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“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” he mumbles around the fabric—at least that’s what I think he’s saying.

“Doubtful . . .” I say under my breath, keeping my focus. It’s really tough at this angle to carve a clean M.

The armpit has a lot of nerve endings, so eventually his screams become high-pitched and staccato with every cut; the sound he makes resembles something like a smoke alarm. There’s nobody for miles and miles, and the freeway drowns out any other noise. Still, he doesn’t give up.

Because of the extra skin and concave shape, especially when he’s trying to wiggle around, I’m unable to achieve the result I was hoping for. We’re just going to call that a wash. I’m annoyed it didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped.

I wince, blinking one eye shut at a particularly high-pitched screech from Steve. “For the love of God.” I take a deep breath. “Please use your inside voice.”

Finally I finish up the word and move to the other armpit. Despite my efforts, it doesn’t turn out any better than the first one. Damn it. But hey, at least he’s finally losing his voice. Steve isn’t nearly as loud as he was earlier.

When I’m ready for his forehead, I have to tie plastic around his face just to make him hold still. I leave his nose just barely exposed so he doesn’t pass out, but there’s so much snot dripping from it that it’s giving his respiratory system a run for its money.

The forehead is way better than the armpits. The first four letters are a breeze, but the second A goes a little deep and I sit up.

“Whoa, I think I saw your skull for a second . . . Lemme try again.” I underline KARMA going across his forehead, digging in and . . . Yup, sure enough. For a split second I see a flash of white skull before it fills in with pooled blood. “Wow, that is nuts.”

I remove the plastic and the scrap of cotton shirt from his mouth and he gasps for air.

“Dick!” he sputters. His eyes are looking heavy.

“Really?” I raise my brows and glance at his crotch. I shrug. “If you say so. It’s your penis.”

I sit up and peel down his damp pants and underwear.

He wriggles like a maggot in hot ashes.

“Dude, you are ripe. When was your last shower?”

It’s a mix of piss, sweat, and a clear vendetta against wiping.

His legs tremble and his penis is so shriveled up I have to squint to even locate it. “I’m definitely going to need the #1 gauge for this.”

I unscrew the attachment and swap it with the smallest blade. I stretch his penis to its full length, trying to flatten the work surface. It’s not going well. “You’re not giving me much to work with here.”

Still, I’m no quitter.

This time when he screams, no sound comes out, just this weird throat-clicking noise. It definitely has my own balls shrinking up, so I’m not too surprised.

He passes out after one and a half letters. I’m irritated, but I finish the word anyway. I relish the brief silence before I stand and crack my hand across his face as hard as I can. He arches his back, sucking in a deep inhale, and then howls a raspy cry.

Beads of sweat and blood drip down his forehead into his eyes and he sobs, no longer screaming and making a racket. “I’m sorry!” he bawls. “Are you going to let me go?”

“Did you let Anna go?”

He wails again, his voice weak and choppy. I snap off my bloody gloves, tossing them in the corner. I pull on a fresh pair sitting near the door, then return to him and hold the phone up. “Look at her.”

I swipe a hand across his face, clearing the blood and perspiration to clear his vision, but he cuts his gaze away from the screen. I dig my thumb into one of the letters on his armpit and he snaps his eyes where I want them.

“See how thin she is? You left her to die on that bed. You tortured her. It’s your turn to lie here. Hour after hour. Until you die. In a few days, someone will be here to clean up the mess. If you aren’t dead by then, you will be buried alive.”

“He’s one of the most emotionally stable men I’ve ever met,” I say to my therapist. “Like . . . he just has this really calming presence.”

Joan’s face is calm and centered in the square of the telehealth app on my laptop. After three years, I’ve homed in on her expressions well enough to catch the tiny smile that accompanies her raised brow. “That’s a strong statement.”

“That’s not usually how you talk about men,” she says dryly.

“I know.” I laugh. “But it’s true, he’s just . . . different.”