While in the throes of devouring the last 300 pages of this book over a couple of nights, I had my own Stephen King experience. I walked out of my apartment Monday morning to go to work, treading carefully on the iced-over snow, and spotted a man walking down the steep driveway into my apartment complex. He was waving his arms and shouting incoherently. I could only pick up words like "freedom" and "victims." The rest was nonsense. I watched him for a moment, then continued toward my car. I looked down for a second -- just a second -- to be sure of my footing. When I looked back up, he was gone. Vanished. I scanned the parking lot to see if he had somehow managed to run down the steep, slippery incline in that second I had looked away, but there was no sign of him. Did my sleep-deprived, novel-fogged brain dish up my own version of the Yellow Card Man? Perhaps. Or perhaps I caught a momentary glimpse of another string in the universe's vast tangle, some other timeline created by an unwitting soul slipping down our very own rabbit hole. Everything is possible. Life turns on a dime.