My father taught me a long time ago not to be a quitter. Mom, too. Between the pair of them? I'd had a formidable (if couched in loving attention for the most part disguising the lessons) education in taking care of myself.
But it had been that most amazing of women, Jill Wagner, who'd taught me not so long ago the very important and, as it turned out in the next few seconds, vital skill of breaking free of various types of bonds and escaping.
"Thing is," she'd said as she'd wrapped the stuff around my wrists, "it's not as hard as you think to break out. And, I figure, considering how many times you've been in a bad position the last few years..."
"Knowing how to free myself from bondage is a good thing." I'd laughed at the terminology I'd used at the time, if only because I'd been thinking, not about life and death situations, but the man I was in love with and the word bondage made me giggle like a wicked little girl.