Wolves of the Calla (The Dark Tower, #5)

by Stephen King

“You’re cruel!” he bursts out. Walter’s eyes widen, and for a moment he looks deeply hurt. This may be absurd, but Callahan is looking into the man’s deep eyes and feels sure the emotion is nonetheless genuine. And the surety robs him of any last hope that all this might be a dream, or a final brilliant interval before true death. In dreams—his, at least—the bad guys, the scary guys, never have complex emotions. “I am what ka and the King and the Tower have made me. We all are. We’re caught.” Callahan remembers the dream-west through which he traveled: the forgotten silos, the neglected sunsets and long shadows, his own bitter joy as he dragged his trap behind him, singing until the jingle of the very chains that held him became sweet music. “I know,” he says. “Yes, I see you do. Keep moving.”