John Coffey sat in the park. It was his favorite thing to do. And the City seemed to always take him back here. Not that he remembered that fact. But the more he was here, the more people would say hi to him, which gave him the idea that he was there a lot. They knew his name, and knew that he didn't remember, so they never made him try. They'd just talk to him about what was going on, and then be on their way.
Today a little girl had given him some flowers. The ones that the bees liked the most, she said. She knew he liked to watch the bees, she said. He held them in his lap and waved to her as she ran off to play with the other children.
There was a certain feeling in the air. He couldn't place it.