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No. Mrs R. He crumpled the wet paper with a convulsive closing jerk of his fist and slammed it into her mouth, driving the half-charred first bunch farther down. He smoked it enthusiastically, feeling both sick and fine, feeling the way he imagined robbers must feel when they stick up banks. (PILINGS its PILINGS there are TWO okay there are two fine now just hush just you know hush shhhhhh) and made it seem gone for awhile. "The mother feels badly when her child says she's mean or if he cries for what's been taken away, as you are crying now. Had she sat there in her as-yet-unseen-by-him parlor with her mouth open and her eyes wide as Misery finally realized the truth and made her decision and sneaked off to Geoffrey?"Jesus, thank you. Dickens's resurrection men. The lives were shadows. In his mind Geoffrey echoed Ian's question: What are we going to do? Long illness.

It was too easy to imagine how his shattered bones would feel after ten or fifteen minutes of wriggling through cold puddles and melting snow, like a dying tadpole. He smelled something sour that he automatically associated with hospitals — Lysol, maybe. There had been no trouble between them since the blowup over the typewriter paper. The image of Annie Wilkes as an African idol out of She or King Solomon's Mines was both ludicrous and queerly apt. The first real memory: stopping, and being raped back into life by the woman's stinking breath. But the stairs were too steep, the possibility of being burned alive if Annie's flaming house collapsed into the cellar-hole before the Sidewinder fire engines could get here was too real, and the rats down there. This was a thought he tried consciously to discourage — it was both useless and gruesome — but the thought of life without Misery was so terrible that it sometimes crept up on him and surprised him. The gotta, as in: "I know I should be starting supper now — he'll be mad if it's TV dinners again — but I gotta see how this ends. The only real question is about Ralph: does he come at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end? It sounds as if she were still alive down there and tryin»to work her way back up to the land of the livin'! He knew it, but the thought of that telephone, the imagined sensation of the cool black plastic under his fingers, the click of the rotary dial or the single booping sound as he touch-toned 0 — these were seductions too great to resist. It had been when Annie had gone away that first time, leaving him with no pills. Paul closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep, and when the Cherokee came whispering back into the driveway that morning at four o'clock with both its engine and its lights shut off, he did not stir. He heard a noise behind him and turned from the blank screen to see Annie coming out of the kitchen dressed in jeans and a red flannel logger's shirt, the chainsaw in her hands. I'll finish, and then I'll fill in the letters, and then I'll smoke it until I feel like I'm going to fall down unconscious, and then I'll butt it. She looked bigger that way, with her shoulders rounding the pink housecoat, her hair like some battered helmet. Yet another part, failing now, near-comatose itself, went wailing off into the darkness: A hundred and ninety thousand words! "He thought about this, startled — her occasional sharp insights never failed to startle him — and decided it was true. The article noted that in addition to the new publicity director (the balding, bespectacled fellow), twenty others had joined the staff of Riverview Hospital: two doctors, eight R. And by the way, toots, the baby's name started out to be Sean, in case you're interested; I changed it because I decided that was just too fucking many n's to fill in. Paul didn't think so but he wasn't sure — not being sure of things, he knew, was a charmless corner of purgatory reserved for writers who were driving fast with no idea at all where they were going. His thin arms were trembling, the stump of his thumb aching feverishly, his forehead covered with a thin oil of sweat.