A hand on his shoulder. The dark figure beckoned, beckoned in the rain, beckoned for him to come and walk, to come and play the game. There was still so far to walk. Eyes blind, supplicating hands held out before him as if for alms, Garraty walked toward the dark figure. And when the hand touched his shoulder again, he somehow found the strength to run.

-The Long Walk, Richard Bachman

scribbled
7:14 PM