He wasn't a very good magician at all. You spotted the gaps in the linking rings. You saw the extra handkerchief in his jacket. The dove he pulled out of his sleeve didn't look at all healthy, and you wondered how long it had been crammed in there. You would have walked out if you had had anything better to do.

So if he was such a lousy magician, why did you join him on the stage when he looked you in the eye and asked for a volunteer from the audience? Why did your body obey him, and not you, as he readied his props and described his next trick? You never wanted to climb into the box, but you did it anyway. Why?

These questions, and more, race through your mind as he closes the lid, trapping you with your head sticking out one end and your feet out the other. Now he's picking up the saw, the blade gleaming silver in the harsh stage lights. A dark stain mars the serrated edge. And you're not at all confident this trick is going to work out the way you'd like.