Indeed he was, hunched under the blankets. They really weren't enough, considering his weakened state. He needed more warmth.

"I should have brought another blanket," she murmured. "But I would have had to take it from my own bed, and that would be chancy. I'll see what I can do."

She sat down beside him, and pulled at the blankets, re -- arranging them. Then she lay down, full length beside him, and drew the blankets over them both. "It's warmer this way," she explained.

He rolled over to face her, and she stiffened with fear. "Please don't rape me," she whispered. "I really don't like it." Yet she had come out here in her provocative nightgown. He couldn't see it, of course, but he could feel it. She had gotten under the blankets with him, in the dark. No jury would convict him.

"Rape?" he asked, not knowing the word.

Now she had to define it! How could she do that? If she managed to get the concept across, without the use of her pad and pencil, it would have to be by touch, and he might think she was asking for it. But she had used the word, and she had to explain it.

She pondered, her heart beating so wildly she almost thought her mother in the house could hear it, let alone Da -- rius. Then she found his right hand under the blanket. She brought it across his body and up to touch her head. "Yes," she said. Then she took it down to touch her right breast through the nightgown, as she lay on her back. "Maybe." Finally she put it against her thigh. "No."

He considered that, while she lay breathing rapidly, her body stiff. Then he reached across her, not to embrace her, but to find her left arm. He brought it across her body and up to his head. Her fingers touched his mouth. "Yes," he said. Then he took it down to his clothed crotch. "No."

He understood! "That's right," she said, squeezing his fingers with hers. "I'm here to warm you, and that's about it."

"Thank you." He brought her hand to his lips again, and kissed it.

Colene experienced a wild thrill. She knew she should just lie where she was, having made her point. But it was her nature to risk disaster. Suicide was merely the most extreme extension of a syndrome that permeated her existence. What -- ever she did, she had to push the limit, courting trouble. This was folly, but it was her way. Had she been a man, she would have been a daredevil cyclist, hurdling lines of cars soaked in gasoline, daring the flames to get her. But she was only a teenage girl, so had to settle for lesser dares.