She laughed a little and touched his hand. He felt something like an electric charge jump from her to him. And it was her; Odetta. He knew it as well as Roland did.
“I love you, Eddie. You have tried so hard. Been so patient. So has he—” She nodded toward the place where the gunslinger lay propped against the rocks, watching. “—but he is a hard man to love.”
“Yeah. Don’t I know it.”
“I’ll try one more time.
“For you.”
She smiled and he felt all the world move for her, because of her, and he thought Please God, I have never had much, so please don’t take her away from me again. Please.
She took the chunks of lobster-meat, wrinkled her nose in a rueful comic expression, and looked up at him.
“Must I?”
“Just give it a shot,” he said.
“I never ate scallops again,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“I thought I told you.”
“You might have,” he said, and gave a little nervous laugh. What the gunslinger had said about not letting her know about the other loomed very large inside his mind just then.
“We had them for dinner one night when I was ten or eleven. I hated the way they tasted, like little rubber balls, and later I vomited them up. I never ate them again. But . . .” She sighed. “As you say, I’ll ‘give it a shot.’ ”
She put a piece in her mouth like a child taking a spoonful of medicine she knows will taste nasty. She chewed slowly at first, then more rapidly. She swallowed. Took another piece. Chewed, swallowed. Another. Now she was nearly wolfing it.
“Whoa, slow down!” Eddie said.
“It must be another kind! That’s it, of course it is!” She looked at Eddie shiningly. “We’ve moved further up the beach and the species has changed! I’m no longer allergic, it seems! It doesn’t taste nasty, like it did before . . . and I did try to keep it down, didn’t I?” She looked at him nakedly. “I tried very hard.”
“Yeah.” To himself he sounded like a radio broadcasting a very distant signal. She thinks she’s been eating every day and then up-chucking everything. She thinks that’s why she’s so weak. Christ Almighty. “Yeah, you tried like hell.”
“It tastes—” These words were hard to pick up because her mouth was full. “It tastes so good!” She laughed. The sound was delicate and lovely. “It’s going to stay down! I’m going to take nourishment! I know it! I feel it!”
“Just don’t overdo it,” he cautioned, and gave her one of the water-skins. “You’re not used to it. All that—” He swallowed and there was an audible （audible to him, at least） click in his throat. “All that throwing up.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“I need to talk to Roland for a few minutes.”
“All right.”
But before he could go she grasped his hand again.
“Thank you, Eddie. Thank you for being so patient. And thank him.” She paused gravely. “Thank him, and don’t tell him that he scares me.”
“I won’t,” Eddie had said, and went back to the gunslinger.
3
Even when she wasn’t pushing, Odetta was a help. She navigated with the prescience of a woman who has spent a long time weaving a wheelchair through a world that would not acknowledge handicapped people such as she for years to come.
“Left,” she’d call, and Eddie would gee to the left, gliding past a rock snarling out of the pasty grit like a decayed fang. On his own, he might have seen it . . . or maybe not.