#cricket font

[glittergroovy]

My Barn My Rules • horsegiirL

[nucl3ar-caut1on]

i lobe messing witg these❤️❤️❤️

[r2y9s]

[Raffles]

i'm the only one who cares about this roaring 20s au but it's fine

[my4lg1c-p1err0t]

EMANCIPATE OURSELVES

[freefontdownloaddotorg]

Cricket Font

Cricket is the perfect font for all your fun designs.

[phroexx]

I have to write on my hands (too) often to remember things, so I've developed my own minimalist quasi-runic font, e.g.

[scary-ivy]

For the record the quote in my bio isn't actually Elvis Costello lyrics it's really more of a reference to this

[seelie-buddy]

A Quiet Love

summary : the love you share with alhaitham is not loud and showy as the love you hear people bragging about; it troubles you for a while

contains : alhaitham believes in 'actions speak louder than words' ; pre-established relationship ; fluff ; gn!reader, this drabble is written in second person

word count : 640

It was long past midnight, and your wandering thoughts left you awake. The croaking of crickets, the twinkling starlight and even the warmth of your dear lover's embrace hadn't been able to lull you into slumber.

While Alhaitham slept peacefully, one hand snug around your waist, holding you close, his warmth is what usually helps you drift into dreamland during such nights; but this time was different.

Earlier during the day, you had heard your colleagues talking about their lovers; bragging about grand gestures, pricey gifts, and vows of 'bringing you the moon' and other such expressions of love.

You didn't pay mind their chatter and continued with your day.

But now that the world slept silently, your thoughts were loud.

'Should love be loud and bold? Expressed with flowing passion and be something to brag about?'

Sleep didn't come easily that night.

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, and breakfast ready on the kitchen counter; Alhaitham had to head to work before you did, it was now part of your routine.

At work, you consciously kept yourself away from your bragging colleagues.

Your tasks kept you away from your thoughts; but as the day waned away and you walked back home, your thoughts came back to haunt you.

"I'm home," you announce as you step into your shared home.

It takes only a moment for Alhaitham to appear in front of you, closing the font door as you take off your shoes.

"How was work?" He asks, as he always does.

"As usual," you say, bringing yourself to give him a small smile.

And although his eyes linger a second longer on you, seemingly unconvinced, he brushes the topic aside.

"I made dinner tonight, are you hungry?"

That's when the smell comes wafting from the kitchen; he made your favorites.

"I am," you reply, and this time smiling was easy.

Now, with your tummy filled with a delicious meal, your mood had definitely improved. Enough so that you were smiling by yourself as you gathered the used utensils.

"Let me," says Alhaitham as he joins you by your side, taking the plates from your hands. "You must be tired."

But you shake your head. Sure, these last few days were demanding, but— "it's nothing I can't handle."

"I know," he replies, and if the gentleness in his gaze was nothing, then the soft upturn of his lips was telling enough.

You helped him clean up before tucking in for the night.

As you slipped in bed and into his embrace, he pulled the blanket over your shoulders.

"Goodnight," he mummered as he reached for the bedside lamp. But he doesn't switch off the lights yet, as he notices your gaze.

"Is something the matter?"

"Nothing much," you answer as you snuggle closer, resting your forehead by his collarbone. "Just that I..."

He hums, letting you know he's listening if you have anything to say.

"I'm grateful," you say, now grinning brightly.

He raises an eyebrow at you, a small smile appearing on his face as well. "What for?"

"For being able to have you beside me."

A second of silence passes before he huffs, "Is this because I cooked tonight?"

He only rolls his eyes as you burst into laughter.

This time, sleep comes easily to you now that you know the answer to your concerns.

You slip into slumber now that you know you enjoy waking up to breakfast prepared to your preferences, and retiring for the day in the warm embrace of your beloved.

You cherish your lover's presence, his worry for your well-being, and his confidence in your abilities.

Your thoughts no longer haunt you now that you know that love doesn't have to be loud proclamations, or grand gestures.

You slept soundly, knowing that you were content with this quiet, gentle love.

a/n : I wanted to highlight that feeling when you love someone so much that just their presence is enough, like just having them beside you is enough ; also Alhaitham doesn't seem like the kind to actually express love with words (ironic because he literally is proficient in like 20 languages–)

p/s : I wanted this to be sweet domestic fluff, but I fear it might have turned out boring– (my friend who proof-read it didn't find it boring so that was a relief haha;;)

[sits-bound]

Bound: A bunch of fics by @cricketnationrise

These two binds were created for the @fandomtrumpshate auction that @cricketnationrise won. (Technically, the first was for the auction, the second was just a bonus.)

Collected Cricklets (aka "Cricket's Ficlets")

This bind is a collection of over 100 ficlets in four collections representing four different fandoms. It took me a while to figure out how I wanted to typeset this, it was a fun challenge. Here's what I did:

Each fandom got a different font

The page header (?sider?) had the collection name and fandom name and page number.

The time or date (all fics had a place and a time and/or date) were in a digital clock font.

Each collection opens with a title page foiled in gold (should have been silver, alas.)

I wanted to include the summaries and tags and other metadata for each ficlet, but I didn't want to clutter the pages too much, so I put them in the back as an appendix.

The cover design includes symbols from all of the fandoms (Check Please!, Red, White & Royal Blue, Tortall, and Parasol Protectorate.)

Defining Expectations

I learned how to make a hardcover pamphlet bound book recently, and I decided as a bonus I was going to bind this wonderful fic as one. It's a little long for a single signature bind (27 sheets!), but it worked in the end. I used this tutorial from DAS.

This one was fun for a few reasons. First, there were texts and support tickets and emails and definitions, and I had to figure out how to typeset them all to make them stand out in the text. Then, I decided it should look like a dictionary, so I used faux leather (from Dollar Tree, it's great for binding) and took inspiration from a few dictionaries for the cover and title page.

And, okay, I may have had too much fun with the photo shoot for this one.

Thanks again Cricket for bidding on my auctions! I very much enjoyed putting these together.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

my girl 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your brother’s friend from work starts hanging out a lot more often. (short!reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

After dinner, you volunteer to do the dishes. It’s an easy way out of the awkward social cues and you find, it keeps your mom off your back so you can get a chapter in. You finish up, drying each and placing them neatly in the cupboards. Having defeated the dirty plates, you grab your book and head out to the porch. 

As the sun sets, the daytime heat dissipates into a mellow coolness. The smell of dew laces the fresh air. You lay back on the porch swing, feet up on the armrest as you read, the glow of the outside light giving just enough to make out the font. 

You plunge into the fictional realm head first. The buzz of crickets gives way to the eerie atmosphere of the underworld caverns and the night shifts in time with imaginary shadows. You are there with the party, trekking through the treacherous, waiting for a beast to surprise you. 

The front door swings open and hits the end of the swing. You squeak as the book slips free of your grasp and falls to the ground. You sit up as you crane to see over your shoulder, an orc-like silhouette adding to your fright. It isn’t real.  

Your vision clears and you return to reality. It’s only Sy. His eyes look just as startled as he looks down at you then his eyes skitter over to the ground. 

Before you can reach over the edge of the bench, Sy moves to grab the book. He lifts it and smooths the pages, dusting off the cover. He examines it before he hands it over. 

“Sorry, I’m a big lug sometimes,” he says as you accept the book and search for your place. 

“It’s fine,” you smile and keep your thumb between the pages. 

He reaches to rub the back of his neck then drags his hand over his beard. You noticed the same gesture several times during dinner and before that. It seems a habit that betrays a thoughtful mind. 

“Good book?” He gestures towards the novel. 

You look down and tilt your head, “it’s alright. Typical fantasy, you know?” 

“Ah,” he nods as the porch light leaves his features in darkness. 

“Mmhmm,” you smile and sit straight on the swing, your legs dangling over the edge. 

He steps closer and puts his hand on the post that holds the bench aloft, “erm, dinner was good.” 

“Oh? Yeah, it was.” 

“I know ya made some of it so... wanted to say so.” 

“Uh, right,” you laugh nervously, “yeah, guess I did.” 

He’s quiet and you’re just as speechless. The night breeze does little to cool the scald of tension all around you. Why is he talking to you? He should be grunting at Isaac’s dumb jokes. 

“Anyway, gotta head out,” he shifts on his feet, “you have a good night.” 

“Er, sure, you too,” you cheep. 

“Mmm, sure will,” he answers and lets go of the swing, turning to continue to the stairs. He stops at the top and looks back, “don’t stay out here too late. Thunderstorm coming.” 

“Is there?” You wonder as you look up at the sky, the moon clear. 

“So I heard,” he shrugs and sets off down the stairs with clomping steps. 

You stare after him as he stalks off, following the path down to the long driveway and to his large truck. The street light illuminates his silhouette as you feel the dampness woven into the wind. You sit back and let out a ‘huh’. You hadn’t noticed it until he said something, then again, you hadn’t been living in that world. 

💕

“Peanut!” Your mom calls to you from down the hall. “Little help!” 

You sigh and finish the sentence. You roll your eyes up and mark your page. You sit up, frustrated as each page seems to be interrupted by one thing or another. You roll of the bed and leave the book on your pillow. 

You open your door and a roiling wall of heat blasts you in the face. You head down the hall and find your mother a humid mess as she works in her apron, her forehead sticky, and a pan in her hands. She drops it with a clang on the stove top and puffs. 

“Ugh, these things are never going to cook,” she tuts and shakes her head. 

“Mom?” You cross your arms and lean in the doorway. Even with central air, her broil has the house as hot as Mordor. “What’s up?” 

“Well, I was hoping you’d make your apple blossoms for dessert but I just got a call from Isaac,” she shakes her head and wipes her sweaty brow. “He forgot his lunch.” 

“Oh,” you purse your lips and nod. 

“So, peanut, you wanna go for a ride? I’d take it myself but I’m in the middle of something,” she smiles and fans herself. “And I’m an absolute mess!” 

“Yeah, I guess I could,” you shrug, trying not to let your disappointment burn through. Considering she isn’t pressuring you to get a summer job like everyone else’s parents, you won’t push it.  

“You’re amazing, pea,” she trills and goes to the fridge. She pulls out a container of yesterday’s leftovers and shoves them into your hands, “and tell your brother not to be late.” 

“Sure,” you utter. 

“Ah, and if you run into Sy, you tell him he’s more than welcome to come by. Should be all sorts of extras tonight.” 

“Right,” you take the container and find a cloth bag to put it in. You head back to your room and swipe up your book and your phone. Just in case. 

You pluck your mom’s keys off the hook by the door as you slip into your sandals, the straps braided leather. You chose them because the little daisies reminded you of a woodland elf. You take your brother’s lunch and grumble as you cross the lawn. 

Your mother’s car is nicer than your dad’s truck. More manageable for you. You don’t need to adjust the seat very much and you can see the road, mostly.  

You take the drive slowly, enjoying the greenery of the neighbourhood. Your brother can suffer his own negligence. He’s an adult and he’s still forgetting his lunch at home. As always, someone else is cleaning up after him. 

You pull up to the shop. You’ve been there once or twice but never inside. As you get out of the car, you hesitate. Should you knock? You approach the heavy metal door and peer around.  

A whistle comes from your left and you turn as Sy appears from around the side of the building. His face is darkened above his beard and around his hairline with the residue of his work. The faint outline of safety glasses leaves a lighter patch in the middle of his face. 

“Hey,” his voice is sonorous as he holds a pair of gauntlets. “Everything okay?” 

“Um,” you blink at him then look back at the car. “Yeah, uh, my brother forgot his lunch.” 

You hold up the bag in your hand. He nods, his face placid. Impossible to read. In his leather apron and with his thick arms bulging under his sweaty tea, he reminds you of a dwarf in a Tolkien tale. You gulp and fidget. 

“Real nice of you to drop that off,” he says as he comes closer, “you’re real sweet like that.” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” you clasp your wrist and sway nervously. 

“Want me to take it into him? Wouldn’t want ya ruining your clothes with all the fire.” 

“Er, I... if you don’t mind.” 

“If you’re askin’, I don’t mind,” he holds out a large hand, “I’ll get him that.” 

“Right, thanks,” you put it in his hand as he stares down at you, his gaze as hot as the torch he works with. 

“It’s nothing at all,” he assures. 

You smile nervously and back up as he towers over you. You rub your throat and look around again. You feel bad not offering now. 

“Mom said if you wanna come for dinner, we’ll have extra,” you say. 

He hums and puts his gauntlets against the bottom of the container as he holds it in both hands, making it seem tiny. 

“Won’t say no to dinner with a pretty girl,” he intones. 

Your eyes flick up and meet his. No, your mom invited him. He’s just being nice, right? The way he always is, at least when he bothers to speak up. Maybe he's even talking about her.

“I should... go,” you point with your thumb. 

“If you say so,” he agrees, “drive safe.” 

“Will do,” you spin and scurry off. Oof, you are so friggin awkward you could just-- 

You trip and stagger, keeping yourself on your feet. You cringe and turn back, giving a wave to assure him you’re not a total loss, then open the door. You keep your head down, refusing to look at him as you buckle in. 

Maybe you can convince your mom to let you eat in your room. 

[astralnymphh]

Domestic!Ellie is my addiction.

I need more. You don’t understand. It’s not a want!? It’s a DESIRE A NEEDDDDD!!!!!! Just reading the hc’s, how sweet and soft she is under it all.

When she’s herself again, that goofy dorky nerd we all know her to beeee!!! AGHHH!!!

- 🩵

i see more domestic!farm!ellie than i do domestic!jackson!ellie, and i think the latter needs to be discussed more.

no cuz farm!ellie— as I've definitely claimed before, is very husband coded. on the other hand, a more early–lover, girlfriend who takes care of the child u got knocked up with. which is literally dina, but, i guess if ur' not obliged to the thought of getting knocked up in the first place; gamer dad. i grew up with one, not like he was present 24/7, but like.. ellie? same font alternate story. i also hc ellie does best with boys, idk. just feel it. okay, maybe cause of jj.

stopp staying over at ellie's place for the night n' you bring the lil' guy over swaddled to your chest— legit, sowing two steps upon her doorstep, darkening it, not even getting the chance to knock, nay cast breath over it, and it's swung open and the bundle of wrathful joy nearing the age of two once strapped to you is now ecstatically babbling in your auburnettes arms. tis' fucking magic; how whenever ellie comes in contact with that baby, skies are rainbow–painted and mourning doves are entrancing the whole of jackson with a birdsong. how ur sweet boy, blood of your blood and bone of your bone, weeps gutty murder in the hold of yours truly— but dries of cheek and whorls of smile with ellie, is unfathomable.

"heyy dude, hows my favorite lil' guy in the world doing?" baby–talks ellie, so ooey and cooey as she bounces at the knee, blocking the doorway, "whos' ready to watch mom play the turning? i know mama is, i know you aree." you are but a fragment to her now, a forgotten shadow at her door. that sounds grim but take it literally. she like, literally forgets to kiss you at the door sometimes.

"ellie." comically, you tap your foot, faking a downturned pout left to dry without her kisses, and the cruel wintry air.

snapping her fern eyes up, she jerks a dumbfounded visage— and an even dumber query, "what?"

"my kiss?"

"oh, right.. um," her face relaxes and turns lily–white of innocence, shooting scattered glances at the child as she slants her weight over to you, "hey babe." extending graceful as a swans neck yet devoting you only a measly peck on the mouth measured lesser than a second before she slunk her body back and spun inside, rambling chin–tucked to that child, "ellies' got a new record i think you'll really like.."

lips still baked to a dry, you stare in catatonic quiescence at the eclipsed circle of pale lamp–light streaking around her bun as she paces away from you. step, by step, by hurried step, eager to spill attention with the full force of her coos amusing the easy–to–please mind, garbiling a possible bravo! or huzah!— until nightfall would whistle through the crickets and quiet him to sleep. leaving you, an even larger, tatted up baby now whiny for your attention.

need to see angelgbc photos of jackson!ellie holding jj now

[inknopewetrust]

𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ��𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮—𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐧𝐨 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧. [𝐰𝐜: 𝟔.𝟒𝐤] (editing font currently!)

𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

The gas station was empty at that hour.

Earth’s sun had long gone down over a middle-of-nowhere town in rural Arkansas and the buzzing florescent lights hummed over head. Freezers stocked with half-expired options; a clerk at the front paid no mind to the man who walked in—beat from a day beyond his comprehension.

Sam’s feet dragged on top of the titles as he rubbed his eyes. The words had been blurring together as the seconds ticked down on each day. The clock inched faster and faster to leave while another story laid behind the tracks of Dean’s beloved, yet leaving a lingering uncertainty of whatever was to come next. He stared at the bags of chips for too long in the aisle, spaced out in thought. Sam’s gaze could barely decipher the difference between the plastic of Lay’s and that of Doritos. Everything was melding together from his memories to effort, Sam was a shell of himself when he had a moment with nothing but his mind.

While Dean pumped the gas outside, Sam lost his will aisle after aisle.

His shoes scraped against the linoleum roughly like a ghoul in a cartoon. Sam approached the counter with a frat boy’s diet gathered in his arms to which the chaser did not care to scorn or notice. Chips, candy, energy drinks that would send a grandma into a coma were all the two of them could run on as they burned the midnight oil to race to whatever unlucky town was next in line of undescribed terror. Sam’s eyes scoured the boxes of cigarettes behind the counter and onto the magazine racks the flanked them on either side. On any normal day, Dean would have flipped through the state or local journals if they hadn’t received a call—but Dean wasn’t there to choose the next path forward.

There was no internet on the road. There was nothing but the written word of strangers and the mangled police scanner that worked… sometimes, and their father’s beat-to-shit journal.

It wasn’t that Sam wanted to know what came next in the grand scheme of “Monster Hunting.” A large part of him still held the envy, or annoyance, that nothing was normal and the man who caused the “not normal lifestyle” was missing out there. In the late delirium he found himself in, Sam accepted he wasn’t going to leave Dean to rot alone in the search of their father.

So, as the cashier rang up the assorted items, Sam walked over to the magazine racks and began picking up and stacking the ones he deemed important. Local news, world news, classic magazines such as Time, The New York Times, and a random one-off crossword book. He truly didn’t think twice about the collection as he scattered the prints along the countertop and the cashier sighed.

In the back of his mind the choices had been intention even if he hadn’t realized it completely. They had been selected carefully as he had been chosen to see the things he’d been unlucky to witness.

“Cash or card?” The older man asked with an irritation of a quiet night disturbed.

Outside the gas station, Dean leaned against Baby as the price at the pump continued to soar. There was a buzzing of insects, the crickets chirping loudly as the town streets were silent and the only people awake seemed to be himself, Sam, and the poor soul stuck with the third shift. The air was starting to cool but not quite yet biting—a benefit of consistent travel. He saw it all even if he felt he saw so little of what he wanted to.

Through the windows of the small market attached to the station, Dean watched Sam’s exhaustion bleed from his body. He could tell his brother was a ghost walking the earth lost for reason, but Sam was relentless in his assurance. Nightmare after nightmare, sleep deprived and agitated, Sam ignored the help he desperately needed—and all Dean could do was tap his foot with his own anxiety as the price continued to climb on the pump. The fumes of his own anger festering inside waiting for an option to blow.

Ignorance of necessity was their specialty, Dean concluded.

The feelings were driving the blood in his veins into overdrive. The last few weeks had been consistently draining while death lingered in the space between here and there, wherever there truly was. From forests to colleges to hole-in-the-wall towns surrounded by the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, Dean was growing restless for an easy case that would never come. There were five hundred steps to every process. The steps forward in success, those backwards in defeat, and those stagnant as the records of the tortured souls he desperately needed to face led him down the rabbit hole of self-pity.

Not that he would ever voice the truth of it aloud—he was Dean Winchester, after all.

Baby’s tank stopped filling with a thud. The handle of the nozzle clicked in warning as Dean sighed with exhaustion and ran a hand over his face. When he deposited it back into the pump, Sam came rustling out of the mart with two bags being lugged in his hands.

“Anything good?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “Steak and lobster, a Marie specialty.”

Marie, Arkansas. Dean had been quick to forget the name of the small town. They were just passing through, however.

“Great,” he scoffed as Sam walked around to the passenger side and tossed the bag of food into the back. He kept the other bag in his hands.

“Some light reading? You miss the library that much?”

“No.” Sam was near instant in his aggravation. He squared his eyes and sat down in the car roughly.

“𝑱𝒆𝒔𝒖𝒔,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝. “𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.”

“𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐞’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝-𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲. 𝐇𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

“𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥—“

“𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧?” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝. “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫-“

“𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞!” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐦.

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭! 𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐬.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝.

𝐈𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐁𝐈, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐰 𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬. 𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨, 𝐡𝐮𝐡?” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝.

𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐧.

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧��𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

“𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞.

“𝐍𝐨, 𝐈…” 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐱 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. “𝐈 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧. 𝐈-𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰��𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭!”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐬.

“𝑴𝒎,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝. “𝐈’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠.”

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭?” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬. “𝐖𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞! 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞—“

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔?”

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲.

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.”

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞.” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭. “𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.”

“𝐍𝐨.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲.

“𝑺𝒂𝒎,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝.

“𝐍𝐨! 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭!”

“𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡. 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.”

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 ��� 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫—𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐢𝐥𝐥-𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬.

“𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐬! 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧?” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭. “𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭!”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦! 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥!”

“𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮? 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐲? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞—𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞.”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢��𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤.”

“𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬. 𝐈𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫.”

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐬,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬. “𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬.”

“𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭. 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐄𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐨𝐨𝐥-𝐀𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨.

“𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐝. “𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨. 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬—𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐀 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐝.”

“𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐬, 𝐡𝐮𝐡?” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.

“𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨.” “𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

“𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.”

“𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.”

“𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭.” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭.

“𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝?” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝.

𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐬𝐭𝐨��𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝.

𝐈𝐭 𝐣𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞—𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝.

“𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐝,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐀 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐧, 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐭. “𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞, 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.”

𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. “𝐒𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞.”

“𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭.”

“𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐦𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝.

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩. 𝐈𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬.

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐰—𝐧𝐚𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝. 𝐈𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐲” 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐔𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧-𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐨-𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐬-𝐚𝐧𝐝-𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲-𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞—𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

“𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭? 𝐈𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐒𝐚𝐦.

“𝐍𝐨,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐲. “𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭.”

“𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝. “𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.”

“𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞.”

“𝐈𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬—𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬!”

“𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞.”

“𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝. “𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞.”

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭?” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. “𝐍𝐨!”

“𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.”

“𝐍𝐨! 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞! 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲!”

“𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝. “𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭… 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞… 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, “𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 ‘𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤’?”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠.”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠!”

“𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭?” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐲.

“𝐖𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝. “𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨, 𝐬𝐚𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞? 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐫, 𝐡𝐦? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?”

“𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭. 𝐖𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬.”

“𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝. “𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ��𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲? 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐮𝐬!”

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭? 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞? 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚… 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐡𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐮𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐬?”

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. “𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫.”

𝐇𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲, 𝐬𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞; 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞.

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧: “𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐦𝐞—𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐟𝐮𝐧” 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰?

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧.

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞—𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬; 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 ��𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐛𝐬. 𝐘𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦.

“𝐃𝐞—“

“𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐢𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐲.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐛.

𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐚𝐠. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐩. 𝐀𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝.

“𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐞,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫.

“𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭.” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

“𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭?”

“𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫.”

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐨𝐳𝐞𝐝.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬?” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟.

“𝐀𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧.”

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮?” 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

“𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝.

“𝐎𝐤, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝.

“𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞.”

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐭.

𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨, 𝐎𝐡𝐢𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭.

𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲” 𝐚𝐧𝐝 “𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞” 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬, 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐄𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐛 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲—𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝.

𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.

𝐈𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝.

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬” 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲. 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐮𝐩. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.

𝐏𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟. 𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞.

𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐃 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥.

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠; 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞-𝐭𝐨-𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤-𝐮𝐩𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐨. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞.

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧. 𝐄𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐀𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟: 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫… 𝐔𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐰. 𝐋𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐀 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫? 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭? 𝐇𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 “𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧” 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧.

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥.

“𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨?” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧.

“𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨?” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 ��𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩. 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲—𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝.

“𝐇-𝐡𝐢, 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨, 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲,” 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. “𝐌𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞.”

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲? 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞.

“𝐌𝐫. 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲.” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤. “𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫? 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫.”

“𝐎𝐡!” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐞. “𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥.”

𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝. “𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝?”

“𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐚’𝐚𝐦. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧𝐬.”

“𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝.”

“𝐖𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.”

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫. 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 “𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝” 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥, 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬.

“𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧?”

“𝐍𝐨,” 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝. “𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭.”

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧? 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?” 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢���𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐇𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠.

“𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞—“

“𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝. “𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬? 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?”

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫—“

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐓𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐤𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭” 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐈𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞.

“𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰. “𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐮𝐦—“

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤.

“𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝. “𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩.”

“𝐒𝐚𝐦?”

𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐃.𝐖. 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

“𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟. “𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡… 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤, 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝.

“𝐖-𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫? 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧?” 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦? 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭?

“𝐍𝐨!” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐝. “𝐍𝐨 𝐈-𝐰𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭… 𝐰𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲.”

“𝐖𝐞? 𝐒𝐚𝐦? 𝐖𝐞? 𝐈𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮? 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.”

“𝐍𝐨, 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐔𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧—𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞.

“𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧’ 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐇𝐦? 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐲?”

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫-𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐭.

“𝐈’𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝.

“𝐍𝐨,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞. “𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐒𝐚𝐦,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝. “𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.”

“𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠. “𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞?”

“𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐨? 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫? 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞.”

“𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬.”

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮?”

“𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥… 𝐧𝐨. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝—𝐈, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐣𝐮—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”

“𝐇𝐨𝐰’𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧? 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐧, 𝐒𝐚𝐦?”

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧. 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬-𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬.

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝. “𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐖𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

𝐖𝐡𝐨? 𝐒𝐚𝐦, 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐰.”

“𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝?” 𝐇𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐀 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁. 𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬.

“𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲.

“𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.”

“𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝. “𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬. 𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬.”

“𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.”

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐝. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐝. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞.

“𝐖𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧.”

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.”

“𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐤𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲’𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬. “𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲.”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝. “𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧—“ 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧? “—𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭… 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞?”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐨𝐧.”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞?”

“𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝,” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝. “𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩.”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭.”

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡. 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.

“𝐒𝐚𝐦,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥. “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤?”

“𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚��𝐥𝐲,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲. “𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐨… 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.”

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐛, 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐲.”

“𝐀𝐧 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝-𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬?”

“𝐇𝐞𝐲,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰.

“𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐧!”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡? 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐨𝐨.”

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚 ‘𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤’,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐲 “𝐡𝐚-𝐡𝐚” 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐤𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐠𝐨 “𝐚𝐡.”

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮?”

“𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.” 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭. “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧… 𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞.”

“𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.”

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. “𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝.”

“𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦. “𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫.”

“𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞: 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐦. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭… 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥.”

“—𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦.”

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚. “𝐅𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐬. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.”

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐲.”

“𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐭? 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭? 𝐔𝐬? 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞… 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲?”

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧. 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩—𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐭.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧-𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

“𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐲𝐞𝐭?”

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞.

“𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐲,” 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥, “𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬?”

“𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭.” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞. “𝐖𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?”

“𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦?”

“𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡?”

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧.” 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩.

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞.

𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲’𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 “𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫” 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞�� 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

“𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝,” 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

Thank you for reading chapter one! I'm excited to dive into this series and specifically focus on Dean and elements I don't think were fully explored in the series. If you enjoyed this, likes, reblogs, and comments keep me writing. Ao3 sees these chapters first, so check there too on Sunday's/Sunday evenings before I post.

[lowkeyrobin]

hi :) i was wondering if i could get somethin with the cricket crew folks (those who are a-okay with xreaders) and a reader who deals with type 1 diabetes, like the reader is having low blood sugar troubles while hanging out pretty please 🦕 (platonic or romantic doesnt, matter to me)

OF COURSEEE OMG sorry for taking so long to get this out, I did a lot of research into this so hopefully I got everything accurate! my dad has type 2 diabetes so sorry if anything got mixed up with that as well 😭 billzo and aimsey are the two that aren't cool with x reader fanfics so I didn't include them, although I'm pretty sure they're okay just being in the bg? lmk if I need to change anything! I genuinley appreciate it ; also all hb content will no longer have tubbo!!

HANDSOME BROS ; you have type one diabetes

includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, & freddie badlinu

warnings ; swearing, mentions of fainting, mentions of needles/dexcom

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

instantly shoving bills diet coke down your throat

he just panics at first and kinda asks you what to do

yk like in movies when all the characters are shouting over each other in panic? that's him

bill rushes over since his drink just got stolen

"dude, their dexcom needs changed"

"what the fuck is a dex-com!?"

Tommy's too scared to help you in the beginning, literally forces Bill to help you if you need it

even seeing the damn dexcom app on your phone scares him sometimes

like when you walk too far away and it starts doing that scary ass beeping thing, he jumps out of his skin

you left your phone with him while you went to use the bathroom in a public area and your phone started doing the thing because you were too far away and his face went from 😊 to 😨 in a millisecond

"What if they're dead in there???"

wilbur and tubbo are usually the ones reminding him that you're fine and it beeps when you're out of reach

after time, he gets used to it

although he never lets you forget your phone

he's still scared of the beeping

but he learns a lot on how to help you and shit from both you and bill

if he's got an embarrassing question, he'll go to billzo bc he's so scared of making you uncomfortable LMAO

has a whole notes app list for procedures when you're having issues with your dexcom/blood sugar troubles

makes sure you eat some snacks through the day

🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 I'm so hopelessly in love

RANBOO

the first time it happens it was while you were out with them and aimsey

you only told the both of them "hey I'm diabetic just so u know" and left it at that

so when you started having blood sugar troubles out and about with them, they didn't know what to do

you kinda had to explain yourself and tell them how to help and stuff

ranboo made a little safe plan after that, now worried that you could possibly faint and stuff

he has a whole like 3 page note on his phone (like size 9 font too) of what to do in certain situations and when to call 911 if needed

he runs it by Bill too in case you guys missed anything

like bi-hourly checkups that your sugar is okay and stuff, making sure the dexcom is working etc etc

makes sure to only take you to restaurants and fast food places where you'll actually eat instead of pulling the "I'm not hungry" bullshit

he's just looking out for you

"we can't go there, y/n won't eat and I haven't seen them eat today. if you guys wanna do that, that's cool, we'll probably run by a gas station or a store to get something for them, though"

"ran, it's fine-"

"shut up. youre eating, you toe muncher"

"WHAT???"

if you're recovering from low sugar and being weasy/feeling like you're gonna faint, he just tries everything to make you smile

from dumb jokes to comfort videos, etc

they'll do anything to make sure you're better than you were before

you and bill have a diabetes competition where you're just talking shit and spewing about how you've got it worse than the other and ranboo just records it 💀💀💀

FREDDIE BADLINU

during the pov you're at a family reunion ranboo stream is the first time you have troubles around your friends

you forgot you needed to change the dexcom and almost halfway through you step out

like half an hour later you're still not back and the whole groups confused to Freddie goes to retrieve you

brother finds you in the bathtub in and out of consciousness

tbh you blame yourself for writing it off and not thinking about a plan just in case but lessons learned

he texts the groupchat to inform the others what happened while you stumble back into frame with Freddie's help bc you were not gonna ruin this for the others or chat, no matter how much he told you that you weren't ruining anything

you were acting a little out of it but he got you eating off the charcuterie board which helped a bit

afterwards, he always makes sure that you're eating properly and helps you with communicating if you need help with your dexcom and stuff

like Tommy, the beeping when you're too far away from your phone scares the shit out of him sometimes

sometimes he gets a little anxious and slides your phone under the bathroom door or quickly gives the phone back like "I'm just making sure you're okay! it disconnected, I got a little worried"

God I'm so head over heels for him 💔💔

[strangegutz]

hi cricket i just wanted to let you know i think about your “impact font” meme redraw all the time. i’ll be at work in the middle of the day when suddenly eddie appears before me like an apparition, and all i can hear is “BOTTOM TEXT” before i begin laughing hysterically

anyway i love all your funky little guys thank you for your time and effort and thank you for sharing them with us♡

oh my god i’m so with you this one always cracks me up

thank you so much for loving my guys!!!

[my4lg1c-p1err0t]

got a life of her own, and it shows–

[world-of-wales]

HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY TO THE LITTLE CUPCAKE HRH PRINCE LOUIS ARTHUR CHARLES OF WALES ♡

On 23 April 2018, Prince Louis was born to Catherine and William, then known as Duke and Duchess of Cambridge in St Mary's Hospital, London, at 11:01 BST. He was born during the reign of his paternal great-grandmother Elizabeth II as the third child and second son of Will & Cat. The new prince's name was announced as Louis Arthur Charles in honour of his 3rd-great-uncle Earl Mountbatten of Burma - Louis, his father - Prince William and his paternal grandfather - Charles. The 11 week old little prince was christened by the archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, on 9 July in the Chapel Royal at St James's Palace. He wore the handmade replica of the Royal Christening Robe, and the Lily Font and water from the River Jordan were used during the baptism. Louis spent the early years of his life at Apartment IA at Kensington Palace and Anmer Hall. He started at Willcocks Nursery School near Kensington Palace in April 2021. In 2022, the family relocated to Adelaide Cottage in Windsor, after which he started at Lambrook School along with his older siblings. Born as a Prince of Cambridge, he became HRH Prince Louis of Wales after his his grandfather conferred his parents with the titles of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Louis is currently fourth in line to the throne. He made his official royal debut at the Trooping of Colour in 2019 and since then has accompanied his parents and siblings for engagements and events including his great-grandmother's Platinum Jubilee in 2022 and his grandfather's Coronation in 2023. Louis, who enjoys being outdoors, is known to be mad about rugby and loves cricket and tennis. As per his mother, he's got the signature ballboy pose down perfectly. He is also 'very quick' on his scooter and loves gardening. The little cutie is very proud of his sunflowers.