" He could hear the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing. He tried to pull his hands loose, but the harder he pulled, the tighter the knot got. He was still struggling when she reappeared. "You don't trust me much, do you, Michael? I told you I wasn't leaving. Now quit doing that before you cut off the circulation to your hand." She set the pile of things she'd been carrying on the floor. Then, deftly, she readjusted the tie on his left arm where his hand was beginning to turn purple. "You're going to enjoy this, I promise you, so don't fight it." He lay back on the bed, panting, and looked at her. Even in the dim light, her own excitement was obvious. She bent down and picked up two large, slightly worn bath towels from the floor. Sitting down, she laid the folded towels on the bed beside him. "Turn away from me for a moment and let me slip this under you." He turned as far onto his side as the bonds would allow, and she spread the towels beneath him, smoothing them out. Her. What got me was the first night Jill stayed. I do not believe it was their first time, but the first time I had to deal with the uncomfortable approach of bedtime. We had laid around watching the newest DVD from Clint Eastwood in our media room. Dad and Jill relaxed behind me on the theater seats as I stretched out on the floor. Now late, and me tired, I kissed Dad goodnight, told Jill I would see her later, and trundled off to bed. Time passed, I drifted off to a shallow sleep. I was awakened first by groans. Inaudible, low level groans. I listened, thinking the wind must be blowing. Instantly, concern for my Dad entered my mind. Was he sick? The groans were coming from the hallway. I rose from my bed, following the pale light from the night light, opened my bedroom door quietly. Glancing outside, nothing was there. As I pulled the door open, I stepped into the hall, glanced toward the stairs, then turned to the sounds emanating from my Dad's bedroom. I stepped closer to the door..
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