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"
Danny
,
"
Tony
said
.
"
Your
mother
is
going
to
be
badly
hurt
.
Perhaps
killed
.
Mr
.
Hallorann
,
too
,
"
"
No
!
"
He
cried
it
out
in
a
distant
grief
,
a
terror
that
seemed
damped
by
these
dreamy
,
dreary
surroundings
.
Nonetheless
,
death
images
came
to
him
:
dead
frog
plastered
to
the
turnpike
like
a
grisly
stamp
;
Daddy
’
s
broken
watch
lying
on
top
of
a
box
of
junk
to
be
thrown
out
;
gravestones
with
a
dead
person
under
every
one
;
dead
jay
by
the
telephone
pole
;
the
cold
junk
Mommy
scraped
off
the
plates
and
down
the
dark
maw
of
the
garbage
disposal
.
Yet
he
could
not
equate
these
simple
symbols
with
the
shifting
complex
reality
of
his
mother
;
she
satisfied
his
childish
definition
of
eternity
.
She
had
been
when
he
was
not
.
She
would
continue
to
be
when
he
was
not
again
.
He
could
accept
the
possibility
of
his
own
death
,
he
had
dealt
with
that
since
the
encounter
in
Room
217
.
But
not
hers
.
Not
Daddy
’
s
.
Not
ever
.
He
began
to
struggle
,
and
the
darkness
and
the
hallway
began
to
waver
.
Tony
’
s
form
became
chimerical
,
indistinct
.
"
Don
’
t
!
"
Tony
called
.
"
Don
’
t
,
Danny
,
don
’
t
do
that
!
"
"
She
’
s
not
going
to
be
dead
!
She
’
s
not
!
"
