Around four, Annie said. He got out of his well-kept Chevrolet Bel Air, holding part of the Camaros bumper in one hand and its steering wheel in the other.
I knew it, and you did, too. And unless his assessment of Annie Wilkes was totally off the beam, that meant she had something even worse in store. It turned over, needling him from where it lay imprisoned in its cave of bones, and then fell lightly asleep again. When it was just a game (and even if they gave you money for it, a game was still all it was), you could think up some pretty wild things and make them seem believable — the connection between Misery Chastain and Miss Charlotte Evelyn-Hyde, for instance (they had turned out to be half-sisters; Misery would later discover her father down there in Africa hanging out with the Bourka Bee-People).
While he was doing that, the galleys dropped out from under his arm and fell to the rug. That was not so, as it turned out.
Little scraps of khaki uniform lay in the driveway or fluttered in the freshly cut grass of the side lawn. Suppose that, just this once, the oneHis pencil paused in mid-word at the sound of an approaching engine.