He was unconscious when she returned, fifty-one hours later. She made him sit up and she gave him some drops of water to heal his cracked lips and dry mouth. He woke up and tried to swallow a lot of water from the glass she was holding, but she only let him have a little at a time. 'Annie, the medicine, please . . . now,' he gasped. 'Soon, dear, soon,' she said gently. 'I'll give you your medicine, but first you have a job to do. I'll be back in a moment.' 'Annie, no!' he screamed as she got up and left the room. When she came back he thought he was still dreaming. It seemed too strange to be real. She was pushing a barbecue stove into the room. 'Annie, please. I'm in terrible pain.' Tears were streaming down his face. 'I know, dear. Soon.' She left and came back again with the typescript of Fast Cars and a box of matches. 'No,' he said, crying and shaking. 'No.' And the thought burned into his mind like acid: everyone had always said that he was crazy not to make copies of his typescripts. 'Yes,' she said, her face clear and calm. She held out the matches to him. 'It's foul, and it's no good. But you're good, Paul. I'm just helping you to be good.' 'No. I won't do it.' He shut his eyes. When he opened them again she was holding a packet of Novril in front of them. 'I think I'll give you four,' she said, as if she was not talking to him but to herself. 'Yes, four. Then you'll feel peaceful and the pain will go. I bet you're hungry, too. I bet you'd like some toast.' 'You're bad,' said Paul. 'Yes, that's what children always say to their mothers. But mother knows best. I'm waiting, Paul. You're being a very stubborn little boy.' 13 'No, I won't do it.' 'I'm not sure that you'll ever wake up if you lose consciousness again,' she remarked. 'I think you're close to unconsciousness now.' One hundred and ninety thousand words. Two years' work. But more importantly, it was what he saw as the truth. 'No.' The bed moved as she got up. 'I can't stay here all day. I hurried back to see you, and now you behave like a spoiled little boy. Oh well,' she sighed. 'I'll come back later.' 'You burn it.' he shouted. 'No, it must be you.' When she came back an hour later he took the matches. He remembered the joy of writing something good, something real. 'Annie, please don't make me do this,' he said. 'It's your choice,' she answered. So he burned his book - a few pages, enough to please her, to show her that he was good. Then she pushed the barbecue out again, to finish the job herself. When she came back she gave him four tablets of Novril and he thought: I'm going to kill her.