The thought of death smoked around her. Of dying like a snail poured over with salt, like a black bird Maggie had found--stiff and hard. She knew that if he let her live, if her heart kept beating, that any life she lived, any road she took, would always lead her back to them--back to him. Like a rotted seed taking root, burrowing through her belly, her gut, his eyes whispered that she was their thing now. They owned her.