Hastily she pulled off the bloodstained nightgown. Hastily she washed her hands in the bathroom, taking care that no faint blood residue was left on the towel. She threw on clothes she’d pulled from the closet, scarcely troubling to note whether they fitted her. No time to spare, shoving her (bare, tender) feet into shoes that fit, or nearly. In the other closet she discovered, in a pocket of the dark pin-striped suit coat, a key chain—keys; to her sobbing relief, one of them fitted the bedroom door and allowed her to open the door with a single assertive twist of the knob.

“Yes! Like this.”

Now she had only to retrace her steps. Hurriedly, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the rear door into fresh, cold, bright air, no one to observe, no one to call after her, now frankly running in the awkward shoes of a stranger, panting, out to the road and along the road a quarter mile or so to her car, which was exactly as she’d left it the previous day—front wheels in a shallow ditch, rear wheels on the road.

In a haze of exhilaration, running in bright, cold air. How rarely she ran now, in this phase of her life! After the confinement of the bedroom, after the stultifying embrace of the captor-husband, what joy to draw air deep into her lungs.

So relieved to see her car, Abigail laughed aloud. Though the car was shamefully mud-splattered. Her husband would be astonished, disapproving. What have you done, Abby! I just had that car washed. A white car, impractical. After a little difficulty she managed to open the door to the driver’s seat, managed to climb inside. There, the key in the ignition!—just where she’d left it.

“Yes. Like this.”

And now, would the engine start?—Abigail shut her eyes, turned the key. After a little hesitation the familiar sound of an engine starting. Her luck had held.

Now the task of rocking the car forward and back, forward and back, determined to get the front wheels free, until at last the wheels began to gain traction, borne by momentum. White exhaust billowed up behind. The wheels strained, but took hold. Abigail laughed aloud in sheer relief.

With a final jolt, the car was up on the road. Four wheels, solidly on the road. She could breathe now. Her eyesight had become sharper, she was breathing more deeply. Since taking up the vase of flowers in her hands—making her way silently into the bathroom—she’d been electrified by a rush of adrenaline that had not yet subsided. If only she’d had more faith in herself the previous day—if only she’d been guided by instinct—she would be at home now, and safe.

Driving back in the direction of North Ridge Road. At least she believed that she was driving in the direction of North Ridge Road.