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he looked through it to get away from Annie. The Evelyn-Hyde babe was MISERY'S SISTER! I keep them right next to the freezer compartment, and that keeps them as cold as you can get them without freezing them. Although he knew it was too soon to be feeling any relief, he did feel it — having the pills, it seemed, was even more important than taking the pills. Nearly one whole arm of her cardigan sweater was soaked with a half-dried substance that smelled like gravy. Ramage found now, following Geoffrey through the gates and into a thin mist that turned the leaning grave markers into islands, that what should have redeemed with nobility only made it seem all the more horrid. Annie laid the three pages of typescript on the night-table beside him and he waited to see what she would say about them."He really did go to lunch with Charlie Merrill. and then it was locked in his fist. For when I finish. "They unlocked the door and went in. Paul, stay in.

"I'd want to know what was going to happen in Chapter 18 even if I7 ended with Misery and Ian and Geoffrey sitting in armchairs on the porch, reading newspapers. Part of him — the part that listened to even the best, fairest editorial suggestions with ill-grace — protested that the woman was crazy, that there was no way to tell what she might or might not accept; that anything he tried would be only a crapshoot. Yes, he supposed he had been his own Scheherazade, just as he was his own dream-woman when he grabbed hold of himself and jacked off to the feverish beat of his fantasies. There was silence for awhile, and then Annie put her spoon down, wiped a mixture of chocolate syrup and melting ice-cream off her chin with the back of her hand, and said pleasantly: "Tell me the rest. He dreamed he was lost in a snowstorm, only it wasn't snow; it was flying pages which filled the world, destroying direction, and each page was covered with typing, and all the n's and t's and e's were missing, and he understood that if he was still alive when the blizzard ended, he would have to fill them all in himself, by hand, deciphering words that were barely there. He was fully awake now, thinking fast and hard, but not really aware of the process. But the problem was the same as the old Novril-in-the-ice-cream trick: in both cases neither was sure enough. Except he had seen something funny on the way home from lunch with Charlie, and it had given him an idea. It would have been good to spit that bitter taste out, but he knew better than to do it. Once she was off 9, the way into the hills was by little-travelled meadow-line roads, many fallen into casual disuse as grazing cattle this high up became a rarity. Geoffrey, say ye don't mean it, say it isn't true — "I don't know if it is true or not,»he said. He slid down a bit in the wheelchair — giving out a single barking groan — and looked through it. Ralph Dugan had gone back to helping the lame, the halt, and the blind at Arapahoe County Hospital; presumably Annie went back to that time-honored nurse's job of giving aid and comfort to the grievously wounded. "Whatever he thought of it, Mr Rancho Grande was not going to give Annie the satisfaction of seeing it — that neutral expression dropped over his face again like the visor on a suit of armor. He tore the cellophane apart with his teeth and chewed up three of the capsules, barely aware of the bruisingly bitter taste. After all, this was the woman who, although she'd gotten her cap in 1966, had told him only minutes ago that she had been a nurse for ten years. Looking at it was a little like looking at an instrument of torture — boot, rack, strappado — which is standing inactive, but only for the moment. She walked across the floor toward the stairs, her head turned slightly, and he realized she was — or might be — looking at the can-littered table. Annie walked back to the mower, got on, started it up, and drove it around back. I should have known you'd do anything to get your pills, but when I get mad, I get. He didn't need a psychiatrist to point out that writing had its autoerotic side — you beat a typewriter instead of your meat, but both acts depended largely on quick wits, fast hands and a heartfelt commitment to the art of the farfetched. Working on it was torture, and finishing it was going to mean the end of his life.