An undulating moan, a high-pitched laugh.

The electric skeleton!

I was not far from the Riverbank Inn. Where Primrose had stayed. Where she had never been seen again.

I pictured Primrose's bloated face, saw the gouges left by underwater feeders.

I lay bound, gagged, and blindfolded in a sack beside the Tuckasegee River!

I had to break free!

My skul pounded from its encounter with the rock. The rag cut off my air, and tasted of garbage and filth. The duct tape burned my cheeks and lips, and fired splinters of light up my optic nerve.

And I could hear the swish of roaches on my nylon jacket, feel their movement in my hair and on my jeans.

My thoughts flew in a thousand directions.

Again, I listened. Hearing no indicators of a human presence, I began manipulating my bindings, breathing steadily through my nose.

My stomach swirled, my mouth grew dry.

Milennia passed. The tape loosened a milimeter.

Tears of frustration weled behind my mashed lids.

No weeping!

I kept at my ankles and wrists, yanking, twisting, tugging, stopping periodicaly to monitor for sound outside my bag.

Roaches scuttled across my face, their feet feathery on my skin.

Go away! I screamed in my mind. Get the fuck off!

I struggled on. Sweat dampened my hair.

My mind soared like a nocturnal bird, and I looked down on myself, a helpless larva on the forest floor. I pictured the blackness around me and wished for the safety of a familiar night haven.

A twenty-four-hour coffee shop. A tolbooth. A precinct house. A nurses' station in a sleeping ward. An ER.

Then I remembered.

The scalpel!

Could I reach it?

I drew my knees to my chest, scrunching the hem of my jacket as far up as possible. Then I jerked my elbows across the nylon, raising my hips each time. Blindly I inched the pocket forward, gauging its progress by touch.

Reading my clothing like a Braile map, I located the nylon loop attached to the pul tab and grasped it between the fingertips of both hands.

I held my breath, applied downward pressure.

My fingers slid down the nylon and off the end.

Damn!

I tried again, with the same result.

Over and over I repeated the maneuver, fishing, squeezing, puling, until my hand cramped and I wanted to scream.

New plan.

Pressing the zipper tab to my thigh with the back of my left hand, I bent my right wrist and tried to hook a finger through the loop. The angle was too shalow.

I bent my hand farther. No go.

Using the fingers of my left hand, I placed pressure on my right, increasing the backward angle. Pain screamed up the tendons of my forearm.