Placing Gayle’s limp body in one of the chairs, he held her steady with one hand while he dumped her purse out on the table. There! Grabbing the chirping phone, he flipped it open and took the call. “Hello. Gayle can’t come to the phone right now.” There was a moment of silence, followed by a woman’s accusing voice demanding, “Where is she, and what have you done to her?” “She’s right here, but she’s asleep. And as for what I did, I’ll say she enjoyed it, and leave it at that.” “I don’t believe you. Put Gayle on the phone.” Rikard took a deep breath, and flipped the switch in his mind that engaged the other new instrument he’d been gifted with after his accident. He’d studied self-hypnosis as a way to manage the agonizing pain of the third-degree burns, working with the visualizations his therapists suggested. It hadn’t been very effective until he’d tried recording himself, and playing back his spoken suggestions. Then it was surprisingly successful.
