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Some liar's logic, a wisp of optimism as fragile as the scent of tropical blossoms that came through the window ( a euphoria perhaps engendered by the pill Fritzie had given her ), consoled her for a moment.

Amy had to be safe, had to come back to them -- if only to reap that share of life's experiences that were her due, if only to give her parents another chance to do better by her.

Through the swathings of terror, she jabbed deceit's sharp point -- Amy would be reborn, a new child, with new parents, living under new circumstances.

The comfort was short-lived, yet she found herself returning to the assurance whenever her imagination forced images on her too awful to contemplate without the prop of illusion.

Gazing at her husband's drugged body, his chest rising and falling in mindless rhythms, she saw the grandeur of his fictional world, that lush garden from which he plucked flowers and herbs.

She envied him.

She admired him.