The Institute

by Stephen King

“Trump and his cronies took it all back. They understand culture no more than a donkey understands algebra.”

“Four or five wannabe Spielbergs.

it. By all accounts, he’s quite the prodigy.” “He won’t be for long,” Dr. Hendricks said, and laughed his trademark laugh, first exhaled, then inhaled, a kind of hee-haw. Along with his protruding

She says the hum gets stronger when they link up and drops when they let go of each other.” Stackhouse had already figured that out for himself. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist, as the saying went. “Will it be soon, sir?” He looked at his watch. “I think about three hours, give or take. The HVAC units are on the roof, correct?” “Yes.” “I may be able to call you when it’s time, Gladys, but I may not. Things will probably happen fast. If you hear shooting from the front of the admin building, start the chlorine gas whether you hear from me or not. Then come. Don’t go back inside, just run along the roof to the East Wing of Front Half. Understand?” “Yes, sir!” She gave him a brilliant smile. It was the one all the kids hated. 12 Twelve-thirty. Kalisha was watching the Ward A kids and thinking about the Ohio State Marching Band. Her dad loved Buckeyes football, and she had always watched with him—for the closeness—but the only part she really cared about was the halftime show, when the band (“The Priiide of the Buckeyes!” the announcer always proclaimed) would take the field, simultaneously playing their instruments and making shapes that were only discernible from above—everything from the S on Superman’s chest to a fantastic Jurassic Park dinosaur