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houses set back from the road looked down at them from the vantage of ascending green lawns. The lawns were crowded with people, waving and cheering. It seemed to Garraty that almost all of them were sitting down. Sitting on the ground, on lawn chairs like the old men back at the gas station, sitting on picnic tables. Even sitting on swings and porch gliders. He felt a touch of jealous anger.
    Go ahead and wave your asses off. I’ll be damned if I’ll wave back anymore. Hint 13. Conserve energy whenever possible.
    But finally he decided he was being foolish. People might decide he was getting snotty. He was, after all, “Maine’s Own.” He decided he would wave to all the people with GARRATY signs. And to all the pretty girls.
    Sidestreets and cross-streets moved steadily past. Sycamore Street and Clark Avenue, Exchange Street and Juniper Lane. They passed a corner grocery with a Narragansett beer sign in the window, and a five-and-dime plastered with pictures of the Major.
    The sidewalks were lined with people, but thinly lined. On the whole, Garraty was disappointed. He knew the real crowds would come further down the line, but it was still something of a wet firecracker. And poor old Curley had missed even this.
    The Major ’s jeep suddenly spurted out of a side-street and began pacing the main group. The vanguard was still some distance ahead.
    A tremendous cheer went up. The Major nodded and smiled and waved to the crowd. Then he made a neat left-face and saluted the boys. Garraty felt a thrill go straight up his back. The Major ’s sunglasses glinted in the early afternoon sunlight.
    The Major raised the battery-powered loudhailer to his lips. “I’m proud of you, boys. Proud!”
    From somewhere behind Garraty a voice said softly but clearly: “Diddly shit.”
    Garraty turned his head, but there was no one back there but four or five boys watching the Major intently (one of them realized he was saluting and dropped his hand sheepishly), and Stebbins. Stebbins did not even seem to be looking at the Major.
    The jeep roared ahead. A moment later the Major was gone again.
    They reached downtown Limestone around twelve-thirty. Garraty was disappointed. It was pretty much of a one-hydrant town. There was a business section and three used-car lots and a Mc-Donalds and a Burger King and a Pizza Hut and an industrial park and that was Limestone.
    “It isn’t very big, is it?” Baker said.
    Olson laughed.
    “It’s probably a nice place to live,” Garraty said defensively.
    “God spare me from nice places to live,” McVries said, but he was smiling.
    “Well, what turns you on,” Garraty said lamely.
    By one o’clock, Limestone was a memory. A small swaggering boy in patched denim overalls walked along with them for almost a mile, then sat down and watched them go by.
    The country grew hillier. Garraty felt the first real sweat of the day coming out on him. His shirt was patched to his back. On his right, thunderheads were forming, but they were still far away. There was a light, circulating breeze, and that helped a little.
    “What’s the next big town, Garraty?” McVries asked.
    “Caribou, I guess.” He was wondering if Stebbins had eaten his last sandwich yet. Stebbins had gotten into his head like a snatch of pop music that goes around and around until you think you’re going to go crazy with it. It was one-thirty. The Long Walk had progressed through eighteen miles.
    “How far ’s that?” Garraty wondered what the record was for miles walked with only one Walker punched out. Eighteen miles seemed pretty good to him. Eighteen miles was a figure a man could be proud of. I walked eighteen miles. Eighteen.
    “I said—” McVries began patiently.
    “Maybe thirty miles from here.”
    “Thirty,” Pearson said. “Jesus.”
    “It’s a bigger town than Limestone,” Garraty said. He was still feeling defensive, God knew why. Maybe because so many of these boys would die here, maybe all of them.