She was good at that; at times, when she concentrated very hard, she almost believed she could see through the eyes of others. If she thought about it hard enough, wanted to hard enough. Particularly of blind children. But now she was afraid and so she felt for others, sensed for others, and did not find them. Now the terror was very large in her, the yammering of the panic animal very loud.

She felt a cry building up in her throat and clamped her teeth against it.

Because it would not come out as a cry, or a yell; if she let it out, it would exit her mouth as a fireball scream. But now that radar sense—that part of her which evaluated all sorts of vague sensory input and which sometimes did seem to see through the eyes of others no matter what Miss Lee said —was adding to her fear rather than alleviating it.

Because that sense was telling her there was nobody within its circle of effectiveness. Nobody at all. In it, he was once again piloting Flight 7 from Tokyo to L. There was a palpable feeling of doom in the cockpit; Steve Searles was weeping as he ate a Danish pastry.

Brian asked. A shrill, teakettle whistling had begun to fill the cockpit—the sound of the pressure leak, he reckoned. This was silly, of course—leaks were almost always silent until the blowout occurred—but he supposed in dreams anything was possible. Then, suddenly, the shrill whistling sound stopped. A smiling, relieved flight attendant—it was, in fact, Melanie Trevor—appeared to tell him the leak had been found and plugged. Brian got up and followed her through the plane to the main cabin, where Anne Quinlan Engle, his ex-wife, was standing in a little alcove from which the seats had been removed.

Rereading Stephen King, chapter Four Past Midnight | Books | The Guardian

It was written in red, the color of danger. Anne was dressed in the dark-green uniform of an American Pride flight attendant, which was strange—she was an advertising executive with a Boston agency, and had always looked down her narrow, aristocratic nose at the stews with whom her husband flew. Her hand was pressed against a crack in the fuselage. See, darling? I have forgiven you. A fold appeared in the back of her hand, mimicking the shape of the crack in the fuselage. It grew deeper as the pressure differential sucked her hand relentlessly outward.

Her middle finger went through first, then the ring finger, then the first finger and her pinky. There was a brisk popping sound, like a champagne cork being drawn by an overeager waiter, as her entire hand was pulled through the crack in the airplane. Yet Anne went on smiling. Her hair was escaping the clip which held it back and blowing around her face in a misty cloud.

He did. Anne, come back! She went on smiling as her arm was sucked slowly into the emptiness outside the plane. The sleeve of her green American Pride blazer began to flutter, and Brian saw that her flesh was being pulled out through the crack in a thickish white ooze. To become not the scream of wind but that of a human voice.

He was disoriented by the power of the dream for a moment, but only a moment—he was a professional in a high-risk, high-responsibility job, a job where one of the absolute prerequisites was fast reaction time. He was on Flight 29, not Flight 7, not Tokyo to Los Angeles but Los Angeles to Boston, where Anne was already dead—not the victim of a pressure leak but of a fire in her Atlantic Avenue condominium near the waterfront. But the sound was still there. It was a little girl, screaming shrilly. Forty rows and two partitions forward, Captain Brian Engle was dreaming that his navigator was weeping and eating a Danish pastry.

There was only the continuing drone of the jet engines. The panic overshadowed her mind again, and Dinah did the only thing she could think of to stave it off: she unbuckled her seatbelt, stood up, and edged into the aisle. Dinah began to cry.

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She held onto herself grimly, nonetheless, and began walking forward slowly along the portside aisle. Keep count, though, part of her mind warned frantically. She stopped at the row of portside seats just ahead of the row in which she and Aunt Vicky had been sitting and bent, arms outstretched, fingers splayed. She was steeled to touch the sleeping face of the man sitting there.