Annie’s face contorted. The sweetness evaporated, replaced by a dark, brooding storm. This isn't right, Paul. She wouldn't just leave. She’s grateful. You’re making her sound ungrateful. I’m trying to make it realistic, Annie.

She picked up the white pill from the saucer and held it between two fingers, just out of his reach. Do we understand each other?

As she turned and locked the door behind her, Paul began to type. The click-clack of the keys was the only sound in the room, a frantic, rhythmic pulse marking the hours of his golden cage. He wasn't writing a story about Misery Chastain anymore. He was writing his own obituary, one sentence at a time.

Annie smiled, a wide, vacant expression that didn't reach her eyes. She dropped the pill into his palm. Good boy. Now, make it beautiful.