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Book Quotes

"Well," MacDonald said, "you had your hunt."

"Yes, sir."

"And you lost your tail, just like I said you would."

Andrews did not speak.

"That was what you wanted, wasn't it?" MacDonald asked.

"Maybe it was, in the beginning," Andrews said. "Part of it, at least."

"Young people," MacDonald said. "Always wanting to start from scratch. I know. You never figured that someone else knew what you was trying to do, did you?"

"I never thought about it," Andrews said. "Maybe because I didn't know what I was trying to do myself."

"Do you know now?"

Andrews moved restlessly.

"Young people," MacDonald said contemptuously. "You always think there's something to find out."

"Yes, sir," Andrews said.

"Well, there's nothing," MacDonald said. "You get born, and you nurse on lies, and you get weaned on lies, and you learn fancier lies in school. You live all your life on lies, and then maybe when you're ready to die, it comes to you——that there's nothing, nothing but yourself and what you could have done. Only you ain't done it, because the lies told you there was something else. Then you know that you could of had the world, because you're the only one that knows the secret; only then it's too late. You're too old."

— John Williams, Butcher's Crossing

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝚃𝚘 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚍-𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙻𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜—𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍-𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚜𝚞𝚗-𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜; 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝙰 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔—𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚜, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑-𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝． (𝙰 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚛'𝚜-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚓𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛; 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚝．)

███████𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚘'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝． 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚝-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 (𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜) 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚕-𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕． 𝙾𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚜; 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗; 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚙, 𝚙𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚝—𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚘, 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚢． 𝚂𝚘 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜．

███████𝙰𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜—𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢．

███████𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚑𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚒𝚋 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚒𝚜-𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑． 𝚂𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑．

███████"𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛," 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝． "𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔．"

𝄞

███████𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗: 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗-𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗．

███████𝙰 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎—𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗-𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎-𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜． 𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛, 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙲𝚞𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚝, 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜． 𝙽𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚢𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚜．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎; 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝; 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘'𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙿𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 (𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜)． 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗—𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎．

███████"𝙼𝚜． 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚊𝚑—" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍: "𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍．" 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚍． 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．

███████𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝚁𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗． 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎． "𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐．"

███████"𝚂𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝙾𝚛 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜．"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗． 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗．"

███████"𝙰𝚑, 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍． 𝙼𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎．" 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍: 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝． 𝚄𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝-𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚙． 𝙽𝚘 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚜． 𝙷𝚎'𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜; 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢． (𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝—𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎．) 𝙴𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛-𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙—𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎． "𝚂𝚘," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚍, "𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎？"

███████"𝙼𝚜． 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗—𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝," 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙．"

███████"𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎．"

███████"𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜． "𝙽𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝," 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙷𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎—𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕．"

███████𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖—𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚜—𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚞𝚔𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍． "𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎． 𝙳𝚛𝚢． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚂𝚊𝚞𝚟-𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚌𝚘．"

███████"𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚊．" 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, "𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎．"

███████𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜—𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕—𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜-𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢-𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚒𝚕—𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝． 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘, 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏: 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚢-𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠-𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜; 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎; 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚢．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚋 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚢𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚢-𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚔． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛？"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝？" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍．

███████"𝙼𝚖． 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚘𝚏． 𝙰𝚗 𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎．"

███████𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎． 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑-𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍． 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙼𝚎𝚗, 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚍—𝚕𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚎． 𝚆𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝． "𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖． 𝙰𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙． 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝？" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕．

███████𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛． "𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚍． 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚜—𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊'𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎—𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢'𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛．．．"

███████𝙰 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝． 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜; 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛．

███████"𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢—𝚢𝚎𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕—𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕," 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍....𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚢, 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕． 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚝． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍．．．"

███████"𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍," 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖; 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝-𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚢． 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑; 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎．

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜？" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍．

███████𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍'𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚠, 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚊—𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚎． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚙． "𝙸—" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎—"𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖．"

███████"𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚞𝚜 𝚞𝚗-𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝？"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛," 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎． "𝙼𝚜． 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚜—𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎—𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎; 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍．"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚙-𝚓𝚘𝚋． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑—𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢—𝚠𝚑𝚘 '𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍' 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍．"

███████"𝙰𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎," 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚡 𝚙𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, "𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗—𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚢—𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗． 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙． 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚘, 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍-𝚘𝚗． 𝙽𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎． "𝚆𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔？" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚒𝚛—"𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑？"

███████𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍 𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚜．

███████"𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔," 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚜, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜．

███████"𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚢 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍． "𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙾𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎-𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘—𝚝𝚘—．．．𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜-𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢．"

███████"𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜," 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍—𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗． 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎; 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝-𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚢-𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜． "𝚂𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍．"

███████"𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚜𝚒𝚛． 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎．"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚘． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗, 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔． 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙸'𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚢-𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚗． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎．．．𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠．"

███████"𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎—𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍．"

███████"𝙷𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎-𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑． 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚒𝚋 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚢-𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛． "𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝．"

███████"𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚐𝚘; 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖． 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗'𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖．

███████"𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘． 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚒𝚋 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎． "𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗, 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎． 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛—"

███████"𝙸𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙？ 𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜． 𝙼𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕, 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏？—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔, 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛． "𝚂𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚉𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗． "𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍． "𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝． "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝？"

███████"𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜． 𝙱𝚞𝚝．．．．𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚂'𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑．"

███████𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝; 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕-𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝙰𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠． 𝙰 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚡𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚡𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍． 𝙰 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜, 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚍, "𝚒𝚏 𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍—𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚢—𝚒𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎, 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝚈𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚎． 𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗．"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚢？ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎？ 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎？"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝． 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕．"

███████"𝚂𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚘𝚘．"

███████"𝙸'𝚖 𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎．" 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜． "𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗-𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢． 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊．"

███████𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜． "𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚙'𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚙'𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙹𝚞𝚗．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗．"

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚁𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚢-𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙸'𝚍 𝚐𝚘． 𝙻𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝—𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜． 𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝．"

███████"𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜．"

███████"𝙰𝚠, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗．"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛, 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢． 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛．

███████"𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．"

███████"𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍—" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍—"𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎． 𝙸'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐．"

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚎．" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝． "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚢-𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗' 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕—𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝙾𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍．"

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚢𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎—𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍． "𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝．．．．𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎-𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝-𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢．．．．𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘．．．．"

███████"𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕—𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝—𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢？"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛．．．．𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚍．"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘． 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕．"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎．"

███████"𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎！"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝？ 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗？ 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐？ 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚒𝚝．．．．𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎？"

███████"𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠． 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠． '𝙲𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎'？ 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚒𝚗' 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝙰𝚒𝚗' 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎-𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚋 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚓𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔． "𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙸'𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝; 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚝． "𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙹𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢—𝚢𝚘 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚢！—𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝． 𝙸 𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝？ 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎？ 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛—"

███████𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢． (𝙳𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎．) 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝; 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜; 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜． 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛． 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍; 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠． 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎; 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚜; 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜．

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Apologies for the wait.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Dear John (@JFK):

Is it us? You've been giving some mixed signals recently. You're online every day and yet we're coming up on almost a month since the last time you wrote an I.C.—in any thread, not only ours. We thought maybe you had gotten bored of us—we were even preparing to end the commitment—but yesterday you started reading and Liking posts again.

No more hot-and-cold, John. Have you decided you're not ready for a real relationship, or are you willing to put the work in and go the mile?

Signed,
Mystified in Minnenoona

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

𝄞

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚘 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜—𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝙼𝚝． 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚅𝚊𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗, 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚝-𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙽𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚢; 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚎-𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚢-𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎, 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜—𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜—𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕-𝚕𝚞𝚡𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 "𝚢𝚘𝚞-𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜" 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜-𝚘𝚏-𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚛—𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠—𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜．

███████𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝙱𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 '𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 '𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎-𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎． 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜．

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚓𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗？"

███████"𝚂𝚒𝚡 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝙰𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜？"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝 𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎？ 𝙿𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚢？"

███████"𝙰 𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚏𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙾𝚛 𝚏𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚙？"

███████"𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚊, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔'𝚗-𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛—𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚜． 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝？"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊 𝚎𝚟𝚊． 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚢𝚙． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗？"

███████"𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚞 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘？ 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘' 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎-𝚛𝚘𝚠-𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗． 𝙰𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚕-𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝙼𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚎 𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚘-𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎．"

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝．"

███████"𝙰𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎-𝚏𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘 '𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝙱𝚘𝚜𝚜' 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖 𝚞𝚜．．．．𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝？"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝． 𝙶𝚊𝚑-𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗． 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚎-𝚊-𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚎． 𝙸𝚣 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔． 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍'𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔？"

███████"𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚉𝙸𝙿 𝙲𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗． 𝚆𝚎'𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚎-𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝．"

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝． 𝙱𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔-𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜．"

███████"𝙰 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚏 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚐'𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝．"

███████"𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔．"

███████"．．．．𝚂𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎． 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜; 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚊'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔．"

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍'𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎-𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚝． 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚝, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗． 𝙽𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝-𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝙰𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔'𝚗-𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜． 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜-𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙸𝚣 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚒𝚝—𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖．"

███████"𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜？"

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚜, 𝚐𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚣 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎; 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚘𝚘．．．"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚙'𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗．"

███████"𝙴𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢．"

███████"𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢． 𝚂𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛？"

███████"𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚖． 𝚆𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚋, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚒𝚝． 𝙰 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝． 𝙲𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗．"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚜？"

███████"𝙰𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗' 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍． 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚙．"

███████"𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎'𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛, 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗-𝚍𝚘𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚎-𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚐𝚎．．．"

███████"𝙳𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 '𝚒𝚖, 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗．"

███████"𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚝, 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝． 𝚂'𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚗．"

███████"'𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝！' 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚠．"

███████"𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝．"

███████"𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙳𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝'𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚡-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕． 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢'𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝．"

███████"．．．"

███████"．．．．𝙰-𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘-𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚎𝚠-𝚃𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘． 𝚂𝚘 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝． 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚑, 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚜, 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔-𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚜—𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜—"

███████"𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛-𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐． 𝙾𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢'𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍？ 𝚄𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗． 𝙽𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕． 𝚈'𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝙵𝚒𝚝𝚣 𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝 𝙴𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜．"

███████"𝙷𝚖．"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝？ 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔． 𝙾𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚣𝚣 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝'𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗．"

███████"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜． 𝚆𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊． 𝙸𝚗-𝚊𝚗-𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚆𝙰𝚂𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚠𝚔, 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝． 𝙳𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗． 𝙰𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘, 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚎-𝚗𝚒𝚗, 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚠𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠—𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚖？ 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚎-𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗'𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔． 𝚆𝚑𝚊-𝚎𝚟𝚊． 𝙳𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝．"

███████"𝙰𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚝-𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛．"

███████"𝙽𝚊𝚑, 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗． 𝙻𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎．"

███████"𝙰𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚢'𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚎． 𝙼𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚠．"

███████"．．．"

███████"．．．"

███████"．．．"

███████"𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚢—𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝙸'𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚢．"

███████"𝙷𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚄-𝙷𝚊𝚞𝚕'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚎-𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔． 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚎—𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙹𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏． 𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎．"

███████"𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝？ 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘r 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚔-𝚌𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜． 𝙰𝚗 𝚠𝚎'𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔."

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝙾 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚋 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝙸 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗, 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍． 𝙰𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘 𝚏𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎—𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚕, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎—𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞𝚜．．．"

███████"．．．𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝．"

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢． 𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗-𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚜．"

███████"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝙶𝚘𝚍． 𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕．"

Book Quotes

She squeezed his hand, and raised it, and turned it palm upward. “So soft,” she said. She caressed his palm with her thumb, which moved slowly and rhythmically in small circles. “That's the only thing I don't like about the men here. Their hands are so rough.”

He was trembling. With his free hand he grasped the armrest of the sofa and held it tightly.

“What do they call you?” Francine asked softly. “Is it William?”

“Will,” Andrews said.

“I'll call you William,” she said. “It's more like you, I think.” She smiled slowly at him. “You're very young, I think.”

He removed his hand from the smooth caress of her fingers. “I am twenty-three.”

She came closer to him, sliding across the sofa; the rustle of her stiff smooth dress sounded like soft cloth tearing. Her shoulder lightly pressed against his shoulder, and she breathed gently, evenly.

“Don't be angry,” she said. “I'm glad you're young. I want you to be young. All of the men here are old and hard. I want you to be soft, while you can be. . . . When will you go with Miller and the others?”

“Three or four days,” Andrews said. “But we will be back within the month. And then—”

Francine shook her head, though she continued smiling. “Yes, you'll be back; but you won't be the same. You'll not be so young; you will become like the others.”

Andrews looked at her confusedly, and in his confusion cried: “I will only become myself!”

She continued as if he had not interrupted. “The wind and sun will harden your face; your hands will no longer be soft.”

— John Williams, Butcher's Crossing

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝙲． 𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙼𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝-𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕-𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢'𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚘 𝚂𝚝． 𝙻𝚞𝚔𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢-𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚃𝚘 𝙼𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜．

███████𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜． 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜．

███████𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝙸𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎． 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍． 𝙰𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝙸．𝙲．𝚄．; 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚜𝚘 𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔． 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝙱𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗—𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜． "𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐？" 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝．

███████"𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗—𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠—𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙． 𝙰 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎．"

███████"𝙽𝚘," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜． "𝙾𝚑 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢．"

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎—𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙, 𝚜𝚎𝚎—𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢？"

███████"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖" 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗． "𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠？"

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜—𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛—𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛—．．．'𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙻𝙰𝙳𝚈！ 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏！'"

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███████𝙷𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕: 𝚂𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜-𝚁𝚘𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎． 𝙰 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙻𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝'𝚜, 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜． 𝚂𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝-𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑-𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚢． 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔-𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙰．𝙼．𝙲． 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚕𝚒𝚗, 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛-𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢． 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒, 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢．

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███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜-𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍． 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍—𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚘𝚛—𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎． 𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛; 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝙵𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜． 𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚍-𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜-𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎． 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚑𝚢𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑: 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍．

███████𝙶𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕-𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝚃𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍． 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔． 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔-𝚖𝚘𝚊𝚗, 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍; 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚘-𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝙴𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎． 𝙱𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝-𝚘𝚏-𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎．

███████𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔—𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎—𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝙳𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚡𝚢．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝．

███████𝙰 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸．𝚅．𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑; 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚢． 𝙶𝚊𝚞𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑． 𝙰 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚒𝚐𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚙𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚠． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛-𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚝𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜．

███████"𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝？"

███████'𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒' 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙽𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛．

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍． "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎． 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢．"

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝; 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 (𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝) 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎． 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎—𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜-𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚡, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎． '𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒' 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜． 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗．

███████𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖．

███████"𝙲𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢," 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍． "𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎—"

███████𝙼𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞？

███████𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝; 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚟 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚢． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕．

███████"𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍," 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐． "𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜．"

███████𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍．

███████𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗． 𝙵𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗． "𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚖𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚢． 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞？"

███████𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝．

███████"'𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙'？"

███████𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚖𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛．

███████"𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙽𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙？ 𝙽𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢． 𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞．"

███████𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗．

███████𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗． "𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝．"

███████𝚈𝚎𝚜． 𝙸 𝚍𝚘． 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢—𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚜． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎． 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎？

███████"𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠" 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． "𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑—" 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏—"𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚐𝚘．"

███████𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎． 𝚂𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚡 𝚋𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚝． 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎．

███████"𝚂𝚘 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝙰 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎．"

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍—𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚢．

███████"𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝．" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 '𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛' 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕; 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍． "𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚂𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜．"

███████𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎—𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛—𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍． 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚋 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍． 𝚅𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗-𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚓𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢． 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙽𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜． 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠． 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛． 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝． 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎—(𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠)—𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜'𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗． 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜． 𝚂𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚜．

███████𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜． 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝—𝙸 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚎． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕—𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗！—𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎．．．𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃．𝚅． 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜． 𝙸 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜． 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝．

███████"𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔—𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝—"

███████𝙽𝚘． 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙． 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎, 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎？ 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎—𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔—𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝？ 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎． 𝙽𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜; 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚘． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜． 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎！ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝． 𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎．．．𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝．．．

███████"𝙸 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗-𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎," 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛' 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍． "𝙸 𝚍𝚘． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚘 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜-𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚛．"

███████𝙰 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚎𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔—𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔？ 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚝． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎． 𝙽𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎． 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝚁𝚊𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎． 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕． 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕—！

███████"𝙵𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐," 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍． "𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑？ 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗？"

███████𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞．

███████"𝙲'𝚖𝚘𝚗, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝． 𝙴𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕． 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗—𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘, 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗． 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕． 𝙰𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙲, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜．"

███████𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚠𝚔 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎-𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜; 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛．

███████𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚢． 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎—𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕．

𝄞

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗． 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． "𝚆𝚘𝚠．．．𝚆𝚘𝚠," 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢． 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝙽𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐．

███████"𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, "𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐．"

███████𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜' 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎． 𝙿𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗—𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝．

███████"𝚈𝚘𝚞—𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝．"

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚑-𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐？ 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍—𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝．

███████𝙷𝚎𝚢． 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢-𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢-𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢． 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛-𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚛𝚘𝚝-𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛． "𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚔𝚒𝚍," 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍． "𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔．"

███████𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚎—𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚛 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍; 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗． "𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍． 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜．

███████𝙸𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑—𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜．．．𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚝． 𝙾𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛． 𝙰 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗． 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝． 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚘𝚗 𝙱𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚊𝚜． 𝙹𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙳𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚘． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙿𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎．

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚌𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝． 𝙾𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝． 𝙰 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍, 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎'𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎-𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑． 𝚁𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜． 𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛—𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚎．

███████𝚈𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚔𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛． 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜; 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖．

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝙰𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗． "𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛？—'𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢．' 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎． 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜． 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚑-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚑, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚑, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚑．"

███████𝚈-𝚢-𝚢𝚞𝚑-𝚢𝚞𝚑-𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚗． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙺𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼！

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝," 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍． "𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜． 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚍．"

███████𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛—𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍． 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘． 𝙽𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎—𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝—𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎．

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝． 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚒𝚝．"

███████𝙽𝚘． 𝙽𝚘！

███████"𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝． 𝙾𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚜．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙻𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝． 𝙷𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚊𝚠． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗． 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜． "𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑． 𝙾𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍． 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚠, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚎-𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜．"

███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚠, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍; 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜．

███████"𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝, '𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙'？—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜？—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖？ 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕？ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝． 𝙷𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝． 𝙷𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌-𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎． 𝙷𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 .𝟸𝟸 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚕 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞．"

███████𝙼𝚖𝚖𝚏！ 𝙼𝚖𝚛𝚛-𝚛𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚛-𝚏𝚛𝚖𝚖𝚛𝚏𝚖𝚛𝚖！

███████"𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚠; 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢．

███████𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝚂！ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍． 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕'𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢𝚗 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜！

███████"𝙼𝚑𝚖． 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎．"

███████𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛．．．𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚒𝚛．

███████"𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜． 𝙾𝚛 𝙸 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜？"

███████𝙾𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚞𝚑, 𝚞𝚑𝚖, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝙻, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝙻．．．𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚒！ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕'𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚒！

███████"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎？"

███████𝙸．．．𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠． 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝． 𝙸𝚝．．．𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚉． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚝． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝, 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎！

███████"𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢𝚗 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚉． 𝙷𝚖．" 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍． "𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝．" 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜; 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎．

███████"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚔𝚒𝚍． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢．"

███████𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛． 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍． 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢． 𝙰𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖．

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Hey! Sorry if this seems like a redundant ask but I was just checking if this was still accepting Character applications, it says apply on the forum but I just wanted to make sure.

@Shadfly Knight

Hello yes at present there is room for one more. I'll PM you.

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

There's room for one (1) more.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

███████𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎—𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝 𝙿． 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛; 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛． 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍, 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝 𝙿． 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚂𝚊𝚖 𝙿𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚙𝚊𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜．

███████𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛． 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍． 𝙰𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜; 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝． 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚙𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚢．

███████𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚖-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙; 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚜． 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚝-𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚢． 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚝． 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛． 𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠． 𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚔 𝚒𝚗． 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚛𝚜． 𝙼𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐．

███████𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊, 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚈𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔． 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢—𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍．

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​ ​ ​𝚂𝚒𝚛, 𝙳𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛—𝚒．𝚎．, @ 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 & 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢． 𝚆𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚌𝚢． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕． 𝙰 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎． 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊． 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 ½ 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚞𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝． 𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐,—𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝,𝚜 𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚖, 𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍．, 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 + 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚐 𝚂𝚚． 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜． 𝚊𝙽𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜— 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚊,𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 @ 𝚊𝚕𝚕—𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏, & 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞． 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗(𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍． 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸'𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚝𝚗' 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜． & 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜．​𝙼𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔． 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 ,𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚒𝚗𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎-𝚘𝚏-𝚝𝚑𝚎-𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛． 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜． 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚍𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚜, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚓𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝． 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚎． 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝙰𝚐𝚎． 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚘𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎！ 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝' 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍, 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚜 —𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚜． 𝙼𝚈 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝． 𝚋,𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜, 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎． 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛？ 𝚊𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐？ 𝚃𝚑𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎？ 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚍'𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚂𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗．． 𝙼𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢． 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢． 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗;𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏． 𝙱𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗: 𝙼𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒 𝙶𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒, 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 "𝙱𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙽 𝙸𝚃", 𝚅．𝙸．𝙽． 𝙰𝙼𝟷𝟷𝟻．𝟷𝟸𝟷𝟷． 𝙸𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛． 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍—𝙶𝙾𝙽𝙴． 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚓𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛/𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑． 𝙸𝚝𝚊 𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑． 𝙼𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚗𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘 (𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛．) 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚑𝚢, 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍, 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢． 𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛． 𝚂𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑． 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚠𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚘𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞';; 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚒𝚝． 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢​

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███████𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑． 𝚃𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙—𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙼．𝙾． 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢． 𝙰 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝． (𝚁𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝙰 𝚜𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎．) 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚘-𝚝𝚑𝚎-𝙴𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜． 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚞𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝． 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚌𝚎． 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎．

███████𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐？

███████𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋． 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙; 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜． 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎． 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚙-𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙． 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘．

███████𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎'𝚜 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛． 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜． 𝚂𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍． 𝙱𝚕𝚎𝚠． 𝚂𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝-𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢．

███████"𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔" 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝—𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑—𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚑． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢． "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍．"

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^{𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛？
𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎？
𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝？ 𝙷𝚘𝚠？
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚝？
𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕(𝚜)？ (𝙾𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍？)
𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜？}

███████𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘-𝚝𝚘-𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚕-𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜． 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚜𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐． 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜; 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍． 𝙰 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎．

███████𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚎: 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝． "𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘．"

███████<𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛．．．𝚆𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗．>

███████𝙰 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎． 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎—𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝—𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜． 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚕𝚞𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝-𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝． 𝙰 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎． "𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜," 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍． "𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐． 𝚃𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗． 𝚂𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔？"

███████<𝙷𝚖> 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢． <𝚆𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔．> 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙵𝚘𝚗𝚐'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕．