with his handkerchief when the smell of
oranges came； thick and gagging； and the bolt followed it； striking him in the
head； sending him back against the pink stucco wall in a drunken stagger。
（！！！ PLEASE E DICK PLEASE E E
QUICK ！！！）
He recovered a little at a time and at last felt capable of climbing the
outside stairs to his apartment。 He kept the latchkey under the rush…plaited
doormat； and when he reached down to get it； something fell out of his inner
pocket and fell to the second…floor decking with a flat thump。 His mind was
still so much on the voice that had shivered through his head that for a moment
he could only look at the blue envelope blankly； not knowing what it was。
Then he turned it over and the word WILL stared up at him in the black spidery
letters。
（Oh my God is it like that？）
He didn't know。 But it could be。 All week long the thought of his own ending
had been on his mind like a 。。。 well； like a
（Go on； say it）
like a premonition；。
Death？ For a moment his whole life seemed to flash before him； not in a
historical sense； no topography of the ups and downs that Mrs。 Hallorann's third
son； Dick； had lived through； but his life as it was now。 Martin Luther King had
told them not long before the bullet took him down to his martyr's grave that he
had been to the mountain。 Dick could not claim that。 No mountain； but he had
reached a sunny plateau after years of struggle。 He had good friends。 He had all
the references he would ever need to get a job anywhere。 When he wanted fuck；
why； he could find a friendly one with no questions asked and no big shitty
struggle about what it