What registered first was the change of his tone. He usually spoke in a bluff, gruff, hearty sort of voice-I’m in charge here,and it’s a pretty lucky thing for all of us, isn’t it? that tone proclaimed-but this was a low, purring voice with which she was not familiar. The gleam had returned to his eyes-that hot little gleam which had turned her on like a bank of floodlights once upon a time. She couldn’t see it very well-his eyes were squinted down to puffy slits behind his gold-rimmed spectacles-but it was there. Yes indeed.

Then there was the strange case of Mr Happy. Mr Happy hadn’t wilted a bit. Seemed, in fact, to be standing taller than at any time she could remember… although that was probably just her imagination.

Do you think so, toots? I don’t.

She processed all this information before finally returning to the last thing he’d said-that amazing question. What if I won’t? This time she got past the tone to the sense of the words, and as she came to fully understand them, she felt her rage and fear crank up a notch. Somewhere inside, the bucket was going down its shaft again for another slimy dip-a scumload of water filled with microbes almost as poisonous as swamp copperheads.

The kitchen door banged against its jamb and the dog began to bark in the woods again, sounding closer than ever now. It was a splintery, desperate sound. Listening to something like that for too long would undoubtedly give you a migraine.

“Listen, Gerald,” she heard her strong new voice saying. She was aware that this voice could have picked a better time to break its silence-she was, after all, out here on the deserted north shore of Kashwakamak Lake, handcuffed to the bedposts, and wearing only a skimpy pair of nylon panties-but she still found herself admiring it. Almost against her will she found herself admiring it. “Are you listening yet? I know you don’t do much of that these days when it’s me doing the talking, but this time it’s really important that you hear me. So… are you finally listening?”