First thing, she had to dress him. She knew he didn't want to dress. He wanted to shower, crawl into bed, fall asleep - whatever action preserved the routine. Brush his teeth, reach for the light. He was still on top of the bed, frozen in the soldier's huddled field position, his rear up and his arms encircling his head as if to shield it from fl ying shrapnel. His hair - he still had a full head of dark hair, one of his most distinguished features, he was a handsome, healthy man, ridiculously horse- healthy and aging with the grace of a matinee idol - was disheveled. ''Tim,'' she said, looking over his arm into his one visible and glazed-over eye, ''you have to get dressed.''

He didn't move. She got off the bed, walked into the bathroom and threw a black waffl e- weave robe over her silk nightgown. She was startled by the complacency of the lotions, soaps, creams and deodorants arrayed on their bathroom sink, suddenly insulted by the rosy promises of common beauty products. She took an inventory in her head of all the things she needed and began collecting them from the places in the house where they could be found: his base layer of thermal long underwear and form- fitting insulator pants from the dresser; a sweatshirt and fleece from the walk- in; his heavy down coat; his hat, gloves and scarf. She placed his ski mask in one of the coat pockets along with several disposable heat packs she hoped hadn't reached some unmarked expiration date. She reminded herself to buy more. She almost broke into tears by the washer-dryer. She brought up the GPS and the alpine pack from the basement. She filled the pack quickly: a rain poncho, eyedrops, dryskin lotion, an inflatable pillow, a fi rst- aid kit. And then from the cupboard, trail mix and energy bars and a Nalgene bottle of electrolyte water. She included matches for no specific reason. Then she zipped the pack and walked upstairs.

She went to the bed and began to move him physically as if he were a child. She turned him over and undid his belt and removed his pants and boxers and unbuttoned his shirt, all with little help from him. He was soon lying on the bed naked. She applied a coat of Vaseline to his face and neck and then to his genitals because Vaseline helped with both the chafing and the cold. Then she began to dress him in what she had collected, finishing with the wicking socks and his waterproof boots. She
placed the alpine pack in the doorway where it could be grabbed easily on his way out and then she crawled onto the bed beside him.

''No Bagdasarian this time,'' he said. ''No doctors of any kind.''

''Okay,'' she said.

''I mean it,'' he said. ''I got off that gerbil wheel and I'm not getting back on.''

''Okay, Tim.''

She reached out for the remote and turned off the late show.

''Have I taken you for granted again, Jane?''

A powerful silence settled over them. He lay on his back as overdressed as a child ready for the winter snow. She watched him from her pillow. His eyes were not as wide and his breathing had calmed.

''Let's not do this,'' she said.

''Do what?''

''Start in with the guilt and the regrets.''

He turned to her. ''Have I taken you for granted?''

''Everyone takes everyone for granted,'' she said. ''It's a clause in the contract.''

''How do you take me for granted?''

''How? In so many ways, Tim.''

''Name one.''

''I can't even begin,'' she said. ''Okay, for one. The best vacation we ever took and for the life of me I can't remember the name of the island.''

He began to smile. ''Scrub Island,'' he said.

''I depend on you for that.''

''That's different than taking me for granted.''

''Scrub Island,'' she said. ''It was such a clean place, the name makes perfect sense. But I can never remember.''

''Wouldn't you like to go back?'' he asked.

''I thought Africa was next.''

They both knew there was no next, not now, not any time soon, and the silence returned.

''We should buy a place on Scrub Island,'' he said. ''There was such delicious food there. And do you remember the little girl walking the streets in a wedding dress?''

''She'd be grown by now.''

''And the ostriches. That man herding them with a bullwhip. Don't you want to go back?''

''Yes,'' she said. ''When you're well again, we'll go back.''

''I'm hot,'' he said.

She got off the bed and opened both windows. The winter's crisp, shocking reality blew in. She turned back toward the bed. Then she remembered the handcuffs.

She walked over to his nightstand and removed them from the drawer. ''What about these?'' she asked, standing over him at bedside.

He pulled his stare from the unfocused void into which he had lost himself. He looked at the cuffs mournfully, as if they belonged to someone whose death had come on suddenly, and now he was taking stock, with great reluctance, of what to keep and what to throw away. He pursed his lips and shook his head and resumed looking at the ceiling. She put the cuffs back in the drawer.