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still etched in my memory … every turn； every bump； every dip； the scary times （two of them） when trucks passed us going the other way … I don't think I could e even close to describing how I felt； sitting back there with John Coffey； both of us bundled up like Indians in the old blankets Harry had been thoughtful enough to bring along。
It was； most of all； a sense of lostness … the deep and terrible ache a child feels when he realizes he has gone wrong somewhere； all the landmarks are strange； and he no longer knows how to find his way home。 I was out in the night with a prisoner … not just any prisoner； but one who had been tried and convicted for the murder of two little girls； and sentenced to die for the crime。 My belief that he was innocent wouldn't matter if we were caught； we would go to jail ourselves； and probably Dean Stanton would； too。 I had thrown over a life of work and belief because of one bad execution and because I believed the overgrown lummox sitting beside me might be able to cure a woman's inoperable brain tumor。 Yet watching john watch the stars； I realized with dismay that I no longer did believe that； if I ever really had； my urinary infection seemed faraway and unimportant now； as such harsh and painful things always do once they are past （if a woman could really remember how bad it hurt to have her first baby； my mother once said； she'd never have a second）。 As for Mr。 Jingles； wasn't it possible； even likely； that we had been wrong about h
