A passerby peering in through the study window would have seen an encouraging sight—Todd Milstead, would-be author, finally applying himself to his craft, writing solidly for hour after hour. The same passerby might wonder that Todd never seemed to worry about where the next word was coming from, and wrote at a consistent, but also maniacal speed, like he had so much to get out of himself and hardly any time to do so. They might also note that from time to time, Todd would open his mouth and emit a wordless yell, like someone trapped on a switchback.

But there was no passerby, nobody for Todd to say get these damned shoes off me to, and no respite.

*  *  *

Seven hours passed, at which point Todd noticed that two of his fingers were bleeding.

“Stop, dammit,” he said. “I need to get a Band-Aid.”

In the bathroom, his hands twitched impatiently as Todd rummaged through the first aid kit. Inspired, he thrust them into his pockets, where they comprehensively thumped his thighs in frustration.

“Oh darn,” he said in what he hoped was a convincingly flat tone, “We seem to be out of Band-Aids. I better drive to the store and get some.”

And without a moment’s delay, he turned and walked downstairs and out of the house.

*  *  *

Todd’s hands were his again, which was good news for Todd, as he was currently using them to drive his car. He had no idea how long this would last (maybe forever, he thought. Maybe it would be his fate to be a conduit for every lost book ever written, and one day they would find his skeleton slumped over a previously unpublished Jane Austen novel), so he was determined to make the most of it. Which in this case meant visiting a Burger King drive-in and ordering the largest meal they had.

“I have to eat,” he reasoned out loud as he maneuvered a Whopper to his mouth at the traffic lights. His hands seemed to have no argument with this, and even let him enjoy his fries with ketchup.

Todd was so encouraged by this development he decided to take a chance and make his next destination not the drug store but the nearest bar.

*  *  *

It didn’t go well. As soon as he made a left instead of a right, Todd found himself making an extremely abrupt U-turn, to the accompaniment of furious horns, and then having a major fight on his hands, or rather with his hands, to regain control of the parking brake. There was a crunch. Todd’s car was stalled right in the middle of the road. He tugged at the parking brake, but to no avail.

After a while a police car came by. Its driver got out.

“Having trouble?” he said.

“I stalled just as I was about to overtake someone,” Todd lied.

The cop said, “You can’t stay here, pal. This is the middle of the road.”