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all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney · 1 month

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We've Got Tonight (Paul McCartney x Starr!Female!Reader)

Find Part Two Here

A/N: WOW, is all I can say. The alarming support from those of you reading my work is driving me to write more than EVER right now! I cannot say thank you enough, y'all. Your notes and comments inspire me, so please keep it up if you wanna read more from me!

I'm about to bless y'all with some McBeardy angst, so I hope you all enjoy!!

Also, this fic was inspired by Bob Seger's We've Got Tonight, so I highly recommend listening to the song before and/or after reading this one to get into the vibe of it.

Summary: Paul is in his lonesome after a break up. So are you. You decide to keep each other company.

WARNINGS: ANGST, but it gets sweet in the end. Mentions of cheating, low self esteem. Suggestive actions, mentions/insinuation of sex, but no smut (that'll be saved for a bonus part 2 if anyone's interested in that.)

There is mention of the Beatles' extended family, so if I have any incorrect info in here, I apologize in advance; I didn't want this to become too much of a history lesson.

Also, like my other fics, this one is a NOVEL, so please read when you have a good half hour+ of free time :)

I don't wanna rate this a T, but there is no smut in this, so please just be aware that there is sex mentioned/insinuated, so PLEASE just read at your own discretion. But most of all, enjoy!

Paul was sitting on the sofa in the den, alone with the lights out. He was staring out the window at the night in silence as he sucked down another cigarette and sipped at another glass of scotch.

It was late enough that the world around him was dead sleep, yet he was wide awake, and alone with his thoughts.

He broke it off with Linda. She was a sweet girl, and no one was really quite sure why things ended between them, but they all knew it was a mutual agreement.

Paul really hadn't been taking it well, though. He hadn't been sleeping right for almost a month, and he stared drinking a little more. He didn't want anyone really knowing, which is why he did it in his lonesome.

He wasn't necessarily by himself, because the rest of the Beatles were upstairs in their collective rooms asleep; but what made him feel alone was that alongside the bandmates in their rooms were their families and wives. And Paul just didn't have that.

Usually he would have been rather vocal over something that bothered him so much, but the band felt like recently they'd been clashing, so he wasn't wanting to bother them with something like that.

While Paul finished the final puff of his cigarette and put out the butt in the ashtray on the coffee table, his head snapped to the entrance of the den, where he caught sight of a silhouette in the threshold.

You stopped in your tracks when Paul made eye contact with you. You supposed he'd heard your footsteps.

From what you could tell from the light of the moon shining in through the window, Paul seemed worn out. He rubbed the side of his face with his free hand before wordlessly nodding to you in acknowledgement.

"... I'm sorry to intrude. I didn't know anyone was still awake. I was just needing a drink," you explained quietly. You'd met Paul a few times here and there-- you had to, with Ringo-- or Rich-- your brother, being one of his bandmates and all.

Paul was always kind when you interacted with each other, but you could definitely tell something was a little off about his behaviour this time around.

Rich did mention Paul's break-up to you briefly, but you were going through your own separation, so you were in your own head with your own problems. That's why Rich offered to bring you along with him, Maureen, Zak, and Jason on this trip with the rest of the guys and their families, so you could get away from thinking about your ex.

Unfortunately, the unfamiliar space put you in the same position as Paul; wide awake, in the middle of the night, with a racing mind.

"'S alright," he sighed before drinking the rest of the scotch in his glass and raising to his feet. You watched him move around the room to the alcohol cabinet right outside the kitchen.

He refilled his glass right to the top before wordlessly grabbing a second glass out, tossing in a few ice cubes, and filling it three quarters of the way before sliding it over to you.

Your eyes widened a little, considering you'd actually come down for some water, but maybe this was a sign you were going to want something stronger.

"... Should've asked you if you even like this stuff," Paul stated apologetically when he realized how gentlemanly he was not being. You smiled sadly at him, but picked up the glass anyways.

He matched his glass to the same level as yours before you both gently tapped them together. The sound of the glass chimed for a moment before you and Paul raised the drinks to your lips.

The scotch was harsh, and you surely made an unflattering face as you took a sip, but Paul didn't say anything to you, as he was too busy staring at the ice swirling around in his own glass.

"... What're you doing up so late, if you don't mind me asking?" You asked after a moment of silence, and Paul's big brown eyes met yours for another quiet second as he thought about what to respond with.

He pushed his tongue into his cheek before shrugging and mumbling into his glass, "thinking."

After taking another sip of his drink and staring off into space for a moment or two, he bit his lip, gesturing over to you with his glass.

"And you?" You shook your head, realizing it was your turn to scrounge up an excuse for being wide awake at such an absurd time.

"Can't sleep," you lied.

Paul frowned, motioning you to the sofa he was just sitting on to invite you to sit for a while. After a moment of pondering whether you should really go back to your room, you made up your mind and headed to the sofa, Paul following suit.

There was just something about the way his dark eyes gazed into yours, and behind them was this sadness you just couldn't ignore.

Before he took a seat, you were able to get another good look at him. He was in black jeans, and a green sweater; his day-clothes completely contrasting your pyjama set. He'd grown his hair out since you saw him last, and now he was sporting a full beard.

You always thought he was a good looking guy, but now, without being blinded by any bias, there was really no denying how handsome Paul had become since you seen him last.

In fact, it felt like every time you ended up seeing him next, he always seemed to look better and better, and you weren't quite sure how that was possible.

Paul took the seat right next to you, and he set his drink down on the coffee table, clasping his hands together, elbows on the thighs, and hanging his head.

"To be honest with you... I went through a separation about a month ago. And I don't seem to be handling it well." He finally sighed, turning his head so he was looking at you again. He unclasped his hands and ran his fingers through his beard a few times.

"I'm a romantic, y'know, and I'm not a fan of being so lonely." You nodded your head a little at his words. What was tough was that you didn't have anything encouraging to say to him because you were in the same boat.

Paul swallowed when you remained silent, and then he cleared his throat. He scratched the back of his head nervously as he leaned back into the sofa.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late, and you're probably just wanting to head to bed." He gave a little head nod of understanding as he rubbed his eye with his finger. "You're not here to talk to me about my problems."

It was your turn to set your drink down on the table, turning your attention to him again.

"Well... will that help make you feel better, perhaps?" you watched Paul's eyes meet yours again, and he pressed his lips together tightly in thought.

"... I don't know if there is really much to say," he said after a moment, reaching for his glass again.

"Thank you, though. Was very kind of you to offer somethin' like that."

After he took another sip of his drink, he gestured to you again with his glass.

"... Ringo sort of mentioned you were going through a separation too... You doin' okay?" Paul tried his best to be as inclusive as possible, but it was all rough stuff to talk about, so he treaded carefully.

"I mean..." you trailed off for a moment before responding with a simple, "I'm angry, above all else."

You were honestly taken aback by Paul's question. Rich wasn't necessarily the greatest person to receive comforting advice from, especially when it came to this separation, since he thought so highly of your ex, but you perhaps weren't telling him the whole truth.

But you were definitely surprised he even mentioned your pain to anyone else, let alone his bandmates.

"Kept a lot of heavy things to myself for a long time, it just became exhausting." Now it was your turn to reach for your scotch, still cringing at its strength as you took a generous mouthful.

Paul waited a beat before asking, "would talking about it with me maybe make you feel better?"

"... you really care to know that stuff?" You asked gently for clarification. As mentioned, you and Paul weren't close, you could probably count on one hand the amount of times you met him prior to this moment...

And this was heavy stuff you were seemingly about to share, and you really wanted to make sure he was okay with that.

Paul nodded his head without hesitation, and offered, "'s the least I can do for you for keeping me company so late."

You sighed a deep breath, and took a few more sips from your glass before putting it back down, curling your legs up to your chest, and began.

You told Paul about your ex. You told him about how you were with him for five years, and watched him slowly fall out of love with you, sleep around, and how you struggled with self-image and self-worth for a long time.

You also mentioned how you were the one to leave, but he had no idea you had any strength to do so, so he tried for a long while to guilt you into going back to him.

The difficult things to talk about made you a little more emotional, so you breathed your way through it slowly as to not cry. The drink Paul poured for you was helping you relax at least.

Paul was more than patient with you, and you were grateful for that. At one point during the lengthy conversation, he lit another cigarette, and began offering you drags throughout your story to calm your nerves.

You took those offers graciously, and thankfully.

"... I don't know. I just lay awake every night, wondering if there was something I could have done different so he didn't do what he did."

You were staring out the window with Paul now, taking in just how many stars you could actually see from the den. He took his final puffs of his smoke, the thin silver waves swirling in the air above the both of your heads.

"Sounds like he didn't cherish you enough when you were around," Paul debated gently, shaking his head and putting out his cigarette end in the ashtray next to the others. He picked up his scotch again before mumbling against the rim,

"He's not worth it."

You pulled yourself from the trance of the tiny lights outside to wipe remnants of silent, salty tears off your cheeks, and you used that moment to glance over at Paul, whose nose was still deep in the glass. When he pulled the drink away from his mouth and swallowed, you parted your lips to speak.

"... was Linda worth it?" You didn't mean it in a rude way, but you hadn't met her personally, and you wanted to pry Paul just a tiny bit.

He smiled, but it was bitter. You figured you struck a nerve, and before you could apologize for what you said, he answered simply, with tears glossing his own eyes,

"Yes. She was."

You tilted your head a little and frowned, trying to understand what drove them apart.

"It was just never the right timing. She was ready for things I wasn't in the beginning, and then down the road, when I was seemingly ready for those things, she wasn't. And I didn't want her wasting her time on a life she didn't wanna live, y'know?"

"So she's the one that got away," you mused gently.

"Indeed, she was." Paul nodded a little before finishing the rest of his scotch in his glass, leaning back again, and cradling his head in his hand as he looked at you for another quiet moment, resting his glass in-hand on his thigh.

"... I'm not a bad person, am I?" Those watery eyes never disappeared, and you had to break his sad gaze, opting to reach out and rub his shoulder comfortingly.

"Hey, no. Wasting your time, or her time, like the way my ex did to me, would have made you a bad person, Paul. Saying good bye was the right thing to do."

"Well, I wish that made me feel better," he mumbled, dropping his own gaze to the space between the both of you. He pushed a stray tear away before he thought you could see it, and then scratched at his beard again. You guessed that must have been a habit of his out of stress.

"Something about her made me feel like she was the one. Like we were meant to share the same story; but we always seemed to be on a different chapter,"

He sniffled, but only once. "That being said, was I perhaps too lovestruck in the end to want to believe that her future was meant to be shared with someone else?"

His voice carried so much sorrow, and you knew he needed some kind of advice. It took you a moment or so to find the right words to say to him.

"... Knowing my ex wasn't right for me and the reality of me leaving doesn't make me feel any better. At all." You offered to Paul, before adding,

"... But why should the expectations of those we chose to take out of our life dictate the way we behave today?"

The words that came out of your mouth were surprisingly wise, and you watched Paul's eyebrows knit together as he absorbed what you said.

He focused his sight to you again, a more determined look on his face. Paul knew you were absolutely right. He was a charmer; romancing people was his thing.

There was no denying Linda was special, but when he realized he really had no commitment in romancing her anymore, he finally understood that it was his own thoughts holding him back.

Even if it took him a little longer than expected, he knew you were right. He would recover from this.

"... I think you just opened my eyes and made me realize something... Thank you, y/n, really." He reached up with his free hand after a second, fingers grazing your own hand still on his arm in comfort, showing you his gratitude for your words of advice.

You smiled a little, glad you were able to help him somewhat through his times of trouble as you pulled your hand away.

Paul stood up again, retrieving his empty glass from the coffee table before facing you fully, a more genuine smile beginning to pull on the corners of his mouth, but it was still rather sad.

"I'm grabbing a refill, you too?"

Your sight drifted to your near-empty glass on the table.

Why let tonight go to waste? End so soon?

"Please," you asked, grabbing the glass yourself, but Paul began to tut at you as he grabbed the glass from your fingers.

"Please, I'll get it for you," he insisted, and you watched his slender figure move around the couch to head for the alcohol cabinet another time. He filled them only halfway this time, and on the way back he made a brief stop at the record player near the entrance of the den.

Soft classical music rang out quietly from the player once Paul dropped the needle down onto the vinyl, and he returned to his spot next to you with your two drinks. You thanked him quietly as he passed the glass over to you, and he leaned in a little, raising his drink between the two of you.

"Hello to... new beginnings," he began slowly.

"And Goodbye to false finales," you finished, your glasses tapping together again before you took yet another sip of the drink.

Paul matched your movements, his eyes watching you, even when you turned away to gaze longingly out the window for a moment, basking in the feeling of the gentle music flirting with your ears.

Sure, you and Paul could have went on for the rest of the night discussing your heartbreak, but you decided to drive the conversation elsewhere.

You sighted back to him after a while, his sight unwavering from you. Your eyes locked for just a beat before you decided aloud with a gentle nod,

"... you know, that beard really suits you."

Paul's eyebrows shot up, and his face darkened a little as he bit his lips between his teeth almost nervously.

"... Think so?"

You'd never seen him lack so much confidence when given a compliment before, but instead of pitying him, you almost admired his innocence.

It sounded like he needed to hear a compliment like that.

"Yes," you laughed airily, raising your glass up for another drink. Paul couldn't bite back his smile anymore, so he copied you to mask his lips. You then gestured to your head with the point of your finger as you swallowed the alcohol back easier and easier each time.

"Your hair, too. I think it's a nice length."

Your kind words made Paul feel warm and fuzzy inside, and he placed his scotch back down on the table.

"Well, thanks, Love." He rubbed the back of his neck, and laughed weakly. "I call it my 'Don't View The Mirror For Three Weeks' look."

Paul paused in his moments of self-deprecation to realize he should have maybe complimented you back. He took a second to take another good look at you as he decided what to say, exactly.

"... Y'know, the last time I saw you was a few years ago, now."

You thought for a moment on that. It had been a while since you'd seen him last. You nodded your head as you recalled the day.

"You're right, it has been some time. Christmas, 1966." John and Cynthia had hosted this massive holiday dinner, and everyone's extended family was there.

You were single at the time, and spent dinner conversing with Paul's sister, Ruth, who was at least fifteen years younger than you. There was no introduction made by Paul, she just walked up, introduced herself to you, and made a friend by herself.

She went on and on about school, and music, and how the potatoes were her favourite part of dinner; and you paid attention to everything she had to say, responding with your own opinions and jokes to keep her feeling included amongst the adults at the table.

And Paul, who was seated next to Ruth, couldn't help but overhear your conversations throughout the evening, and he found it rather charming that you treated Ruth with such respect despite her young age.

And after dinner, you and Ruth danced together almost the whole night. She eventually went over to do a little dancing with Paul, and you watched as she bounced around excitedly with her brother, who, for just a moment, locked eyes with you across the sea of dancing guests.

You remember giving him a shy wave with a smile, and he sent a wink back your way before returning his attention to Ruth, spinning her around as she squealed happily.

"... I'm rather fond of that evening," Paul stated simply, the reality of your melancholy evening strongly contrasting with the memories of the wonderful night.

Now you and Paul weren't so young, and this time he was noticing the little lines under your eyes, indicating the dragging march of time slowly catching up to you both.

"And, even after all the years that have passed... you still look as lovely tonight as you did then."

You blushed at Paul's compliment, biting back a stupid grin as you repeated the words in your head.

"And I admire your ever-present kindness," he added on, and you knew he really just meant he showed appreciation for lending him an ear in his time of need.

"More people need to be like you."

"I don't know what to say," you said honestly, settling for a gentle "thank you," in the end. Paul just nodded, unsure if there was anything to say back.

"You know..." you paused for a second, watching as Paul went for another sip from his glass. "It was quite a shame we never got a dance in that night together, just you and me."

Paul was mid sip when you said that, so you continued on.

"The music was great, everyone was in high spirits, and I was maybe too shy to approach you myself and ask you to dance with me. So I guess that's on me." You scratched your elbow as you announced your rather dumb confession to him.

Paul, who was nearly done with his drink now, waited a moment or two in thought, before rising to his feet, and wandering back over to the record player, scotch still in hand.

You tried to watch his movements over your shoulder, but it was really dark. All you knew was that he was changing the music.

The classical tune cut, and the player began to drawl a much slower, more recent song; one you hadn't yet heard.

Paul turned on his heel as he reapproached the sofa, taking the final sip of scotch he had left in his glass before placing it back down on the table, and reaching his hand out for you to take.

"Well, let's not let this dance wait any longer, then, yeah?"

You froze for just a moment, Paul's outstretched hand hung in the air for a few seconds, and your sight moved up to his face, where you noticed his confidence falter just a little.

"Again, I know it's late, and I know your plans for the night surely didn't include me..."

"But, still, here we are." Your words came out almost effortlessly. You finished your scotch as well, and when you finally put your hand in Paul's, he squeezed your fingers gently, that warm upturn finally returning to his lips.

He guided you slowly over to the windows so you weren't in so much darkness, the moonlight still shining just enough for you both to see one another; and when Paul decided he could see your face much better, he let his other hand drop to your waist, watching as your own hand rested on his forearm.

You both shifted from side to side to the beat of the music, and you stared absentmindedly at the small space between you both.

"... You okay?" He asked you quietly after a minute, and you looked up at him, cheeks reddening as you realized you could feel his breath fanning your face.

"I've realized just how long it's been since I last danced with someone like this," you mentioned sheepishly, and a little smirk pulled at the corner of Paul's mouth.

"You don't have two left feet, y'know," his tone was almost teasing, and you smiled back, glad he wasn't feeling so much sadness anymore.

Paul then added with a little shrug, "'Sides, I wanted to dance with you that night, too. But I'm very glad I have the honours now."

Paul began turning with you in slow circles together as you continued to sway, and you took a moment to decide your next words carefully.

"... I suppose what I'm trying to say is that it's different when you're dancing with someone who actually wants to dance with you. It's just... it's really nice. So thank you, Paul."

Paul let go of your waist for a moment, and raised your clasped hands above your heads so you could twirl under his arm. When you did just that, and faced him again, he pulled you just a little closer than you were before, your torsos flush as his hand snaked slowly to the small of your back.

"Thank you," he mumbled back, quietly. You weren't entirely sure what he was thanking you for this time, but you never asked.

Instead, you shut your eyes and opted to rest your head in the crook of his neck as the hand you had on Paul's bicep slid upward so your arm circled around his shoulders, in a half embrace.

And then you felt Paul tilt his own head down as if to envelope you more. You'd be lying if you said your heart didn't skip a beat when he did that.

Paul then began to hum the lyrics of the song, quietly, as if you were the only person in the world who was meant to hear it. Both yours and his eyes were closed now as you two basked in such a beautiful moment.

Two lonely people, finding comfort, and peace in each other.

Paul raised your clasped hands closer to him so he could rest them against his chest. You could actually feel his heartbeat pounding against the side of your hand, which made you a little nervous, but not in a bad way.

Paul stopped moving you around in circles, but the swaying never ceased. He lifted his cheek off your crown after a while, and you couldn't help but open your eyes and raise your gaze back to his face.

Paul smiled so sweetly at you, and you watched his eyes shift ever so slightly from left to right as he looked back into yours. His eyebrows then worried for just a moment before he opened his mouth slightly as if to say something, but no words came out.

Your shifting finally slowed to a standstill, and you opened your mouth this time to speak, yet you found yourself in Paul's very position.

There was nothing to say.

You watched as his gaze softened on you, and you weren't sure if it was the drinks, or the lack of sleep, but it was like you could almost feel the gravity around you manipulating you to move just a little closer to him.

And he must have felt it as well. Paul's head began to drop slowly, and it wasn't long before you met him in the middle, your lips coming together in a very soft, and very unplanned kiss. The both of you kept still, almost as if the smallest move would have frightened the other away.

You were both holding your breath as well, and Paul pulled away from the kiss first, arm still wrapped around your back, hand still clasped in yours.

He was staring at you in awe, as were you, eyes wide, and lips still slightly parted as you both processed what exactly just happened.

Paul still couldn't muster any words, nor could you, for that matter; but he could definitely read your gaze. Your eyes were almost begging him to do that again.

And that's exactly what happened; your lips came crashing into each other again after only another second.

You weren't stupid, and neither was he. You both already knew this night was going to become something else entirely. You were craving the touch of someone, and you didn't even have to tell him.

You could just tell with the way he was moving his mouth against yours, and the way his body was flush with you, that he was wanting it just as bad.

Paul's hand finally let go of yours so he could lace his fingers into the hair at the back of your head, and your own hand slid around to his back. He tried pulling you even closer, but it just wasn't possible.

You sighed quietly as you kissed him again, and again, and Paul's hand unweaved itself from your hair as he cupped your face before breaking the kiss off again, another troubled look on his face.

"Ringo'll kill me if he knew I was--"

"Paul, please. I need this," you didn't let him finish his sentence. You didn't really care what your brother thought of anything, and you assumed, deep down, Paul really didn't care either, because he dove back in for more kisses as soon as he could.

His hands cupped your jawline as you gripped his sweater in your fists at his chest. You parted your mouth slightly and just melted into Paul's arms when he swiped his tongue along your bottom lip.

You moaned lowly against him, ears ringing, and all Paul could think to do was blindly shuffle you backwards towards the sofa, but instead, you felt the coffee table hit the back your legs, and you nearly stumbled back. The glasses, once filled with scotch but now only ice, shuffled against the table's surface at the force of you bumping into it.

Paul ended your kiss once more, one of his hands leaving the side of your face to circle around your hips quickly so you didn't fall back. He smiled at you when he knew you weren't going anywhere, offering you a teasing, "maybe you do have two left feet, Darling."

That wonderful pet name made your flesh rise with goosebumps, but all you could mumble to him was, "Just shut up and kiss me, Paul."

Without hesitation, he did just that, which felt like an eternity to the both of you since the last one.

He, still blindly, yet carefully, directed you around the table and to the sofa. Paul, with his hands holding your hips, was the first to sink down, but encouraged you to straddle him as soon as he was fully seated with an encouraging tap to the back of your thighs.

It was your turn to pull away now, your dominant hand resting flat against the centre of Paul's chest as you gave him a good once-over, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm.

Paul was leaned back, lips parted and shining, assumably from the spit you'd been exchanging, and his eyes almost twinkling at you in adoration.

Your heart was full of something you hadn't felt in a very long time, and it was all because of this sensual interaction.

You reached out with your other hand and ran your thumb over his bottom lip, his shallow breath fluttering gently against the skin on your fingers. You tilted his head up and kissed him again, and your fingernails just couldn't resist playing with his beard any longer.

Paul's grip on your hips tightened when you started doing that, and when you decided to take your other hand off his chest and start playing with his hair, he let out a very low groan against your lips, and to both of your surprise, his hips bucked up involuntarily against you.

He gasped at his own actions, and you pulled away to view the look of apologetic shock written on his face. His cheeks and neck were flushed, and his eyebrows were bent in worry, again.

"I-I promise I didn't mean to..." Paul's voice carried a hint of... shame, almost. You watched as he nervously toyed his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried searching his brain for something to say, but the effects of his drink and your sweet attention had him grasping for any type of clear thought.

But all of his attempts went completely out the window when you lowered your hips down and rocked them back against his, his head falling back against the sofa as his eyes rolled, a guttural moan rumbling from deep within his chest.

It was absolutely apparent that Paul's jeans were lacking the room they'd possessed a few minutes prior, and when you repeated the circular motion with your hips again, feeling him hard against your core, you were rewarded with another low growl from him.

"W-wait," Paul uttered weakly after a second, arms and fingers tightening at your hips to keep you from moving around and teasing him again, as much as he didn't want you to stop.

"I want this so much. I want you so much," he began, taking a beat to rake his eyes down your body as his tongue swiped against his own bottom lip. His gaze flitted back to your eyes, and he swallowed nervously.

"I don't want you to do this if you aren't, y'know..." you waited for him to finish his thought, and his round pink cheeks seemed to flush just a little more.

"If you're not okay with it."

You took a second to think on his argument. You and he were relatively fresh out of troubled relationships, and you both seemed to be hurting from the aftermath of said relationships...

But you were so lonely, too. And, to each other, you were simply beautiful, and respectful people, offering your... company... in a time of isolation for you both.

And it wasn't like there was any label for what you two were, either. All you and Paul needed was to feel wanted-- to feel loved.

And only if you could experience such a feeling for one more night in your life, Paul was offering now. And you were going to take it.

"I want this moment to last, Paul. If you're okay with making me feel wanted again, I am more than comfortable doing the same for you."

You could see him visibly relax when you said that, relief washing over his features as he reached a hand up to caress the back of your neck and bring you into a single, sweet kiss. You still couldn't get over how gentle and polite he was still being about all of this.

"We should really... go to my room," Paul suggested quietly after pulling a fraction of an inch away from the contact. You nodded your head, sighing "okay" as Paul closed the gap between you both just once more, only for a peck.

He let go of your hips and he reached for your hands instead, fingers intertwining slowly, and affectionately. You slid out of his lap, and Paul rose to his feet, guiding you without a hurry towards of the threshold of the den, where you stood to greet him unexpectedly just an hour or so before this moment.

The 45 on the record player had since finished playing the song, needle spinning needlessly in silence. Paul briefly resituated the player before continuing your journey one step at a time towards his bedroom, the heart in your chest beating erratically.

You climbed the stairs together, one dragging step at a time, and Paul led you around the corner of the hallway, pausing at the first room on the right. He glanced over at you, hand on the doorknob as he gave you another look. One that was asking a final, "are you sure?"

You placed your free hand over Paul's without a sound, and together you opened the door. He pulled you in for one more intimate embrace, lips on yours again before he pulled you into the dark room, gently kicking the door closed behind him.

And that night, you stayed with Paul. Hand-in-hand, bodies entwined, souls healing, loneliness fading away, and hopes of feeling whole again finally returning.

Being awake in the middle of the night had never been so gratifying.

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A/A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this! like I said, I can always whip up a part 2 regarding what happened behind those closed doors, so lmk if you're interested in that at all! Thanks for the support again and stay tuned for more works!

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modmoptop · 4 months

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𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

❝𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:❞

𝐘/𝐍, 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐛 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐛𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐘/𝐍 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐜𝐭. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧'𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 – 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 – 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝.

❝𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭❞

❝𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧❞

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟻, 𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟺

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎.

𝚈/𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚣 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍.

“𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?” 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢.

“𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙼𝚛. 𝙼𝚌𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢. 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚎. 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝. .

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛. “𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, “𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙼𝚛. 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗.” 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, “𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. ”

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜. “𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍.

“𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚛. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.” 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍, “𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗?”

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗’𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, “𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗’𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜?”

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙, 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜. “𝙸... 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍��𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎.”

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢. “𝚈/𝙽, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖, “𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑.”

𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎. "𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚕. "𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗��𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝."

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. "𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚜."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚜 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

"𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍. "𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜... 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔."

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. "𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. "𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢. "𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎."

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖. "𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. "𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐, "𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍... 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎."

𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚈/𝙽," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘��𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍."

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. "𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗."

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕. "𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗’𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞."

𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. "𝙴𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑. 𝙰𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, “𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚕𝚢, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜, 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜.

𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝��𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙰𝚖𝚢, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖.

𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚖𝚢, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝙰𝚖𝚢, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝.

𝙰𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎-𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. "𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎!” 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢. “𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖?"

𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝙰𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝. "𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌."

𝙰𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. "𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎? 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙰𝚖𝚢'𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚖𝚢'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝.

"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙰𝚖𝚢," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍.

𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗’𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "... 𝚂𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎? 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘? " 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚕𝚢.

𝙶𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢.

"𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛?" 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍-𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖. "𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘, 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛. "𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝.

𝚈/𝙽, 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎?" 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍'𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚕𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝, "𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠. 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗, 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚝?"

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝙹𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢, "𝚒𝚏 𝚢��𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠, 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖. "𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝙾𝚞𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. "𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝙸... 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸... 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝."

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. "𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝!" 𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢. "𝙸... 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗. "𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝!"

𝙵𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝. "𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕... 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚢, 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚢. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢-𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚛'𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍-𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖.

"𝙾𝚒, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍-𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍.

"𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. "𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖? 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝'𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝."

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋.

"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝙼𝚛. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘'𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛. "𝙰𝚑, 𝚊𝚑, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛? 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝙼𝚛. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢. "𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚜," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘'𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛," 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚜-𝚞𝚙.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑-𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝙷𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝-𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋? 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜.

𝙰𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚢; 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜.

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎, 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎.

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, "𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎?" 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝-𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘: 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗.

"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚞𝚖, 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. "𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝?"

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚝.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, "𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕." 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢. "𝚈/𝙽," 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, "𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚑. "𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗. 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙸, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚍," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. "𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢?" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜. "𝙼𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝."

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. "𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. "𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝙸 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝."

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, "𝚂𝚘, 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑?"

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍. "𝙽𝚘, 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎, 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, "𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖." 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝. "𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚈/𝙽. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏."

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, "𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢? 𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢."

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜. "𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢, "𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚊𝚢, '𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎.'"

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝.

𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚈/𝙽."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢, 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎. "𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚜 '𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗' 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 '𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗.' 𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛��𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢.

"𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗!" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝙸, 𝚞𝚑, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑. "𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎."

𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚈𝚎𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚙, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. "𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽.

"𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎. "𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜?"

𝚈/𝙽, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗—"

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖. "𝙾𝚑 𝚗𝚘, 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚋."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. "𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝙵𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚕. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎. "𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖. "𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚢𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 – 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍.

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟼, 𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟺

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚞𝚗-𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗.

𝙰𝚜 𝚈/𝙽 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊.

𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚈/𝙽," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. "𝙲𝚘��𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎??"

𝚈/𝙽 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. "𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜? 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢,” 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍. “𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?"

𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝙷𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔.

"𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛.𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚍, 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜.

𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚢. "𝙾𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚈/𝙽," 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, "𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?"

𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚕. 𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜.

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛. "𝚂𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 – 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚢𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚖.

𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎. "𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. "𝚂𝚘, 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 '𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕' 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚖 '𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗'?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕. "𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎, 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝. "𝙾𝚑, 𝚗𝚘, '𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗' 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔?" 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏, 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 ��𝚎? 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝?" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚊𝚛𝚌��𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚖," 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑.

𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎. "𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗’𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. "𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚋𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢.

"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝?" 𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕, 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍.

𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝. "𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠," 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜, "𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗?"

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏, 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢.

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎. 𝙰𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗. 𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍.

𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝, 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑.

𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖, 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑, 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚖, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔, 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝚆𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝.

𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎, 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖.

𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟺𝚝𝚑, 𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟺

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔, 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 ��𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗, 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚈/𝙽’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎. “𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢. “𝙸 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.”

𝚈/𝙽 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. “𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠-𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. “𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗—” 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗.

“𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚐.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚛. “𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚕𝚢𝚍𝚎, 𝙴𝚛𝚒𝚌, 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝙶𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎, 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘,” 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛. “𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚜. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎.”

𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. “𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢. “𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚒𝚛.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕. 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔, 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚠. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝, 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔.

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘. 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑.

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕, 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝟸𝟹, 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎'𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝙶𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 - 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝚁𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗��𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙶𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎, 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝙴𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 – "𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝙷𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚒" 𝚘𝚛 "𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚘𝚕𝚎?" – 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚢. 𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛, 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚍𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚈𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝚈/𝙽 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎. 𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢, 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜? 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝚂𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛. "𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎.

𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖. "𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, "𝙸-𝙸'𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗?" 𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚍. '𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗?' 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝. "𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝-𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎?"

𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, "𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐?" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙-𝚞𝚙.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔?"

𝚈/𝙽, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑. "𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. "𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕.

𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. "𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑." 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎�� 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚍, 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚊, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘."

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎��𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙. 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 - 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎'𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

"𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚝?" 𝚈/𝙽 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎. "𝙲𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸... 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎." 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚈/𝙽 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎.

"𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 – 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑. "𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕... 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

"𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍?" 𝚈/𝙽 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑. "𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝." 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

"𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝... 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎." 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍. “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝..”

𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 – 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢, 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙-𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎. "𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎. 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎."

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍. "𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝? 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎, 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝙸? 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊," 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍, 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝, 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎. "𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎... 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝙸? 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕, 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚕, 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 – 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕' 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗-𝚝𝚘-𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡-𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍.

"𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝙸...," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜.

"𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚈/𝙽 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. "𝙸𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊. 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗..."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚠, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. "𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜," 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝. "𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚈/𝙽 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙; 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

"𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝙸...," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎. "𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. "𝚈/𝙽, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

"𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚜. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎," 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎. "𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛."

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢.

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜.

𝚈/𝙽’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊. "𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎, ��𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍."

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚈/𝙽'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚈/𝙽 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝, 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. "𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎. "𝚆𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚘𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 – 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

“𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎.

“𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗,” 𝚈/𝙽 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 – 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

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