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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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

Wondering what I should do.

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.

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 like me can find a way to float across the border and into Mexico.

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.

Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to forget

I hope Andy is down there.

I hope I can make it across the border.

I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.

I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.

I hope.

I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.