Mouth-to-mouth, the woman had forced him back to life, pumping great sickly-sweet gusts of bad breath into him. Sickly-sweet, she smiled down at him, pushing the painkillers into his dry mouth with her. big. work-coarsened fingers. Coyly, smilingly, she pillow-plumped and nursey-talked and made sure he finished up every last little scrap. He was a writer. She was his Number One Fan: She'd pulled him out of the car-wreck, brought him home splinted and set his mangled legs. All he had to do in return was to write: a very special book, just for her, all about her favourite character from his novels. One he'd killed off and now had to bring back to life. ' Because if he didn't, if he was Bad and Didn't Do What Nurse Told Him; she would be cross - very cross - and do things that would make him scream and scream...