Somehow, no matter how long I read, the last centimeter or so of pages left in the book did not diminish. I guess I didn’t want it to end. I’ve been reading this story over the course of, what, ten years now?

I stopped just before the end. Between the epilogue and the coda was a warning from Stephen King saying that the story was over, but, for those who needed it, he had written an ending. I suddenly realized the distinction he was making and that he was speaking to me directly. So I closed the book and placed it on my shelf.

When Stephen King dies I will read the coda, making that day a little more or less sad.