Intensity

nearby counter.
        He took off his shoes and carried them into the laundry room, where he left them to be cleaned later.
        He returned in his bare feet and, using paper towels and a bottle of Windex, cleaned every crumb of mud from the tiles. In the living room, he used a vacuum cleaner to sweep the mud out of the carpet.
        These domestic chores occupied him for almost fifteen minutes, and by the time he finished, he was no longer in the mood that had possessed him when he'd entered the kitchen. Housework seemed to scrub away his blues.
        "I'm going to go upstairs and sleep now," he said. "You'll be quiet and not rattle your chains much."
        She said nothing.
        "You'll be quiet, or I'll come down and shove five feet of the chain up your ass."
        She nodded.
        "Good girl."
        He left the room.
        The difference between Vess's usual demeanor and his recent mood no longer eluded Chyna. For a few minutes, he had lacked his usual self-confidence. Now he had it back.

    
        Mr. Vess always sleeps in the nude to facilitate his dreams.
        In slumberland, all the people whom he encounters are naked, whether they are being torn asunder beneath him in glorious wetness or are running in a pack with him through high shadowed places and down into moonlight. There is a heat in his dreams that not only makes clothes superfluous but burns from him the very concept of clothes, so going naked is more natural in the dreamworld than in the real one.
        He never suffers from nightmares. This is because, in his daily life, he confronts the sources of his tensions and deals with them. He is never dragged down by guilt. He is not judgmental of others and is never affected by what they think of him. He knows that if something he wishes to do feels right, then it is right. He always looks out for number one, because to be a successful human being, he must first like himself. Consequently, he always goes to his bed with a clear mind and an untroubled heart.
        Now, within seconds of resting his head on his pillow, Mr. Vess is asleep. From time to time his legs cycle beneath the covers, as if he is chasing something.
        Once, in his sleep, he says, "Father," almost reverentially, and the word hangs like a bubble on the air-which is odd, because when Edgler Vess was nine years old, he burned his father to death.
        

    
        Chains rattling, Chyna leaned down and picked up the spare cushion from the floor beside her chair. She put it on the table, slumped forward, and rested her head on it.
        According to the kitchen clock, it was a quarter till twelve. She had been awake well over twenty-four hours, except when she had dozed in the motor home and when she had sat here unconscious after Vess clubbed her.
        Although exhausted, and numb with despair, she did not expect to be able to sleep. But she hoped that by keeping her eyes closed and letting her thoughts drift to more pleasant times, she might be able to take her mind off her mild but gradually increasing urge to pee and off the pain in her neck and trigger finger.
        She was walking in a wind full of torn red blossoms, curiously unafraid of the darkness and of the lightning that sometimes split it, when she was awakened not by thunder but by the sound of scissors clipping through paper.
        She lifted her head from the pillow and sat up straight. The fluorescent light stung her eyes.
        Edgler Vess was standing at the sink, cutting open a large bag of potato chips.
        He said, "Ah, you're awake, you sleepyhead."
        Chyna looked at the clock. Twenty minutes till five.
        He said, "I thought it might take a brass band to bring you around."
        She had been asleep almost five hours. Her eyes were grainy. Her mouth was sour. She could smell her body odor, and she felt greasy.
        She had not wet herself in her sleep, and she was briefly lifted by an absurd sense of triumph that she had not yet been reduced to that lower level of humiliation. Then she realized how pathetic she was, priding herself on her continence, and her internal grayness darkened by a degree or two.
        Vess was wearing black boots, khaki slacks, a black belt, and a white T-shirt.
        His arms were muscular, enormous. She would never be able to struggle successfully against those arms.
        He brought a plate to the table. He had made a