“How long will we have to be here, do you think?” Eddie asked Callahan. They had just reached the Doorway Cave, and the great sage’s little bro was already shaking a pair of bullets in his right hand like dice—seven-come-eleven, baby need a little peace n quiet. It was the day after the big meeting, and when Eddie and the Pere had ridden out of town, the high street had seemed unusually quiet. It was almost as if the Calla was hiding from itself, overwhelmed by what it had committed itself to.

“I’m afraid it’ll be awhile,” Callahan admitted. He was neatly (and nondescriptly, he hoped) dressed. In the breast pocket of his shirt was all the American money they’d been able to put together: eleven crumpled dollars and a pair of quarters. He thought it would be a bitter joke if he turned up in a version of America where Lincoln was on the single and Washington on the fifties. “But we can do it in stages, I think.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Eddie said, and dragged the pink bag out from behind Tower’s bookcase. He lifted it with both hands, began to turn, then stopped. He was frowning.

“What is it?” Callahan asked.

“There’s something in here.”

“Yes, the box.”

“No, something in the bag . Sewn into the lining, I think. It feels like a little rock. Maybe there’s a secret pocket.”

“And maybe,” Callahan said, “this isn’t the time to investigate it.”

Still, Eddie gave the object another small squeeze. It didn’t feel like a stone, exactly. But Callahan was probably right. They had enough mysteries on their hands already. This one was for another day.

When Eddie slid the ghostwood box out of the bag, a sick dread invaded both his head and his heart. “I hate this thing. I keep feeling like it’s going to turn on me and eat me like a…a taco-chip.”

“It probably could,” Callahan said. “If you feel something really bad happening, Eddie, shut the damn thing.”

“Your ass would be stuck on the other side if I did.”

“It’s not as though I’m a stranger there,” Callahan said, eyeing the unfound door. Eddie heard his brother; Callahan heard his mother, endlessly hectoring, calling him Donnie. He’d always hated being called Donnie. “I’ll just wait for it to open again.”

Eddie stuffed the bullets into his ears.

“Why are you letting him do that, Donnie?” Callahan’s mother moaned from the darkness. “Bullets in your ears, that’s dangerous !”

“Go on,” Eddie said. “Get it done.” He opened the box. The chimes attacked Callahan’s ears. And his heart. The door to everywhere clicked open.

Two