What’s to think about, toots? It’s psychosomatic, that’s all. You’re thirsty because you know you can’t get up and get a drink. It’s as simple as that.

But it wasn’t. She’d had a fight with her husband, and the two swift kicks she’d dealt him had started a chain reaction which finally resulted in his death. She herself was suffering the aftereffects of a major hormone-spill. The technical term for it was shock, and one of the commonest symptoms of shock was thirst. She should probably count herself lucky that her mouth was no drier than it was, at least so far, and-

And maybe that’s one thing I can do something about.

Gerald was the quintessential creature of habit, and one of his habits was keeping a glass of water on his side of the shelf above the headboard of the bed. She twisted her head up and to the right and yes, there it was, a tall glass of water with a little cluster of melting ice-cubes floating on top. The glass was no doubt sitting on a coaster so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the shelf that was Gerald, so considerate about the little things. Beads of condensation stood out on the glass like sweat.

Looking at these, Jessie felt her first, pang of real thirst. It made her lick her lips. She slid to the right as far as the chain on the left handcuff would allow. This was only six inches, but it brought her onto Gerald’s side of the bed. The movement also exposed several dark spots on the left side of the coverlet. She stared at these vacantly for several moments before remembering how Gerald had voided his bladder in his last agony. Then she quickly turned her eyes back to the glass of water, sitting up there on a round of cardboard which probably advertised some brand of yuppie suds, Beck’s or Heineken being the most likely.

She reached out and up, doing it slowly, willing her reach to be long enough. It wasn’t. The tips of her fingers stopped three inches short of the glass. The pang of thirst-a slight tightening in the throat, a slight prickle on the tongue-came and went again.

If no one comes or I can’t think of a way to wiggle free by tomorrowmorning, I won’t even be able to look at that glass.

This idea had about it a cold reasonableness that was terrifying in and of itself. But she wouldn’t still be here tomorrow morning, that was the thing. The idea was totally ridiculous. Insane. Loopy. Not worth thinking about. It-

Stop, the no-bullshit voice said. Just stop. And so she did.

The thing she had to face was that the idea wasn’t totally ridiculous. She refused to accept or even entertain the possibility that she could die here-that was loopy, of course-but she could be in for some long, uncomfortable hours if she didn’t dust away the cobwebs on the old thinking machine and get it running.

Long, uncomfortable…and maybe painful, the Goodwife said nervously. But the pain would be an act of atonement, wouldn’t it? After all, you brought this on yourself. I hope. I’m not being tiresome, butif you’d just let him shoot his squirt-

“You are being tiresome, Goody,” Jessie said. She couldn’t remember if she had ever spoken out loud to one of the interior voices before. She wondered if she was going mad. She decided she didn’t give much of a shit one way or the other, at least for the time being.

Jessie closed her eyes again.

This time it wasn’t her body she visualized in the darkness behind her lids but this whole room. Of course she was still the centerpiece, gosh, yes-Jessie Mahout Burlingame, still a shade under forty, still fairly trim at five-seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds, gray eyes, brownish-red hair (she covered the gray that had begun to show up about five years ago with a glossy rinse and was fairly sure Gerald had never known). Jessie Mahout Burlingame, who had gotten herself into this mess without quite knowing how or why. Jessie Mahout Burlingame, now presumably the widow of Gerald, still mother of no one, and tethered to this goddamned bed by two sets of police handcuffs.

She made the imaging part of her mind zoom in on these last. A furrow of concentration appeared between her closed eyes.

Four cuffs in all, each pair separated by six inches of rubbersleeved steel chain, each with M- 17-a serial number, she assumed-stamped into the steel of the lock-plate. She remembered Gerald’s telling her, back when the game was new, that each cuff had a notched take-up arm, which made the cuff adjustable. It was also possible to shorten the chains until a prisoner’s hands were jammed painfully together, wrist to wrist, but Gerald had allowed her the maximum length of chain.

And why the hell not? she thought now. After all, it was only agame…right, Gerald? Yet now her earlier question occurred to her, and she wondered again if it had ever really been just a game for Gerald.

What’s a woman? some other voice-a UFO voice-whispered softly from a well of darkness deep inside her. A life-support systemfor a cunt.

Go away, Jessie thought. Go away, you’re not helping.

But the UFO voice declined the order. Why does a woman havea mouth and a cunt? it asked instead. So she can piss and moan at thesame time. Any other questions, little lady?

No. Given the unsettlingly surreal quality of the answers, she had no other questions. She rotated her hands inside the cuffs. The scant flesh of her wrists dragged against the steel, making her wince, but the pain was minor and her hands turned easily enough. Gerald might or might not have believed that a woman’s only purpose in life was to serve as a life-support system for a cunt, but he hadn’t tightened the cuffs enough to hurt; she would have balked at that even before today, of course (or so she told herself, and none of the interior voices were mean enough to dispute her on the subject). Still, they were too tight to slip out Of.

Or were they?

Jessie gave them an experimental tug. The cuffs slid up her wrists as her hands came down, and then the steel bracelets wedged firmly against the junctions of bone and cartilage where the wrists made their complex and marvellous alliances with her hands.

She yanked harder. Now the pain was much more intense. She suddenly remembered the time Daddy had slammed the driver s-side door of their old Country Squire station wagon on Maddy’s left hand, not knowing she was sliding out on his side for a change instead of on her own. How she had screamed! It had broken some bone-Jessie couldn’t remember the name of it but she did remember Maddy proudly showing off her soft cast and saying, “I also tore my posterior ligament.” That had struck Jess and Will as funny, because everyone knew that your posterior was the scientific name for your situpon. They had laughed, more in surprise than in scorn, but Maddy had gone storming off just the same, her face as dark as a thundercloud, to tell Mommy.

Posterior ligament, she thought, deliberately applying more pressure in spite of the escalating pain. Posterior ligament and radio-ulnarsomething-or-other. Doesn’t matter. If you can slip out of these cuffs, Ithink you better do it, toots, and let some doctor worry about puttingHumpty back together again later on.

Slowly, steadily, she increased the pressure, willing the handcuffs to slip down and off. If they would just go a little way-a quarter of an inch might do it, and a half was almost for sure she would be past the bulkiest ridges of bone and would have more yielding tissue to deal with. Or so she hoped. There were bones in her thumbs, of course, but she would worry al»out them when and if the time came.