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feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its 

satiny texture against my skin. 

I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it took a while 

for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to keep 

away the damp. My name was written across the front in Andy's clear script. 

I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy's friend before 

him. 

Dear Red, 

If you're reading this, then you're out. One way or another, you're out. And If you've 

followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. 1 think you 

remember the name of the town, don't you? I could use a good man to help me get my 

project on wheels. 

Meantime, have a drink on me - and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. 

Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing 

ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well. 

Your friend, Peter Stevens 

I didn't read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a need to get away 

from there before I was seen. To make what may be an appropriate pun, I was in terror of 

being apprehended. 

I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men's dinners drifting up 

the stairwell to me - Beefaroni, Ricearoni, Noodleroni. You can bet that whatever the old 

folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating tonight, it almost certainly ends 

in roni. 

I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and cried. 

With the letter there were twenty new fifty-dollar bills. 

And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice again - parole 

violation is my crime. No one's going to throw up any roadblocks to catch a criminal 

wanted on that charge, I guess - wondering what I should do now. 

I have this manuscript I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a doctor's bag that 

holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted 

change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes. 

Wondering what I should do. 

But there's really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living 

or get busy dying. 

First I'm going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I'm going to buckle it up, 

grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I'm going to walk 

uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the bartender and ask him to 

bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniels - one for me and one for Andy Dufresne. 

Other than a beer or two, they'll be the first drinks I've taken as a free man since 1938. 

Then I am going to tip the bartender a dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave the bar 

and walk up Spring Street to the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus ticket to El 

Paso by way of New York City. When I get to El Paso, I'm going to buy a ticket to 

McNary. And when I get to McNary, I guess I'll have a chance to find out if an old crook