Sixty long minutes of sitting. I wondered how I could stand the strain. Turning my head, I looked at Gail Loring beside me. She stared straight ahead, her lips pressed tight and her eyes glistening. She must have seen my head move, for she turned and looked at me.
"Good luck, Mrs. Drake," I said.
"The name is Gail Loring, and don't forget that, Bill Drake," she said.
I could have slapped her.
But after a time I was glad she had said it. My angry thoughts kept me occupied and that helped pass the time. Almost before I knew it, I heard the voice outside say:
"Fifteen minutes!"
I am a congenital heathen. This is not to say that I'm an atheist or anything of the sort. It's simply that I've never accepted religion the way most people do. In a way, I think I've missed something and I envy those who can accept their faiths without question or doubt, and mold their lives accordingly. For the first time, I wished I knew how to pray.
"Ten minutes!" said the voice of doom.
It seemed as if the words were still echoing in my ears when I heard: "Five minutes—four—three—two—sixty seconds—"
And then came the final ten seconds, ticked off one by one, ending in: