Once more, she pitched the pencil toward the handle.

That time, it worked. It lodged in the gap between the handle and the flat edge of the serving area.

She gave it a gentle tug. The pencil held firm in the aperture. The cart budged toward her.

Like a fisherman reeling in a great fish, she slowly pulled the serving cart across the carpet, toward the bed. The cart was heavy. The pencil bent and swayed—and finally, snapped in half.

By then, she could reach forward and grab the handle without assistance. She pulled it toward her.

She flipped away the silver lid atop the plate, uncovering the remains of her meal.

The flatware was gone.

She nearly screamed with frustration. Was Grace always one step ahead of her?

There was a fistful of napkins beside the plate, silver winking at her from underneath. She tore away the napkins and found a fork, spoon, and the knife.

Thank you, God.

She levered the knife against her thumb, pressed carefully. She winced. The blade had a nice, sharp edge, and it should have; she couldn’t remember ever using any of this flatware. It had sat in the dining room, unused, until Grace had begun preparing her elaborate dinners on their best china.

The clock read 12:01pm.

Gotta hurry now. Any minute she can return.

She positioned the knife’s edge against the rope, focusing on the segment slightly above her head that trailed upward to the fan. It required her to raise her chin so she could see what she was doing, and to extend her arms a bit. She sliced at the rope, and promptly lost her grip on the blade. It slipped from her hands and dropped against her leg, stabbing her thigh.

“Shit,” she said, pain fanning through her.

She had to slow down. If she tried to rush this she could inadvertently hurt herself.

Balancing the knife against the rope again, gripping a piece of it in her left hand to hold it steady, she began to saw with her right hand. She cut back and forth, with slow, firm strokes. She kept the blade in the same deepening groove in the threads.

The muscles in both of her raised arms quickly began burning as lactic acid built up. Her shoulders throbbed. Perspiration gathered on her brow, dripped down the bridge of her nose.

Monica kept going. The rope had started to loosen; she could see threads of it falling away.

The aching in her arms soon became too much to bear. She had to take a break. She let her arms drop.

The clock read 12:16. She couldn’t believe time was passing by so rapidly.

She tugged at the rope. She had made good progress, but needed to cut deeper to free herself.

Gathering in a deep breath, she resumed working.