Spam message of the week:
No, a deeper voice responded implacably. Assimilable ancillary Paul Sheldon's fifteen-thousand-dollar paperweight.
He was finally able to convince her that returning to work would put him forward, not back. All the world outside froze solid.
"We may have to check back with you."
It would somehow be easier, Ian had said, "if she looked." Like that all-time, double-ugly tag-team of The Cockadoodie Brats. Only for the last few months she's been going every day instead of just on Saturday afternoons, and the Paul who takes her is her pet writer instead of her older brother.
They had found her outside of Misery the pig's stall, with one hand wrapped around the handle of her chainsaw. Cybernetics.
Sounds like someone has been reading Stephen King.