"Stephen King. The Girl who loved Tom Gordon." - читать интересную книгу автора

No voices from the path. Not a single voice. It was as if the trail to
North Conway had been canceled. And as the plane's motor faded away
completely, Trisha conceded the truth.
She got to her feet, her legs feeling heavy, her stomach feeling heavy
Her head felt light and strange, a gas-filled balloon tethered to a lead
weight. She was suddenly drowning in isolation, choking on a bright and yet
oppressive sense of herself as a living being cast out from her fellows.
She had somehow gotten out of bounds, wandered off the playing field and
into a place where the rules she was used to no longer applied.
"Hey!" she screamed. "Hey, someone, do you hear me? Do you bear me?
Hey!" She paused, praying for an answer to come back, but no answer came
and so she brought the worst out at last: "Help me, I'm lost! Help me, I'm
lost!" Now the tears began to come and she could no longer hold them back,
could no longer kid herself that she was in charge of this situation. Her
voice trembled, became first the wavery voice of a little kid and then
almost the shriek of a baby who lies forgotten in her pram, and that sound
frightened her more than anything else so far on this awful morning, the
only human sound in the woods her weepy, shrieking voice calling for help,
calling for help because she was lost.


Third Inning

SHE YELLED for perhaps fifteen minutes, sometimes cupping her hands
around her mouth and turning her voice in the direction she imagined the
main trail must be, mostly just standing there by the ferns and screaming.
She gave one final shriek-no words, just a high birdcall of combined anger
and fear-so loud it hurt her throat, then sat down beside her pack and put
her face in her hands and cried. She cried hard for maybe five minutes (it
was impossible to tell for sure, her watch was back home, lying on the
table next to her bed, another smooth move by the Great Trisha), and when
she stopped she felt a little better ... except for the bugs. The bugs were
everywhere, crawling and whining and buzzing, trying to drink her blood and
sip her sweat. The bugs were driving her crazy. Trisha got to her feet
again, waving the air with her Red Sox cap, reminding herself not to slap,
knowing she would slap, and soon, if things didn't change. She wouldn't be
able to help herself.
Walk or stay where she was? She didn't know which would be best; she
was now too frightened for anything much like rational thought. Her feet
decided for her and Trisha got moving again, looking around fearfully as
she went, wiping her swollen eyes with her arm. The second time she raised
the arm to her face she saw half a dozen mosquitoes on it and slapped at
them blindly, killing three. Two had been full to bursting. The sight of
her own blood didn't ordinarily upset her, but this time all the strength
went out of her legs and she sat down again on the needle-carpet in a
cluster of old pines and cried some more. She felt headachy and a little
whoopsy in her stomach. But I was just in the van a little while ago, she
thought over and over. Just in the van, the back seat of the van, listening
to them snipe at each other. And then she thought of her brother's angry
voice drifting through the trees: --don't know why we have to pay for what