Yes, Annie, he said, his voice hollow. We understand each other.

Annie smiled, a wide, vacant expression that didn't reach her eyes. She dropped the pill into his palm. Good boy. Now, make it beautiful.

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat on the pale blue screen of Paul Sheldon’s laptop. Outside, the Colorado snow fell in heavy, suffocating sheets, burying the world in a silent, white shroud. Inside the guest room of Annie Wilkes’s remote farmhouse, the air smelled of floor wax and stale medication.

She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. You’re going to delete that chapter, Paul. And you’re going to write it again. This time, Misery realizes that the walls holding her in are the only things keeping her safe.

I was just thinking, Annie, he whispered, his throat dry. The ending... it needs to be right. For Misery.

Paul looked at the pill, then at his mangled legs, and finally at the blank screen. He felt the cold weight of the snow outside and the heavier weight of the woman standing over him. With a shaking hand, he reached for the mouse, highlighted the text, and hit delete. The screen went white.

She picked up the white pill from the saucer and held it between two fingers, just out of his reach. Do we understand each other?

Annie set the tray down with a clinical thud. She leaned over him, the scent of lavender soap masking something sour and sharp. She read the last paragraph he had written—a scene where the heroine, Misery Chastain, finally saw the light of London after years of captivity.