“I thought you said she didn’t believe any of this was happening.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “but forget that for now. I’m trying to say that, no matter what she believes, what she remembers goes right from her living room where she was sitting in her bathrobe watching the midnight news to here, with no break at all. She doesn’t have any sense that some other person took over between then and when you grabbed her in Macy’s. Hell, that might have been the next day or even weeks later. I know it was still winter, because most of the shoppers in that store were wearing coats—”

The gunslinger nodded. Eddie’s perceptions were sharpening. That was good. He had missed the boots and scarves, the gloves sticking out of coat pockets, but it was still a start.

“—but otherwise it’s impossible to tell how long Odetta was that other woman because she doesn’t know. I think she’s in a situation she’s never been in before, and her way of protecting both sides is this story about getting cracked over the head.”

Roland nodded.

“And the rings. Seeing those really shook her up. She tried not to show it, but it showed, all right.”

Roland asked: “If these two women don’t know they exist in the same body, and if they don’t even suspect that something may be wrong, if each has her own separate chain of memories, partly real but partly made up to fit the times the other is there, what are we to do with her? How are we even to live with her?”

Eddie had shrugged. “Don’t ask me. It’s your problem. You’re the one who says you need her. Hell, you risked your neck to bring her here.” Eddie thought about this for a minute, remembered squatting over Roland’s body with Roland’s knife held just above the gunslinger’s throat, and laughed abruptly and without humor. LITERALLY risked your neck, man, he thought.

A silence fell between them. Odetta had by then been breathing quietly. As the gunslinger was about to reiterate his warning for Eddie to be on guard and announce (loud enough for the Lady to hear, if she was only shamming) that he was going to turn in, Eddie said the thing which lighted Roland’s mind in a single sudden glare, the thing which made him understand at least part of what he needed so badly to know.

At the end, when they came through.

She had changed at the end.

And he had seen something, some thing—

“Tell you what,” Eddie said, moodily stirring the remains of the fire with a split claw from this night’s kill, “when you brought her through, I felt like I was a schizo.”

“Why?”

Eddie thought, then shrugged. It was too hard to explain, or maybe he was just too tired. “It’s not important.”

“Why?”

Eddie looked at Roland, saw he was asking a serious question for a serious reason—or thought he was—and took a minute to think back. “It’s really hard to describe, man. It was looking in that door. That’s what freaked me out. When you see someone move in that door, it’s like you’re moving with them. You know what I’m talking about.”