Mary said she could leave the boxes in the spare room for as long as she needed, so she piled them in the corner, rode her bike to Devesh’s house, and opened the front door. It was dark, but she could make out Devesh’s cereal bowl still on the coffee table, and an old newspaper scattered on the floor. She walked down the hallway to the den, the study, and then back to the kitchen. There wasn’t a space he hadn’t dragged her, tied her, beat her. Every moment she had with him was soaked in darkness. This was who they were together. It twisted her heart, and she suddenly wished he were here, trying to convince her that yes, they could love each other the way normal people in normal relationships loved each other. And yes, without the striking of a whip, the knot that they had tied themselves into would hold, would not unravel fiber by fiber.

She walked into the bedroom. The morning he left, he had hidden the toys away in the chest, but he had missed the cuffs. They were still attached to the rope but had fallen to the floor, and now she could see the silver buckles glinting against the black leather. They looked small and deflated and hardly sufficient to keep her still, and the thick rope around the bedpost looked like a shoestring. She bent to the floor and picked up the cuffs. He had ordered them just for her, wrapped a tape measure around her tiny wrists and then across her spread palm, and made her remember the numbers. Six inches by six inches, perfectly symmetrical.

Now, she held the cuffs in her hand, ran her thumbs along the soft leather, then raised them to her nose and inhaled. The sharp smell seeped through her. It grabbed and pulled. Her body heated and gave, and the immediacy of her reaction so shocked her, she pulled her hands quickly away and dropped the cuffs to the floor. She wanted it as much as ever, wanted to crawl on the floor and beg to be strapped, wanted to offer her body as reparation, wanted to be absolved by the whip. She took a step back.

“No,” she said aloud, and the sharpness of her voice surprised her.

The phone rested next to the bed, and she dug the number out of her pocket and dialed slowly, pressing each digit with authority. It rang and rang, and when it put her through to voice mail, she hung up and dialed again. Finally, he answered.

“Hi,” she said.

“Josie?” His voice was soft and faraway, and his words echoed on the line.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing? Where are you? Are you okay?” She could hear him rustle the bed covers and sit up.