He said very quietly, hoping she could hear him, "Your wrists and ankles are in bad shape. Can I bandage them for you? They'll feel better."

Had she heard him? She still didn't move. He pulled an old undershirt from beneath the pile of clothes he'd brought and ripped it into strips. He felt every scrap of fear in her as he washed her wrists and ankles really well, smeared on some Neosporin, then wrapped the soft material around them, knotting them off. There, he'd done everything he could. He stood slowly, knowing now he shouldn't make any abrupt moves, and stared down at her. She was still in a tight little ball, her hands, now freed of him, tucked inside the covers.

She'd eaten a good bit of the soup. She wouldn't starve.

She was warm. She was clean. He'd smoothed antibiotic cream on the worst of the scratches and cuts.

He looked toward the front door, then the front windows. He pulled down the shades and closed the curtains. Now no one could see in. He slid the bolts home on the windows. To get in, someone would have to shatter them. He walked to the back door in the kitchen and flipped the dead bolt. The door didn't have a chain. He pulled one of the kitchen chairs over and shoved it beneath the doorknob.

Someone could shove the door open, but the chair feet would screech on the floor and certainly wake him up.

He looked at her one last time. "If you awaken, just call me. My name's Ramsey. I'll be here with you.

You're safe now. All right? If you have to use the bathroom, it's just beyond the kitchen, behind you. It's clean. I just washed up in there yesterday."

The covers moved just a little bit. Good, she'd heard him. But she didn't make a sound, not even that gut-wrenching mewling noise.

His bed was on the far side of the single room. He remained fully clothed. He put both the rifle and his Smith & Wesson on the small table by the bed, right next to the reading lamp. He carefully marked the page of the thriller he was reading and set it on the floor.