When he woke up from his drugged sleep he found himself in a wheelchair. He realized that she was very strong: she had lifted him up and put him in the wheelchair so gently that he had not woken up. It hurt to sit in the wheelchair, but it was nice to be able to see out of the window; he could only see a little when he was sitting up in bed. The wheelchair was in front of a table by the window of his room. He looked out on to a small snow-covered farm with a barn for the animals and equipment. The snow was still deep and there was no sign that it was going to melt yet. Beyond the farm was a narrow road and then the tree-covered mountains.

He heard the sound of a key in the lock. She came and fed him some soup.

'I think you are going to get better, she said. 'Yes, if we don't have any more of those arguments, I think you'll get healthy and strong.'

But Paul knew she was lying. One day his car would be found. One day someone - a policeman perhaps - would come and ask her questions. One day something would happen which would make Annie Wilkes frightened and angry. She was going to understand that you can't kidnap people and escape. She was going to have to go to court again, and this time she might not leave the court a free woman. She was going to realize all this and be afraid - and so she was going to have to kill Paul. How long was it before the snow melted? How long before his car was found? How long did he have to live?

'I bought you another present, as well as the wheelchair,' she was saying. 'I'll go and get it for you.' She came back with an old black typewriter. 'Well?' she said. 'What do you think?'

'It's great,' he said. 'A real antique.'

Her face clouded over. 'I didn't get it as an antique,' she said. 'I got it second-hand, it was a bargain, too. She wanted forty-five dollars for it, but I got it for forty because it has no "n".'

She looked pleased with herself. Paul could hardly believe it: she was pleased at buying a broken old typewriter!

'You did really well,' he said, discovering that flattery was easy.

Her smile became even wider. 'I told her that "n" was one of the letters in my favourite writer's name.'

'It's two of the letters in my favourite nurse's name,' replied Paul, hating himself. 'But what will I write on this typewriter, do you think?'

'Oh, Paul! I don't think - I know! You're going to write a new novel. It'll be the best yet. Misery's Return!'