Bell was free. But where was his pulse?

It was as though Bell was seeing his cabin for the first time. “No, that's not it,” he thought. Perhaps the walls had been refinished in a slightly darker grain, or perhaps the bookshelf had been moved to the other side of the room. It was not the same room.

“I turned off that radio,” Marilyn said.

She was standing at the fireplace. She held a broken chair.

“Watch out.”

The chair lifted. It smashed to the floor with a crash, its back splintering. Two of its legs flew loose and Marilyn configured them in the coals. Bell watched. She tore loose chapters from a ragged book and kindled flame from the few remaining embers. A book he'd never read— now a small fire.

“I'm not staying, Bell. This is a nightmare and I want nothing more to do with it.” She didn't sigh. “I'm going to try to sleep on this mess of straw and then first thing tomorrow you're getting me out of here. Can you do that?” She dusted a fig and drew it to her mouth.

He couldn't do that. There was nowhere else. How could there be? There was no leaving, no home to go back to. That's how it'd always been. He couldn't respond;

he knew it'd sound nasally.

✰ ✰ ✰

Bell came to with a start. The corner chair creaked as he flexed life back into his joints. It dawned on him, blearily, that he had actually fallen asleep. He was still smiling, still could picture the motion of the swing and the blur of blowing leaves all encircling. The taste of his sister's fig jam. He rubbed his eyes. The fire was still burning, still crackling, still smelling of smoke, but it was dimmer now.

The light was blocked by the body of the bulbous Baal.

A Cheshire smile of Bell's own slowly spread over his face. The sleeping figure of Marilyn was not lying still. She twisted in the straw. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open but silent. The radio was hissing, the voice no longer human.

“... A meal — ... A meal — ... A meal ...”