Magic, Multiverse, and Leverage

Writes for The Flash, Legends of Tomorrow, Avengers, Librarians, and Leverage. Ask box is OPEN!!!! Follows back from elysiuminthedark I am no longer taking requests for Ghost Adventures.

[yikesdrama]

HELL HATH NO FURY

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌—𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗓𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝟭𝟯𝗸, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗃𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾,𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍!𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗆𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗌

𝖺/𝗇: 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋-𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍-𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝖾. 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝖼 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌. <𝟥​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 & 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾! 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗎

masterlist (want me to turn this into a full fic? vote here)

𝖭𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖭𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐—𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗎𝗀𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗑𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗌-𝗆𝖾𝗇.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖥𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗁 𝖥𝖺𝗐𝖼𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖬𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖢𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝖠𝖤-𝟣 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗌' 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇—𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗒—𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗃𝗎𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝗋𝗌. 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖳𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗒 𝖧𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝗎𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇.

𝖮𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇. 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗇-𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖽'𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖳𝖵 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗒-𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅-𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝖺𝗉-𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾-𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖬𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍.

𝖭𝗈, 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾—𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝗂𝗄𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖦𝗈𝖽-𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌-𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝖾-𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗑 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍—𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗒.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, "𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇." 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖠 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋? 𝖨𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖬&𝖬𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒-𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗅. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇," 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇. 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖬&𝖬 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. "𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗀."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

"𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖮𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝖬&𝖬 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. "𝖲𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖨 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍?"

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. "𝖣𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿?"

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿?"

"𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖡𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖯𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖦𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝗂𝗇-𝗍𝗁𝖾-𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖲𝗈, 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒.

"𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿."

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗈," 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. "𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗌."

"𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗅."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, "𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇."

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆."

"𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾—𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿.

"𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆?"

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄."

"𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅, 𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗈𝖼𝗋𝖾-𝖺𝗍-𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾."

"𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽."

"𝖨 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. "𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, "𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖠 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖯𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗓𝗂𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾."

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾."

"𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇—𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁.

"𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁," 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

"𝖭𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽."

𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖶𝖾𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖱𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋—𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖯𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇. 𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖡𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌," 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗒.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗆.

"𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽.

"𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾."

"𝖠𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌?"

"𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇."

"𝖸/𝖭."

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

"𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖭𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗒."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖫𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽-𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾-𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾-𝖺𝗋𝖾-𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟩-𝖤𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀-𝖿𝗈𝗋-𝗁𝗂𝗌-𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋—𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 "𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾" 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗒𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖤𝗇𝗓𝗈'𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝖺𝗄 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖿 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖤𝗇𝗓𝗈’𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅—𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗂-𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌—𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋—𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐—𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽-𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌: 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗀.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍-𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍... 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅-𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇-𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖳𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝖼 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗅𝗒.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇."

"𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗋𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖽."

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺 '𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗒' 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁."

"𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇—"

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖧𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌—𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒."

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗇. "𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒," 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄."

"𝖨 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗂𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝖦𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝖺𝗅𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗋. 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈, 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗒𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗅. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌-𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖻 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒'𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈."

"𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽."

"𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋."

"𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐."

"𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒."

"𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍."

"𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎?"

𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈. 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅."

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅."

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅."

"𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖲𝗉𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋-𝖬𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝖻, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝖻 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖶𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖽𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖢𝖨𝖠 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾—𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖡𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗉𝖾.

"𝖲𝗈," 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿. "𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽."

"𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌?"

"𝖮𝗁 𝗆𝗒 𝖦𝗈𝖽," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝖵. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗑𝖾𝖽—𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍.

"𝖬𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌, "𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽."

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. "𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍."

"𝖭𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖽."

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. "𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. "𝖨 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗎𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽-𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍.

𝖭𝗈𝗐. 𝖠𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋—𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝖳𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖦𝗈𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍-𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇-𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌—𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌: 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗈 𝖱𝖾𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 (𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾), 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖲𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖠𝗋𝗆𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾—𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁, 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖾, 𝖨𝗋𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗐𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝗎𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁-𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌 𝟧𝟢𝟣𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖠 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝟦.𝟢 𝖦𝖯𝖠 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒—𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌, 𝗉𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽," 𝖬𝗋𝗌. 𝖢𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖬𝗋. 𝖪𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽, "𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖯𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅. 𝖠𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖥𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗁 𝖬𝗂𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖤𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗑𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾?"

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗅 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗒—𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾.

"𝖳𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍-𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗀𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, "𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝗉—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

"𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅: 𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗇, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, “𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗉.”

𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋—𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌, 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 "𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗍.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗑, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗒."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾.

"𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋?"

"𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌?"

"𝖢𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝖠𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇."

"𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾."

"𝖲𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌."

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. 𝖬𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌."

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗍."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗇, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇."

"𝖨 𝗍𝗋𝗒."

𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉, 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋.

𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇, 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇. "𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺?"

"𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺."

"𝖦𝗈𝖽𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝗄𝗂𝖽."

𝖬𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍-𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖢𝗁𝖾𝗏𝗒 𝖭𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝖼 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋.

𝖧𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒—𝖣𝖾𝖿 𝖫𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖽, "𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖾," 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇-𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗌, 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶—𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖪𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝖠 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖠 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝖵 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽—"𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝗆𝖺𝗇." "𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒." "𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽."—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄—𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌.

"𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇?"

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. "𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿."

"𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋. "𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾?" 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. "𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒."

"𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌? 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒?"

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾—𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒, 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗀𝗈. 𝖠 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽-𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖱𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗁, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝖿 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗒𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽? 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖸/𝖭 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗇, 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗆. "𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍? 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒?"

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒." 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆—𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

"𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾. "𝖲𝖾𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗁, 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒—"

"𝖥𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. "𝖨 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. "𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇? 𝖣𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗌?"

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 "𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉" 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾. 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽."

"𝖮𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?"

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖫𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗉 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 "𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 "𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗒𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇" 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁, 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖻𝗎𝗅𝖻. 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇-𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍, 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽, 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶'𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌." 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌' 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾—𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍— 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽. 𝖠𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺'𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅—𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝖵—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾-𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾-𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽. "𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒—𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.

"𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽."

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍.

"𝖲𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

"𝖧𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒—"

"𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌, 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾—𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾́ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖣𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽—𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

"𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋. "𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗇."

"𝖠 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗇?"

"𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁.

"𝖡𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇. "𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖠𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾." 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋?"

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌... 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽."

"𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍?"

"𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗏𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. "𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽?"

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. "𝖢𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀?"

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽. "𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒." 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. "𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽."

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗉𝗍.

𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾—𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖬𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽.

"𝖬𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝖾."

"𝖳𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀."

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇'𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇-𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖥𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎."

"𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖨'𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾-𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍."

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽."

"𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍."

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗈𝗋—𝖨'𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

"𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. "𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍. 𝖭𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾.

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖾," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾.

"𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽."

𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇-𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐. 𝖨𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖬𝗈̈𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝖢𝗋𝗎̈𝖾'𝗌 "𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌, 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌, 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌" 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗈 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇—𝖸/𝖭 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗇.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖭𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗓 𝗌𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇-𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌—𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂'𝗌 𝟧𝟢𝟣𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁-𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀—"𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇"—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖡𝗎𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽—𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌—𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖱𝖾𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗄 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗌. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖮𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇'𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋—𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.

"𝖧𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍—𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗋𝗒.

"𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗉.

"𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆," 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖬𝖶 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗏𝖾𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖠 𝖪𝗈𝗁𝗈 𝖱𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗎𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍.

𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖡𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼—𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖺 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝗒—𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 — 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗉, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖶𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝖠𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽.

"𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋. "𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾?"

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒—𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗅, 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺—𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗎𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗁𝗈'𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 — 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 "OH MY GOD" 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽. 𝖳𝗐𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 "𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍" 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍, 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗒-𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍.

"𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. "𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈? 𝖲𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾? 𝖯𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋? 𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁?"

𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆," 𝖸/𝖭 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝖠 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍. "𝖲𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇," 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖨 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽'𝗌."

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗉. 𝖦𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁—𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺.

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁—𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅—𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍—"𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖨 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖻𝗂—" 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁.

𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍—𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍—𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗍, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾—𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾—𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆—𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝖧𝖮𝖫𝖸 𝖥𝖴𝖢𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖳" 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖠 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁.

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖸/𝖭 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖮𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗆𝗂𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾, "𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌” 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾."

𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒? 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖨'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽? 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾? 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾."

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌.

"𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, "𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎? 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆."

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍—𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖸/𝖭 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒—𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖽—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗎𝗉. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖣𝗈𝖼 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗎𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍, 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌—𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾—𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒'𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽—𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋—𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 & 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗂𝗉, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍.

"𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅-𝗂𝗇-𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋-𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾-𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍? 𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒."

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒—𝖦𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆—𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖩𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝖩𝖾𝗍𝗍'𝗌 "𝖡𝖺𝖽 𝖱𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇" 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗆𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄. 𝖯𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀—𝖺 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉—𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽—𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒, 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, "𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗍."

"𝖥𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗋."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍."

"𝖨 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋.

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾," 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋. "𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁."

"𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍."

"𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗒. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾." 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖸/𝖭 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗐, 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗎𝗇-𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀-𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾. "𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎—"

"𝖭𝗈𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇," 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. "𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗌? 𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝖽𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨'𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈."

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁—𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖲𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋—𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾'𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖫𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀."

"𝖨'𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾."

"𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽-𝖺𝖽𝗃𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖲𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇."

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒'𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁, 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖧 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖲𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗒 𝖠𝗅𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗏𝖾: 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖩𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖡𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗅-𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖸/𝖭 𝖧𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺, 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍—𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿-𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅—𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

© 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘈𝘐 𝘴𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮.

[redhexx]

words cannot express how much i love this.

[munsoninthedark86]

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙A Very Hellfire Christmas‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

warnings: fluff, kissing, Dustin, Lucas and Mike spying on reader and Eddie, Christmas themes, just generally sweetness word count: 1k pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem!Hellfire Member!Reader summary: you and Eddie spend days together making awesome Christmas themed Hellfire Club shirts, and everyone else plans on leaving mistletoe so that you'll finally make a move on one another...it succeeds. a/n: based on a cool Hellfire Christmas sweater I have that has lights. just wanted to write something fluffy!

The only sounds that could be heard from the drama room were the cheering of the members of the Hellfire club. One might think that there was an amazing campaign being finished, but really it was just the unveiling of some Christmas themed club shirts.

You stand in front of everyone, your two feet on Eddie’s throne as you stand tall. Everyone loves the design of the sweaters. They had shirts before, but these were new. And yeah, they had been pricey to make for everyone, but it was worth it. Then you turn on the little battery pack tucked in the lining of the sweater and some crude Christmas lights begin flickering.

“And that was my idea…” you say smugly.

Eddie grins. “Yes, my little sheep, our beautiful lady of Hellfire came up with the idea of the lights in the shirt.”

Dustin can’t hide his own grin. He knows that Eddie is incredibly in love with you. Lucas and Mike share an exchanged glance, while Gareth kicks Jeff under the table. You take a little bow, and Eddie is watching you like a hawk so you don’t accidentally fall while showing off the amazing shirt.

“We made one for everyone, so we hope you consider it like a christmas gift from us.”

Eddie begins passing them out according to size. Everyone takes one and looks at it lovingly. The same logo that is now on their raglan shirts is the one looking at them from the sweater. The sweater is a soft cotton, and there’s a little battery pack in the lining. You and Eddie spent a few days constructing them and buying the sweaters to silkscreen. 

“These are amazing!” Dustin exclaims, throwing on his.

Everyone is more than happy with the results. You and Eddie are very pleased, considering you had no idea how this would go. You had been sure that the members of the club would enjoy them, but maybe they would find them too cheesy? You both sighed as you took your seats, already wearing your sweaters.

“So, the two of you worked on these for how many days?” Gareth asks.

“Just a few days. It was worth it to see everyone so happy!” You explain.

Everyone’s still thinking about how you and Eddie spent so much time together…alone. They all know how badly you two have it for one another. It’s been like this since you first joined Hellfire. Eddie had this look on his face that Jeff and Gareth had only seen when Eddie met Paige…maybe it was something even deeper this time.

Dustin, Mike and Lucas had figured it out pretty fast too and they often make fun of you and Eddie. Not with Eddie hearing it, of course. They are smart enough not to make jokes about Eddie’s love life in front of him, and they don’t want to embarrass you either. Really everyone in Hellfire very much enjoys your presence as the only chick.

The rest of the meet goes well and Eddie, of course, narrates such a great part of the campaign. Soon, it’s time to pack up. That leaves only you and Eddie as you wave goodbye to everyone else. And dutifully, you help him clean up the drama room.

“Great game today,” you nudge him playfully.

“Yeah? Thanks. I know they have their minds on the holidays rather than Dungeons and Dragons.”

You shrug. “I don’t know. You’re always so captivating.”

There’s a beat of silence before Eddie smirks at you. He’s thinking to himself that maybe this would be the best time to finally make a move. There’s only you and him in the drama room and maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it. The two of you could see in the new year as a couple and he might not be fully alone for the holidays for once considering his uncle would be working on Christmas.

He moves in closer, his eyes shining under the dim lights. You are truly beautiful in his eyes. You have always captivated him, and when you joined Hellfire, it was the icing on the cake. There he was, with the best club in the school, and with you basically as his second in command, Eddie considered him the luckiest fucker in Hawkins.

“Soooo…” He’s trying to stall.

“Yes?” You turn to look at him.

That’s when the two of you realize there is mistletoe above you. Your cheeks burn when you notice, but you can’t look away from Eddie. Eddie leans in closer, cupping your cheeks.

“Mistletoe, sweetheart. You know what that means?”

You grin. “Yeah, I do.”

Neither one of you says anything else. Eddie leans in and captures your lips in a sweet but passionate kiss. The kind of kiss that says so much with no words. The kind of kiss that makes you lean in closer, wanting to hold onto the metalhead in front of you. When you two break away to breathe, he leans his forehead against yours.

“I’ve been sort of an idiot all year…so I was wondering, will you be mine?”

You laugh. “You’re no idiot. Eddie, I really like you.”

His heart is beating so fast. He doesn’t really understand what you see in him, but he’s in no way complaining. He kisses you again, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. This time, when he pulls away, he hears someone at the door. You both turn to see the three freshmen spying on you.

“You little shits!” Eddie growls, but he’s not really mad.

“Oh we have spies, do we?”

You march over to them, and all three of them don’t have time to run away. You cross your arms over your chest, about to scold them when they all make some excuse that their mom is waiting for them. Dustin is the last one and he makes kissy faces at you and Eddie. Then for real, it’s only you and Eddie in the school.

He pulls you close to him, pressing a kiss to your temple. Things are as they should be. You know that after winter break, everyone’s gonna have some questions. But for now, you’re happy knowing you have Eddie in your life and that you two had finally made a move.

“They are little shits, aren’t they?” You tease softly.

“True…but it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I take my lovely girl out on a date.”

Eddie surprises you by picking you up in his arms and running over to his van. Time for a new adventure with your new boyfriend…

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[heydollwriting]

Can I request for platonic Steve Harrington (teen reader) where she like always gets in trouble and like how max drives the car in season two instead of her it’s the reader driving while max was giving instructions and Steve panics more because he knows she’s a terrible driver

A/N: This was so fun to write! Thank you for the suggestion!

--------------------------------------------------------

The gravel of the Byers' driveway crunched loudly, not under tires, but under the frantic shuffling of sneakers.

"He is so heavy," Dustin groaned, hoisting Steve’s left arm over his shoulder. "For a guy with that much hair volume, you'd think he'd be lighter."

"Just push him in!" you hissed, shoving Steve’s legs into the backseat of the Camaro.

Steve Harrington, the King of Hawkins High and your personal babysitter-turned-best-friend, was currently unconscious. His face was a mess of bruises courtesy of Billy Hargrove, who was currently lying unconscious on the floor of the Byers' living room courtesy of Max’s sedative.

Max headed to the driver’s door.

"No way," you snapped, snatching the keys from Max’s hand before she could even blink. "I’m driving."

Max looked at you, eyes wide. "You? Do you even know how to drive stick?"

"Max, I grew up watching Knight Rider," you said with the unearned confidence of a thirteen-year-old adrenaline junkie. "How hard can it be? It’s just gas, brake, and the wiggly stick."

"The wiggly stick," Lucas repeated, looking terrified. "We’re going to die."

"We’re wasting time!" you shouted, jumping into the driver’s seat. You had to slide it so far forward that your chest was practically touching the steering wheel just so your feet could reach the pedals. "Get in! We got to go!"

The kids scrambled in. Max took the passenger seat, clutching the map. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin piled into the back, effectively squishing the unconscious Steve between them.

"Okay," you breathed, gripping the wheel. "Let's rock and roll."

You turned the key. The Camaro roared to life, a beast waking up. You grabbed the gear shift, yanked it, and slammed your foot on the gas.

The car didn't move. It just revved aggressively, sounding like a dying dragon.

"Clutch!" Dustin screamed from the back. "Press the clutch!"

"I know that!" you lied. You stomped on the left pedal, shifted (with a sound that made the gearbox cry), and the car lurched forward with a violence that snapped everyone’s heads back.

"Go, go, go!" Max yelled.

You peeled out of the driveway, clipping a decorative bush and sending gravel spraying like buckshot.

In the backseat, the world was a blurry, spinning nightmare for Steve Harrington.

He drifted back to consciousness slowly. His head felt like it had been split open with an axe. His vision was swimming. He could hear the roar of an engine and the terrified screaming of children.

Am I in hell? he thought groggily. Is this the Upside Down?

"Left! Turn left up here!" a girl’s voice shouted. Max.

"I'm turning, I'm turning! Quit back-seat driving!"

That second voice. That was you.

Steve’s eyes fluttered open. He was squished. Dustin’s elbow was in his ribs. Mike’s knee was in his thigh. He groaned, the sound lost in the noise of the engine.

He tried to sit up, his head swimming. He looked past the headrest.

He saw the road. It was moving very fast. He saw the dashboard. The speedometer was climbing. He saw the driver.

It was a ponytail. A familiar, messy ponytail attached to a thirteen-year-old girl who was currently gripping the steering wheel like she was strangling a snake, swerving slightly into the oncoming lane.

The adrenaline hit Steve harder than Billy’s fist ever could.

"Oh my god," Steve rasped.

You slammed on the brakes for a turn, sending everyone flying forward, then slammed the gas again.

Steve scrambled up, fighting the G-force and the concussion. "Oh my god. Ohhhh my god!"

"Steve's awake!" Dustin announced helpfully.

Steve ignored him. He lunged forward between the front seats, his hands hovering frantically near the dashboard but afraid to touch anything for fear of causing a crash.

"NO! NO!" Steve shouted, his voice cracking. "What are you doing?! Pull over! Pull over right now!"

You glanced in the rearview mirror, grinning maniacally. "Hey, sleeping beauty! Relax, I’ve got this handled!"

"You do not have this handled!" Steve shrieked. "You are thirteen! You are a child! You don't have a license! You don't even have a permit! You barely have a grasp on gravity!"

"We're on a mission, Steve!" you yelled back, swerving to avoid a pothole and accidentally taking out a mailbox. Thunk.

Steve grabbed his hair, his eyes bulging. "You just killed a mailbox! That was a federal crime! Stop the car!"

"I can't!" you argued, grinding the gears again as you shifted up. "We have to draw the Demodogs away from the lab! We're saving El and Hopper!"

"I don't care!!" Steve tried to grab the wheel, but the car swerved, and he was thrown back against Lucas. "Jesus, Christ!"

"Steve, sit back!" Max yelled. "She's actually... well, she's fast!"

"She's driving like a maniac!" Steve yelled, pointing a shaking finger at you. "Y/N, I swear to God, if you do not pull this car over, you are grounded until you are thirty! I will tell Hopper! I will tell your mom!"

"Left turn!" Max screamed.

"Hold on to your butts!" you announced.

You yanked the wheel. The Camaro drifted. It wasn't a cool, Fast and Furious drift. It was a terrifying, loss-of-traction slide across a dirt patch that lead toward the pumpkin patch entrance.

Steve let out a high-pitched scream that he would later deny ever making. He braced his hands against the roof of the car. "BRAKE! BRAKE IS THE LEFT ONE—NO, THE MIDDLE ONE! THE MIDDLE ONE!"

You slammed the brake.

The Camaro skidded through the dirt, fishtailing wildly before coming to a violent halt inches away from the hole leading into the tunnels. Dust billowed up around the car. The engine sputtered and died.

Silence filled the car.

Steve was breathing heavily, clutching his chest. His face was pale, his nose was bleeding, and his hair was somehow even messier.

He slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your seat.

"I'm gonna throw up," Steve whispered. "I am literally going to throw up."

You turned around in your seat, beaming, your knuckles white. "We made it! And in record time!"

Steve lifted his head. He looked at you with a mixture of horror, relief, and exasperated affection. He reached over, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, and shoved them deep into his pocket.

"You," Steve pointed a finger at your nose, his hand shaking. "You are never touching a set of keys again. Ever. When I die, I'm putting it in my will. 'Y/N gets nothing with wheels.' Roller skates only."

"You're welcome for the ride," you teased, poking his cheek. "You looked cozy back there."

Steve groaned, rubbing his temples. "I have a concussion, I have four children in a stolen car, and you are a criminal mastermind who drives like a blindfolded stuntman."

He kicked the door open and stumbled out into the night air, grabbing his bat from the floorboard. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and looked back at the group of you piling out of the car.

You walked up to him, bouncing on your heels, looking at the massive hole in the ground. You looked back at him, your eyes shining with that reckless spark he tried so hard to protect.

Steve sighed, reaching out and ruffling your hair aggressively, messing up your ponytail.

"You're a menace," he muttered, pulling you into a quick, one-armed side hug. "A total menace."

"But did we die?" you grinned up at him.

Steve looked at the mailbox-shaped dent in his front bumper and grimaced. "Ask me again after we get out of this hole."

He pushed you gently behind him, raising the bat. "Alright. Let's go burn it down. But I'm driving home. I don't care if I have to drive with one eye open. I am driving."

[eventhorizonsposts]

a little more time | steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 7.4k

summary: The last 18 months have been hard on everyone, but Dustin is spiraling out of control. Steve will do anything to make sure you and your brother are safe, together, and loved. Crawls be damned.

content warnings: some s5, vol 1 spoilers, Steve pov, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, mild descriptors of blood, everyone is actually full of anxiety in this one, no use of y/n

author’s note: first fic!! I liked the idea to match the titles to a song that was playing as I was writing. love this one. I was really thinking heavily about how paranoid Steve could be, especially when he wants to protect something/someone. This is also very self indulgent so sue me! Please go easy on me this time, but I’d love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Steve isn’t a stranger to having someone in his bed. There was once a time where this house—this room—was a revolving door of pretty sighs and low chuckles. A time where he thought Nancy was the one for him, and that there was nothing to be afraid of in this world outside of his parents’ vague yet ever lingering disappointment.

But now his room is at a standstill, void of all those old ghosts. The only sound being the soft huffs of air coming from the other side of his bed.

From you.

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been sitting here watching you. Long enough for the faint glow of moonlight to slowly slip down from its starting point near you brow to where it now cast a blue beam across the curve of your lips. Longer still that he has started timing those soft puffs of air, counting every rise and fall of your shoulders.

It’s a habit he picked up the night after everything had gone to shit over a year ago. Something in the devastation on Lucas’s face as they had rushed Max to the hospital had made Steve himself grow almost unfairly paranoid about his own girlfriend.

What right did he have, he’d ask himself. You hadn’t been selected to be one of Vecna's victims. You’d made it out of the Upside Down, Steve had made sure of that.

And although any scrape or bruise on you was an affront to everything Steve stood for…he was grateful that that’s all they were. Your eyes still clear, hands still carding absentmindedly through his hair when you can. So seeing you sleeping—albeit fitfully—is a blessing that he acknowledges every night.

Of course, he always has room for more habits. Picking fights with Jonathan for instance. You had sat primly in the passenger seat of the van just days ago, shaking your head while halfheartedly chastising him.

“Don’t be mean Steve. He’s going to assume you are going for a hostile takeover.”

There wasn’t a single hint of real anger in your tone though. In truth you also loved pressing buttons, especially when it came to Jonathan and Nancy.

You’d never quite forgiven them for playing hooky at Murray’s while you and Steve nearly became demodog food—no matter what their intentions were.

Steve pulled out a Bopper, another recently formed habit. Tearing at the wrapper he smirked over at you, “Maybe I want to keep him on his toes.”

“Well,” you let out a snort. “Then we will just have to divide and conquer.”

We. There was something so warm about your demeanor despite everything. You never left any room for doubt or distrust.

From the moment Dustin had dragged Steve to your house and thrown you into a world of monsters and lab experiments, you’d somehow decided he was worthy of something. Of trust, of being in your orbit. Of love.

It reminds him of standing in the soft rays of sunlight at the start of spring.

Now, the November chill curls up into his bones as he slips out of bed to perform his newest habit: checking on Dustin.

The doors to both Steve’s bedroom and the guest room across the hall are wide open. An unspoken rule when your brother spends the night. Harsh snores erupt from under the quilted blanket, currently the only sign in the cover of darkness that Dustin’s face was swollen beyond belief.

Whatever happened to him tonight was not a bike accident, that Steve knows for sure. His tough love tactic hasn’t exactly been successful lately, but honestly he’d take Dustin screaming at him over silence any day. The only white flag they had been able to fly these days was you.

Dustin had completely turned in his seat to stare at Steve once he explained what a shit show tonight had been. Jonathan was still fuming in the back of the van, headphones firmly on his head.

The words that had been thrown around between them didn’t bother Steve—not really. He was more offended that the older Byers brother still couldn’t get it through his thick skull that Steve has moved on. Happily even. Besides, he had bigger fish to fry than his ex and her very insecure partner.

“You let her go in there?” Dustin gritted out, rings glinting under the streetlights as his hands clench around the fast food napkin Steve shoved his way.

Steve rolled his eyes, “Henderson I don’t let her do anything. I didn’t even know about it until they were already on the way to the hospital!”

Truth. Though he was scared shitless, he’d never deny you the right to fight. Despite your qualms with Nancy, there had been zero hesitation in your bones when Will had given the group some sort of warning about the attack on the Wheelers house. You knew how to handle yourself, he’s seen it. Even if it does scare him.

“I asked one thing of you! You’re supposed to be protecting her and instead you can’t even figure out how to prevent a power surge,” Dustin’s voice cracks with disbelief as he swipes at the dried blood on his chin. “Why wasn’t she with you in the first place?”

Steve cradles his head in one hand as if that could dampen the headache rolling in, “She wanted to stay at the station in case you showed up you little shit.”

Dustin scoffs at that, “You told me you wouldn’t leave her alone.”

That’s it. Against his better judgement Steve slams on the brakes, throwing everyone in the van forward.

“Jesus Christ Steve! We’re losing the signal, what are you doing?” Jonathan yells, fumbling with the headphones as he braces himself against the built in desk.

Steve ignores him completely as he throws the van into park and fully swivels in his seat to look at the boy beside him.

“She isn’t alone. And you told your sister that you’d be careful. That you’d stop doing this,” he gestures up and down Dustin’s frame. “You remember that, huh?”

Dustin opens his mouth to say something but Steve presses on, “Do you know how worried she’s been tonight? Everyone was wondering where you could possibly be and if it had been up to her, we would have cancelled the damn crawl to look for you.”

“Guys come on!” Jonathan presses, “We are wasting time.”

Dustin’s blue eyed gaze pierced into him, but Steve didn’t let up on his stern expression. The silence of the night pressed into them, tall rows of corn swaying slightly in the breeze. Something snaps in Steve as he turns back into his seat.

Slowly, he shifts back into drive before muttering, “Yeah, we are wasting time. I’m looping around one more time and then we are going to the hospital.”

Jonathan sputters in protest, “But what about Hop? The crawl-”

“I don’t give a damn about the crawl Byers!” Steve shouts. “We lost him two hours ago. I don’t care what you tell your mom either, but we need to regroup. Take the van for all I care. But your girlfriend’s parents are in surgery. Holly is missing. And I’m going to get my girlfriend.”

Steve was never one to back down from anything, but there was an unfamiliar edge in his tone that silenced the other two. Not that Dustin was saying anything at the moment.

Jonathan finally radioed in to Joyce back at the Squawk, speaking quietly as if to soften the blow that Hopper would have to be on his own for now. Steve glances just once at Dustin blotting his nose tenderly, before turning down Cornwallis towards the glow of Hawkins.

If he was being totally honest with himself, Steve felt truly terrible about the Wheelers. Of course he did. But he was more concerned about minimizing any sort of panic within Dustin. You weren’t injured, that much he knew, but lack of wounds wouldn’t stop Dustin from the warpath he’s been on since Eddie.

At one time you were the protector. The older sibling that went above and beyond to get your brother and his friends out of harm’s way. You had the scars to prove it.

Now, Dustin treats you like you’re made of glass.

-

It had been little things with Dustin since Eddie’s funeral. You’d woken up one night to him tucked into bed with you—something he hadn’t done since you had moved to Hawkins. One night turned to every night, but you never questioned it, and he would disappear before your alarm went off in the morning.

He’d taken to constantly checking the batteries on your walkie, even when you’d said they were good. Steve even began to notice that your brother was nudging you as far away from doors and windows as humanly possible. As if you’d be snatched away if he wasn’t paying attention.

When you’d moved in with Steve after your graduation, Dustin didn’t riot. He just…adapted. Part of his excuse for showing up constantly was to avoid explaining why he was up at all hours after a crawl to your mother. She was thrilled at the very thought that you’d still be watching him.

But nobody was more thrilled than Steve himself. His parents didn’t make an effort to return home from Chicago once he’d told them about the quarantine situation. The last phone call he’d gotten was a quick happy birthday from his mother. Then of course she ended the brief call with a, “Do try to keep the house in order, dear.”

And order he kept. He knew they wouldn’t be coming back. You’d purchased soft yellow curtains that made the living room feel cheerful for once. Furniture was rearranged, and closets were filled.

It began to feel like a home.

So when Dustin showed up past the military’s curfew with an overnight bag and a small stack of books, Steve didn’t give you the chance to wonder if he was alright with it.

“Henderson!” he grinned wildly, before pulling Dustin inside. Your brother’s eyes were still dimmed but he had an expression of calm once Steve had slapped a soda in his hand and turned on the TV.

He had then disappeared upstairs for so long that you went looking for him. You’d found him in the guest room, your brother’s books stacked on the bedside table and extra blankets piled high at the foot of the bed.

“Baby?” you had a smile in your voice that made something in Steve’s heart swell.

“Do you think he would want his room painted?” he blurted out.

The truth was Dustin didn’t really care, but Steve shoved various paint chips into his hands for weeks until a deep green was begrudgingly selected.

It was much easier getting your brother to join in on the actual painting. You would bring them lemonade and hear Dustin laughing along to whatever Steve had come up with. Steve didn’t miss the glassy smile you gave him before popping out again.

The guest room project turned into the fence needing to be touched up, and that turned into your request to have the shutters done in blue.

Steve would come home with paint cans and Dustin would silently consent to assisting. He never pushed a topic, never brought up the bats or Eddie at all. He was just grateful to have the old Dustin back, even if it was just for a few moments at a time.

School made everything worse. Of course there was the Hellfire Club issue. But then there was Dustin’s unwillingness to forgive the student body as a whole. Nearly everyone at Hawkins High was guilty of complacency regarding Eddie’s death in his eyes—almost more than Vecna.

“His grades are fine,” you’d said one night at the dining table. “But he barely sleeps as it is. He seems…anxious.”

Steve frowned at the wrinkles of worry etched on your forehead. Trying to get you to relax he grabbed onto your hand gently, clearing his throat before saying lightheartedly, “I think we still have my mom’s sleeping pills.”

“Steven, we can’t sedate him.” you say sternly, though he can tell your heart’s not in it.

“Hey,” he tuts softly. “We’ll watch him. I just wanted to give you the nuclear option first.”

And you laughed before taking another bite of lasagna, meaning Steve had won another battle. He was just as concerned about Dustin as you were, but he was prepared to take the brunt of whatever this grief was transforming into.

-

The grief, it turned out, melded into near crippling anxiety about you.

You’d recently taken up a librarian position, offered to you in the wake of quarantine—no masters degree required for the time being. You and Steve had a schedule to maintain on top of the crawls, and Dustin needed to be in school, which meant less sleepovers.

Steve always tried to make sure that he was present with you at the Henderson residence at least once a week. He liked the idea of a family dinner. Of Claudia hugging him tightly and setting that week’s bouquet of flowers into a vase with unabashed glee. But more than that, it was an opportunity for you and Dustin to have time together.

Steve knew that it was going to be a problem when a surprise military shipment came in three months ago. You had to feign a cold to get the two of you out of family dinner last minute, leaving Dustin with your mother.

“Yes,” you said with a sigh of exasperation into the receiver. “No-Dustin, I won’t break the antenna. Yes, I’ll be careful.”

Steve stood next to you, frame leaning casually against the wall as he assessed the tone you were taking with your brother. He could just make out the muffled sound of his name through the line before you let out a sigh, shoulders slipping forward in defeat.

“Yeah, okay. I love you,” you hold the phone out to Steve. “I’m going to grab our snacks.”

Steve gingerly takes the phone as you start down the hallway, but not before ghosting his lips across your forehead.

“Hey Dust,” he greets.

Just a speck of dust, that’s what you called him when you were little. The ease of the nickname has embedded itself into Steve’s vocabulary.

“You have her mixtape?” Dustin asks bluntly.

Okay so this is how it’s gonna go tonight, Steve thought to himself.

“Yep. The soothing tunes of Fleetwood Mac are safe and sound.”

And they are, along with a variety of your favorite songs that he has in the van. And the station. And the living room stereo.

In fact, he has tapes for each member of the party scattered everywhere—spent the early months of quarantine holed up in the station, recording from the turntable. But no matter who the tape was for, he made sure the third track was Gypsy. For you.

There was a pause of silence that almost made Steve think Dustin had hung up. Then, softer now, “Be safe.”

Click.

And you were safe. Steve still hauled ass through town but went easier on the turns, determined to keep you in your seat. Everything went without a hitch, and you returned home in the early morning hours hand in hand.

“How long do we have to sleep?” you mumbled into his shoulder as Steve fiddled with the house keys in the darkness.

Steve sighs, silently cursing himself for not remembering to turn on the porch light before you left the house.

Squinting at his watch he replies, “Three hours? Maybe three and a half if we shower together.” He didn’t need extra light to know that you had matching smirks.

“Jesus, you two are disgusting.”

Steve didn’t think as he dropped the keys, shoving you behind him as you both turned toward the disembodied voice.

But you registered the familiar cadence much quicker than Steve. Poking your head around him you narrow your eyes before calling out your brother’s name.

Light erupts from the other end of the solid wooden planks, casting shadows along the side of the house. Dustin is holding court in one of the rocking chairs, flashlight in hand.

Steve sucks in a breath of air, “Henderson, what are you doing?”

Dustin avoids the eye contact before muttering, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“No dude, what are you doing outside my house at 3 in the morning?”

Dustin’s lips slip into a frown so similar to yours that it makes Steve blink, “I couldn’t get in.”

“Oh jeez Dust,” you say softly. Steve crouches down, feeling for his key ring while you pull your brother into a hug, “Does Mom know you are gone?”

Finally Steve jams the silver key into the lock, yanking open the door. He can see Dustin shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Come on. In.” Steve calls, waving the two of you inside before firmly shutting out the rest of Hawkins.

A robotic sort of instinct took over him as he flicked on the kitchen lights and started pulling out ingredients. He can feel the two of you watching him in confusion as he yanks the egg carton out of the fridge.

“Henderson I can hear your stomach growling from here, will you grab the frying pan.”

There was a flurry of motion from you and Dustin behind him as he tried to wipe the grin off his face. The three of you ate breakfast as the sky gradually lightened, speaking softly and forgoing sleep entirely.

Steve made it a point to press a copy of the house key into Dustin’s palm a few days later. He wanted your brother where he could keep a close eye on him. And sure, there was good and bad days with Dustin—with all of you if Steve was being honest.

This was something Steve knew he couldn’t fix. There was no manual when it came to death and monsters and the loss of a friend. How can he shield both you and Dustin from any more disaster when you were still grasping at straws with the crawls?

It was these things pressing on his mind some weeks later as he played a laughing track for Robin.

“And don’t forget kids, please do not try to catch the mystery dandruff with your tongue. I can promise you that it isn’t snowing in August,” Steve scoffed at that one as Robin turned toward the records. “But I do forecast a slight drizzle with this next one by the Eurythmics.”

Here Comes The Rain Again started up and Rob reached across the panels to switch off the microphones just in time for the side door to slam open.

Both DJs flinched as the metal bounced against the wall, rattling the picture frames and plaques lining the walls. And then Dustin was bursting through the doorway, hair disheveled and chest heaving as his mouth moved a million miles a minute.

Steve scrambled to tug off his headphones, nearly overturning the stool he had been perched on in his haste to exit the sound booth.

Every worst case scenario from more Russians to Henry Creel standing outside the building flashed through his mind.

“Henderson,” Steve crossed the room in quick strides. “What happened?”

“She’s missing,” Dustin panted, dropping his backpack to the ground.

Steve’s face screwed up in confusion, “Missing?”

Names and faces flashed across his mind. Robin was right here, Max wasn’t disappearing from the hospital. Erica? Nancy? And you were-

At the same time, Robin stopped beside him, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

Dustin ignored the pair of them, dropping to the floor by the couch and pulling out the crowbar Steve had hidden under there, among other blunt objects in the building.

“She’s not answering on the walkie. And I went by the library but Rose said she left in a hurry. An emergency.”

Library? The gears finally started turning again for Steve.

“Dustin, hold on a minute. Your sister-“ he began.

The younger boy actually gripped onto Steve’s shirt. Robin’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind her bangs.

“I forgot to radio her at lunch,” Dustin choked out. “I knew something would happen and now-”

“Dust?”

All three heads snapped up toward the sound of your voice. You had paused at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the kitchen and store rooms, balancing three steaming mugs of coffee.

Between your cozy look in Steve’s sweatshirt and the comically different shades of the coffee (black for you, extra sweet for him, and Robin somewhere in the middle) he felt an endearing, feather-soft tug on his heart.

Confusion clouded your eyes as you looked between Steve and Dustin. Steve was suddenly very aware of how unhinged your brother looked at the moment. Lowering his hands from where they were locked onto Dustin’s shoulders, Steve slipped the crowbar out of the boy’s hand.

You had set down the mugs by now, and Steve tried to give you a look to convey the severity of the issue.

“Rob, the music,” he mumbled tugging her back toward the booth.

She snatched up both their mugs as she trailed after him, giving you an apologetic smile. And there they sat, switching between Bowie and Wham!, ELO and even a Metallica song. That one was for Eddie.

Robin made sure not to look over at the siblings, but Steve wouldn’t look away. He didn’t need to hear through the thick glass to know that Dustin had begun to tearfully explain himself, talking with his hands as much as his voice. Your own gestures mirrored his, hair bouncing as you pointed toward the basement and then toward Steve himself.

Tension was obviously bleeding out of Dustin as his shoulders sagged further the longer you spoke. Though he knew you weren’t yelling, you had taken on a stern expression that made you look more weary than angry.

He only looked away when you finally threw your hands up in defeat before pulling your little brother into a desperately tight hug.

-

It was honestly a miracle that they hadn’t been pulled over on their way through town. Steve’s mind was clouded with half-baked jabs from a grumbling Jonathan and a deep need to just take you home.

“That was a red light back there in case you couldn’t see,” Dustin mutters beside him, voice nasally from the tissue shoved up both nostrils.

Swallowing a sigh, Steve’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he immediately tries to relax his eyes. He knows he needs glasses. Could have used them since Starcourt, but he isn’t quite ready to admit that particular defeat.

“Yeah? Well keep getting the daylights beat out of you, and we can go to the optometrist together.”

Dustin doesn’t fight back, some of the anger fizzling out the more Steve states the obvious—this was no bike accident. Steve takes a moment to really look at the boy beside him, flashing back to that day at the Squawk.

Your ‘emergency’ wasn’t entirely fabricated. Murray had gotten through the check point with a shipment, including an obscene amount of ammo for Hopper. Along the way to the station for drop off, the truck had given out leaving Murray completely vulnerable to soldiers showing up for food only to find bullets and grenades. You could hear the frantic code coming from the walkie buried in your bag in the library’s break room, taking off in a hurry to grab the gear and go.

Steve and Robin were more than happy to see you arriving earlier than expected with your miniature haul. And in your haste to get inside the station, you abandoned your radio in the car—not that Dustin had remembered to contact you at all.

In fact, he was actually having casual conversations with his friends for once that day. It was only during his history class that it dawned on him that he hadn’t done his self imposed duty of checking on you like he’d been doing all semester.

Now, as Steve brings the van to a screeching halt he can’t help feeling a little useless to both Hendersons tonight.

“Byers get out. Go find your girlfriend,” Steve makes a point to maintain eye contact from the rear view mirror. “I’ll find a spot to park this thing.”

Something akin to understanding passes over Jonathan’s face, but he doesn’t say anything before slamming the back door and ducking inside. Silence overtakes the vehicle as Steve maneuvers into a parking spot and shuts off the engine.

Neither boy looks at the other, they both just stare forwards at the large hospital wing in front of them.

Then Dustin gives Steve the biggest shock of the night.

“I’m sorry.”

There is an audible crack of his neck as Steve whips his head around to look at the curly headed boy, “Did you get a concussion or something?”

Dustin rolls his eyes but presses on like he didn’t even hear him, “I was a little harsh.”

Steve nods his head, but says nothing. Dustin lets out a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t mean to miss the crawl. Or make you worry,” he looks over at Steve now. “Do you…think she’s mad at me?”

“No! God no,” Steve nervously runs a hand through his hair, debating whether he should put his full emotions on display before just going for it. “She hasn’t been mad this whole time. Anxious maybe. And a little scared, but she just wants you to be okay. As okay as we can be stuck in this town.”

Dustin quietly huffed a laugh, and it feels like Steve just won the lottery.

He presses on, gentler now, “I know you miss Eddie. Hell, I think I might too. But you’ve got to remember that your sister is strong. And a little crazy. I know you don’t want anything to happen, and I can’t promise these things away anymore. All I can tell you is that she loves you more than the whole world. We both do. I will always do everything I can to protect her. Can you trust in that?”

Dustin stares at him for a long moment, but Steve doesn’t flinch from it.

“Yeah,” Dustin answers quietly. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Steve claps him on the shoulder. “I can work with that. Just remember to trust her. Now take those napkins out of your nostrils, it’s making it look worse.”

Dustin fumbles with his makeshift first aid solution before they head into the hospital.

Steve takes the opportunity to lay down the law as they navigate towards the ICU, “Remember, she’s fine. I don’t know what she saw for sure, but she isn’t physically hurt okay?”

“Yeah, got it.”

By the time they finally found the right waiting room, it was just Mike and Lucas.

“Dude what the hell happened to you?” Lucas asks dumbfounded as he takes in Dustin’s injuries.

“Long story, I can explain later. What happened to Nance and Jonathan?”

Mike finally snaps out of his stupor and looks at his friend, “She needed some air.”

Steve doesn’t want to be insensitive about all this but he breezes right past the whereabouts of the eldest Wheeler. Putting a hand out he interjects, “So where is Henderson right now?”

Lucas tenses slightly as if deciding how much he wants to say.

“She…wanted to go see Max. I gave her a minute.”

Dustin hesitates for a moment, shuffling his feet before wrapping his arms around Mike. Lucas turns to Steve with a look of utter astonishment, but Steve just shrugs as Mike finally raises his arms to return the embrace.

He quickly takes the opportunity to slip down the too familiar hallway towards Max’s room. If the guys want to have a heart to heart, he could join in on another day.

As he neared room 415, he could just hear the soft cadence of your voice from the slightly cracked door.

He pauses just outside, arm braced against the door.

“The White Rabbit put on his spectacles,” you murmur before becoming slightly more animated. “‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked.”

You were reading aloud, much like you have been each time you’ve come to visit Max. Lucas insisted that any talking or music, even if it isn’t Kate Bush, has to do some good. You’d taken that seriously, and now have a small stack of classics in the cupboard next to the stereo.

Steve already feels the tension ease from his shoulders as he quietly listens. And then he feels a presence from behind. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Dustin caught up to him, but he does it anyway. With a pointed look at the younger boy, Steve shuffles just enough to the right to let him go inside first.

A short gasp from you echoes in the sterile air. Then, “Dusty, what the hell happened?”

Still in the doorway, Steve expects Dustin to launch into a watered down explanation, but instead is met with silence aside from the constant beep of Max’s heart rate.

Steve pushes open the door just to nearly run into Dustin’s smaller frame. Distract. Sooth. Do something, Harrington.

“Hey baby,” Steve says softly stepping around a still frozen Dustin to get to you. You are clutching onto a large book in one hand, the other resting on top of Max’s.

You look up at him for a moment and he can barely stave off the rush of air he takes in at the look of devastation on your face. The blood splattered on your cheek.

In fact you are covered in it, dark red staining the sleeves of your once yellow sweater and set in the knees of your jeans where you had to have been kneeling.

“I’m fine,” you say. But it’s too monotone. Void of the usual lilting sound of your voice. You’re looking at Dustin again realizing just how bad you look, before gently setting down the book next to Max’s too pale arm. “It’s not mine Dust. I was trying to help Mr. Wheeler.”

Jesus Christ, Ted. Steve flashed on awkward yet friendly dinners from long ago. If Ted objected to his relationship with Nancy back then, he didn’t show it. Didn’t show much of anything at all, but he didn’t deserve to practically bleed out.

You set your lips into a firm line before looking between the two boys sporadically, silver lining your eyes. He can see you are trying to hold it together and not freak out your brother even more.

You‘ve never been a crier, always feeling worse than when you’ve started, but Steve can tell you are on the cusp of a breakdown. The last time you looked at him like that was when he’d had to pull Dustin off of Eddie’s body.

Steve stops at the foot of the bed, and turns back to look at Dustin. The boy’s lips are wobbling slightly, but he still hasn’t made a move towards you. Backpedalling, Steve abruptly walks back to him and pulls him into a tight hug.

Dustin lets out a shuddering breath, which only makes Steve squeeze him tighter before whispering, “She’s fine, yeah? Not a scratch on her. She’s just a little upset.”

Dustin violently nods his head, and Steve can feel the damp spot growing on his sweater.

“I ca-I can’t. I need to-,” Dustin starts pulling away, clearly making for a hasty exit.

“Hey hey it’s fine. Just take a minute. Here,” Steve pulls out his wallet, shoving the leather into Dustin’s hand. “Go get something to drink, something for your sister too.”

Dustin doesn’t hesitate, spinning on his heel before disappearing down the hall. Steve sighs as the door shuts, the red glow of the exit sign across the way washing over his face.

He doesn’t get the chance to turn around before you slam into his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He can’t help the small grunt of surprise that escapes him, but manages to keep his balance as his hands naturally search out for the pulse points of your wrists.

“You know, the football team really could have used some of your coaching on their tackle last season,” he attempts to tease. “Maybe they would have actually won a game.”

You let out a wet chuckle, the vibrations radiating across his upper back, “Yeah right.”

Steve takes the opportunity to loosen your hold just enough to spin around, “No, no I’m serious. They could have been state champs with that move.”

The ghost of a smile you carry morphs into something somber as he cups your cheek.

Deflecting is no longer an option, he knows.

“Are you alright? Like, seriously?” Steve whispers.

It was like opening the floodgates. He isn’t even sure if you can see as you cling on to him.

“It was a lot of blood Steve. I don’t even know how he survived the trip to the hospital with those wounds. I was trying to help stop the bleeding,” you pauses for a gasp of air. “And when i put pressure on his chest it just sprayed everywhere. What if I made it worse? And Karen…Nancy is devastated.”

Steve wraps you up tighter, shushing you lightly. Across the room Max lies in her bed, the florescent light casting a blue hue onto her already too-pale face. A flash of the letter she wrote to him, still unopened in his dresser drawer, comes to him.

Closing his eyes, he plants a kiss on the top of your head, “It’s not on you. None of us knew that Vecna would attack the Wheelers.”

You are barely listening, “And Dustin, God! What the hell happened to him tonight. Did he tell you anything? We can’t send him home like that, my mother is going to skin us alive.”

“Okay,” Steve winces, somehow believing that Claudia would in fact haunt him for life if she got a look at her baby tonight.

“I’m going to let him explain that to you, preferably at home. Besides, he is more worried about you anyway.”

Home. He used to hate that place, and now he was all too eager to get you and Dustin back inside. As safe as he can get you—considering that demogorgons are just attacking at random now.

“After finding the Wheelers like that,” you croak out. “I thought that something must have attacked him too.”

Sort of from the looks of it. “I know. He scared me.”

You step back from him then, tears tapering off. Part of him naturally follows your moments, like he always has. But he lets you wipe at your eyes, and then your unruly hair.

But as your fingers snag at the knots, his eyes catch the blood stains on your sleeves again and he can feel himself pale at the sight. He knows it’s not yours. That you are full of life right in front of him.

Regardless, he understands Dustin more than he thought he did as he strides to one of the cabinets lining the far wall. Yanking one door then a second and third, he scans the shelves until he finds a stack of towels.

Turning towards you again, he sees that you’ve already placed Alice in Wonderland back onto the stack and are now fiddling with Max’s blankets.

“Baby, come here,” he calls, hand held out between you.

You smooth out one more nonexistent wrinkle among the sheets before coming to him. Leading you into the attached bathroom Steve flicks on the light as the door clicks shut. He immediately turns the hot water in the sink on, watching carefully for the steam to curl up before sticking part of the towel under the stream.

“We are going to get you all cleaned up and then we are gonna go back to the station, yeah?” he says, still testing the temperature with his fingers. You like it scalding to be perfectly honest.

Your lack of response gains his attention and he looks up into the hanging mirror to find you already looking at your reflection. Panic swells in him as he whips around to fully look at you, your hands shaking as you try to rub off the blood on the side of your neck.

“Hey no. I’m gonna get it off of you okay?” he says quickly.

“I ca- I can’t wear this,” you start yanking off your beloved sweater.

“Okay that’s fine,” Steve sheds his jacket to pull off the sweater underneath, leaving him in his white undershirt. “Just look at me for a second. Don’t look at the mirror.”

Thankfully, you oblige him. He quickly pulls the sweater onto you before guiding you to the counter. You don’t comment when he lifts you up to sit on the granite, hands steady on your hips before grabbing the towel again.

You still don’t talk when he gets the damp portion back to the necessary temperature and brings it up to your cheekbone. So Steve does the talking for you.

“You know, when they finally let us out of this town we are going on that road trip,” his eyes dart to yours for a moment before he continues gently wiping. “I figure by that time Dustin will have picked out a college, or a college will have picked out Dustin, and we can do the grand tour. Embarrass the hell out of him, get matching sweatshirts.”

Your lips wobble in a tiny smile at the thought while he starts working on the other cheek.

“And then you and I are gonna see the sights. I’m talking through the mountains, over rivers—everything. We’ll avoid the bison and get a picture in front of Old Yeller.”

You snort at that, “Steve are you talking about Old Faithful?”

Thank god she laughed, he thinks. “Yeah that. This is why you are the lovely navigator and I am the chauffeur.”

“I love you,” you say quietly. It’s not a confession. You’ve both said it enough times for it to become less of an announcement and more of a reminder.

Steve gives the corner of your mouth a quick kiss before dragging the towel down your neck, “I love you too.”

By the time he’d gotten you cleaned up, you’d exhausted any tears left over. Slipping out of the bathroom, the pair of you find Lucas. Steve tries to convey a look of understanding toward the boy who has taken up vigil next to Max.

“Hey, you okay?” Lucas asks gingerly, clutching onto his paper cup of coffee.

“Yeah. We’ve had better crawls I’d say,” you mutter, clutching onto the ruined knitting of your sweater. Steve isn’t a laundry wizard, but he knows that he’ll probably need to purchase a replacement.

The door bursts open to reveal your brother, looking thankfully less pale than when he’d left, “They were out of Coke on three floors but I finally found one.”

He holds the can out to you, but you pull him in for a hug instead, “Thanks Dust.”

You gingerly take the can from your brother and grab his hand before looking over at Steve.

“We will be back in a few minutes, yeah?”

Steve nods, and watches as you two go before letting out a sigh.

“You two make a good team.”

Steve looks back at Lucas, mildly stunned.

“Max thinks so too,” he continues from his chair. “She kinda bet Mike money that you’d get married before we started college.”

Steve barks out a laugh, “When was this exactly?”

“That summer at Starcourt. You both should have worked at Scoops with how much she was there.”

Steve smiles fondly at the memory. You had been with him a lot that summer. Robin was wary of him at first, but once she found out you were willingly dating him, you all became friends. The truth serum probably helped the bonding process though.

“Henderson keeps me honest, I’ll give you that. And I’ll put in a good word with the boss,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “See if we can win Max that cash.”

Lucas grins before looking back at the redhead, “I miss her, you know?”

Steve presses a hand gently on top of his shoulder, “Yeah. I know.”

-

Time doesn’t feel very linear in the hospital to Steve. Every visit has felt like both 10 minutes and a lifetime have passed. He couldn’t say for sure when you and Dustin returned, or when you all said loving ‘see you later’s’—never goodbye—to Max, or worse yet when the three of you took your leave in the station van.

The Wheelers will be in surgery for a couple more hours at least, and with the way Nancy was breaking down, Steve was more than willing to sweep for the tracker on the way back to the station.

Dustin crawled in to the back, but places a hand on the back of Steve’s seat as he hands over his wallet, which in all honesty, Steve had completely forgotten about.

“Thanks dude,” he says over his shoulder.

Dustin doesn’t reply to that. Instead Steve hears more shuffling before something is tossed into his lap. Looking down in the faint light of the parking lot, Steve squints at what he realizes is a peanut M&Ms package.

“What’s this for?” surprise laces his voice.

“They didn’t have any Boppers left. I got you the next best thing.” Dustin mutters before pulling the headphones over his hat, leaving no room for conversation.

Steve looks over to you, only to find you staring straight ahead with the softest smile he’s seen all day. Shaking his head, he maneuvers out of the lot and down the street.

Instinct has him reaching for your hand, but you are already meeting him halfway, fingers intertwining gently. You squeeze his hand sporadically the whole way home, but he knows all the meaning behind it.

I love you, we are okay, I’m here with you.

-

It was the same pressure on his hand that pulls him out of his thoughts in his darkened hallway now.

“Honey, what are you doing up?” you whisper groggily, hand cold—always colder than his own.

“Making sure he is still breathing under there,” he whispers back. You don’t respond, the silence forcing him to turn and look at the frown on your face. “What?”

You let out a huff meant to be stern but just ends up sounding incredibly sweet to Steve. “You worry too much.”

You pull him back toward your room, and he cranes his neck once more to make sure Dustin doesn’t wake up.

“Okay, no. Tonight was very worrying actually,” he speaks a little louder as you crawl into bed again, silently holding the blankets open for him to follow.

“I know,” you say once he has finally settled in, pulling you into his side. “But you need to sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a mess.”

Right. Hopper and El going MIA. The Wheelers. Holly.

Steve melts into you, nose buried in your hair, sweet with the scent of your shampoo.

“I just feel like if I don’t have you two within sight you’re going to evaporate into thin air,” he says after a moment.

“It’s not all on you,” your breath tickles his neck. “We are dealing with this the best we can. I think Dustin might try a little more though.”

Right. Your heart to heart had revealed as much as he had suspected. Andy and his sidekicks of course.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “He hates me half the time.”

You press soft kisses against his clenched jaw, trying to relax him, “He loves you like a brother. Fights with you like one too. I think he is just as worried about you as he is about me.”

Steve feels like you threw a bucket of ice water on him, “You think so?”

You give him another peck, “Yes. Don’t let the attitude fool you, love.”

And something unclenches in his chest, at least for tonight. You stare at each other smiling despite everything.

Finally you readjust yourself, getting comfy half on top of him. “Tell me about something good. Something happy.”

You relaxing like this finally makes him relax as he hums in thought. Suddenly he flashed on the revelation in Max’s hospital room, “Well. Apparently the kids have money on the timing of our wedding so…”

You laugh loud, disbelief on your face as you start asking rapid-fire questions.

And it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t asked—doesn’t even have a ring. These brief moments of your joy as the sun begins rising is as good as a yes.

[burgundysnow]

Omg I read Do You Like My Service? and now I need more Eddie x Reader x Gareth poly fics! Would you be willing to write one about Reader comes rushing to D&D all glammed up from a party or wedding they had to attend and the boys can’t keep their eyes off them? Maybe the reader left a holiday family party because they’d rather play D&D with their friends and boyfriends (priorities, people).

word count: 0.8k warnings: slightly suggestive, fem!reader. Poly. Established relationship.

You really thought you could make it. Usually Eddie liked to keep his dnd sessions going for at least an hour and thirty minutes, but nothing eventful must have happened today because as soon as your walking into the club room you see Gareth and Eddie putting everything away. 

There’s a push and pull that goes on between the two where Gareth always wants to sneak peaks of Eddie’s hellfire notebook but always fails. So he ends up getting roped up into cleaning up. 

“Hi.” You breathe as soon as you step in and already feel your heart sinking a bit by being late. “I didn’t make it, did I…?” 

“Nope.”

You should be upset, because you don’t get to laugh and watch the magic of games and wistfully storytelling unfold tonight. But you can’t seem to be sad when Gareth’s hair bounces as he jogs over to you. Pressing a kiss on your cheek as soon as you’re near. 

“Had to cut short because Mike wanted to be sucked up by a whale again while he was on 6 health.” Eddie calls from in front of you. You hate to laugh because you wish to have seen it in real time, the thought process that goes on between the guys were always funny.

“And where were you going dressed up all pretty like this?” Eddie comes up beside you and takes your hand. Giving you a soft twirl that makes your dress fly up. 

“To a birthday party.” 

“A birthday party?” Gareth questioned. Not very good at hiding the fact that he’s starring at the necklace right in between your breasts “looking like that?” 

“I think I’m jealous five-year-olds if they get to be graced with the presents of you looking like that.” Eddie spoke against the column of your neck as he planted a kiss there. 

You scoffed. “It was a very adult birthday party. Which also had to get cut short because birthday girl got drunk.” 

They hummed, but Eddie seemed like he couldn’t stop touching you. Hands drawn the edges of you in your dress. As his hands slide down your sides. 

“Maybe we should continue to have a party at my place?” Eddie asked before his hand came down to pinch your ass just under the dress. “Are you wearing something just as pretty underneath?” 

“Gotta roll for insight to find out.” You quip.

That’s what makes Gareth laugh with this big, beautiful smile to go along with it. Eddie finds it unassuming, already fallen victim to this joke more than once. So instead he goes back to putting notes away with a sigh.

Gareth takes his place. Hands on your sides and his face close to yours. Your hand comes up touching his plush cheek. His lips looking soft enough to bite.

“If I roll a nat twenty can I take a peek…?” Gareth asks.

“If you roll a natural twenty you can have whatever you want.” 

Then he kisses you. Bringing your body closer to his forcefully like some kind of romantic movie where your lips press together so hard they bruise. 

Eddie makes fake gaging noises off to the side. “Guys I’m right here.” As if he wasn’t loving the show of affection.

You break away. Tasting your chapstick that you’d picked out today just for them to comment on. Gareth, ever the lover of the bit, finds a dice that was left out and snatches it quick. 

He rolls it around in his hand before throwing it on the table. If a twenty was in the cards for him there’s been aching to get a little more mean with you. Or maybe finally put those handcuffs he found up to the test. Everyone peers over to look at what the dice landed on. Up straight and sturdy read the number nine. 

“Damnit.” 

Gareth curses and you finally break away from him completely. 

“Sorry boys. Guess you’ll have to wait till we’re home.” 

“Oh come on! I don’t get that with advantage or anything because I’m your favorite?” 

“You said natural twenty. All I see is a natural nine.” 

You help Eddie by putting the dice anyway in a special box. He close’s everything up while this fingers brush against your hand. Somehow that little touch is more heat filled than all the other touching you’ve done today. 

“I’m beat—“ You breathe taking tiny clips from out of your hair. “I wanna go home. N’get under the blankets.” 

“Eddie— you heard the princess. Hurry up.” Gareth’s hand drops low on your back and pushes you for the door. “Your chariot awaits.” 

Chariot meaning Eddie’s van; he tosses Gareth the keys, who catches them flawlessly. “I’ll turn it on; I can use persuasion on you?” He asked. opened the door for you, as he posed the question. You see his eyes snake to your ass as you walk by.

 Humming: It’s a never-ending fight between the two with for something you want anyway. So you shrug. “Will see.” 

[glassbxttless]

A Pie from the 3rd Wheel

eddie munson x fem!reader, gareth emerson

word count: 2.9k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | After you cancel 3 dates on Eddie, Gareth bakes you a pie as a peace offering.

warnings: Eddie’s spiraling, Gareth feels guilty, Gareth’s mama makes an appearance.

notes: Here’s part two of the apple picking fic! Everyone know’s I love writing for Eddie and Bats, but exploring how Gareth fits in in this timeline has been so much fun too! I’ve read this over a few times, so if I’ve missed any mistakes please feel free to let me know!

Gareth’s laying back on his bed with his head against his pillows, flipping through pages of a comic book when he hears the familiar, coughing rattle of Eddie’s van chugging into the driveway. He frowns, listening. He didn’t get a phone call today, there was no heads-up, just headlights sweeping across the blinds and the screech of the brakes while he inevitably came to a stop. A moment later came a knock— not on the door, but on the glass of the window. Three sharp raps, like Eddie always does. Gareth rolls his eyes, places the comic face down on his sheets, and moves over to the window. He pulls the blinds up and then shoves the window open.

“You ever heard of a front door?”

“Front doors are for squares,” Eddie grins from where he’s standing outside. He leans in dramatically, one leg over the sill and one hand placed under the glass to keep the pane pushed up as he slips inside. “Besides, this is a way more cinematic entrance.”

“You’re gonna break your neck one day doing it,” Gareth mutters, bending down to move a stack of tapes off the floor before Eddie could absolutely crush them.

“I’ve lived a good life,” Eddie shrugs as he lands, reeboks thudding against the carpet. He takes a few steps away and then collapses flat on his back on the rug besides Gareth’s bed, his arms splayed wide. “Evening, Gare-Bear.”

Gareth smiles despite himself and shakes his head. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be like… out with Bats, making out at Benny’s and terrorizing the townsfolk with your fucking PDA?”

Usually Eddie would fire something just as snarky back— probably a joke about how you couldn’t resist him. Instead, he  just gets quiet. Too quiet for Gareth’s liking.

Gareth sits down at his desk and straightens his back a bit. “Okay… what’s wrong?”

Eddie groans, his eyes fluttering closed as he drags his hands down his face. “She’s cancelled on me. Three times. Just this week.”

That confession made Gareth pause. He remembers the last time he’d seen you— in the orchard, rolling your eyes at Eddie and smiling so bright Eddie couldn’t help but feel what you felt for him, while Gareth had been his usual sarcastic self. A little sharper than normal, maybe. He hadn’t really meant to be a dick, but he’d been irritated at Eddie disappearing every weekend and at third-wheeling and he hadn’t exactly kept it to himself. Shit. Gareth’s stomach twists. Had he chased you off? Was this his fault?

“…Three times?” he asks carefully, his voice quieter than Eddie’s ever heard.

“Three!” Eddie sits up hurriedly, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “Monday, we had this whole horror movie marathon planned. She bailed, and said she was tired. Alright that’s fine. Tuesday, I tried the casual drop-by thing? I just wanted to see her. She cancelled again— said she had a headache. Tonight, I was supposed to pick her up, go to the record store, maybe grab burgers after. She called before I left, said something came up.”

“Maybe she’s just—” Gareth hesitates, the guilt that was starting to build, nagging away at his bones. “Busy?”

“Busy?” Eddie barks out a laugh that was way too sharp. He pushes up until he’s standing to pace the length of Gareth’s room, chewing his thumbnail, words spilling out fast. “No, man, no. Don’t you see? She doesn’t want me anymore and this is how it starts. First it’s a cancelled date, then another, then she’s suddenly too busy to answer the phone, and next thing I know she’s dumping me in the Kroger parking lot while sipping a goddamn milkshake. I’ll be the freak who got traded in for someone with a normal haircut and a steady job.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gareth sighs and leans back in his chair. “You’re spiraling.”

“I am not spiraling.” Eddie spins on his heel to face him. “I’m being realistic! She’s amazing, right? Smart, gorgeous, funny as hell. And me?” He gestures down at himself— at the ripped jeans, the cigarette burned flannel that’s been hiding in the back of his closet for God knows how long, his hair is frizzy from the autumn humidity. “I live in a trailer park, I reek like weed half the time, and my idea of a romantic evening is stealing fries from Benny’s. Of course she’s gonna realize she can do better than me. It was bound to happen.”

Gareth watches him pace again. He wanted to say it— maybe it’s me, maybe she doesn’t wanna hang out ‘cause I was an asshole to her the last time we all hung out— but the words get stuck in his throat. What good would it do anyway? Eddie would just fixate harder, and the last thing Gareth wants was to wedge himself deeper between the two of you.

So instead he sighs again and says, “Or maybe she really is just tired. Or busy. Or has a life that doesn’t revolve around you. Not everyone lives on Munson Time, man.”

Eddie stops pacing to shoot him a glare. “You think she’s pulling away. Admit it.”

“I think you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m always dramatic,” Eddie snaps at him, then collapses onto the rug again. He’s quieter now, all that worry seeping out of him and lapping at his ankles like the tide. “But this feels different, Gare. Like she’s pulling the ripcord.”

There’s a long pause as Gareth looks at him—his best friend, sprawled out on the floor of his bedroom, eyes stormy with worry that neither of them could joke away. Eddie Munson, the guy who could bluff his way through anything, suddenly afraid of being left behind.

“…You’re an idiot,” Gareth says finally.

“Thanks, that helps.”

“No, I mean— you’re a dumbass for thinking she doesn’t like you.” Gareth leans forward, his elbows on his knees as he talks directly to Eddie. “Bats likes you. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t put up with your constant mouth. She wouldn’t drag you to fucking apple orchards. She wouldn’t kiss you in front of god and everybody. She wouldn’t even bother. We’re freaks and she is too.”

Eddie peeks up at him, a bit skeptical but trying to let the words soak into his heart. “…You really think so?”

“Yes.” Gareth picks up a set of drumsticks from the floor and points one over at him. “If she didn’t like you, she’d be gone already. You’re a handful, Munson. Nobody signs up for that shit unless they’re in it for the long haul.”

Slowly, Eddie’s mouth tugs into a crooked little grin and the weight on Gareth’s shoulders starts to melt bit by bit. “…So you’re saying she’s doomed.”

“I’m saying you’re a pain in the ass, and she clearly wants you anyway. Don’t blow it by getting all weird about three cancelled dates.”

Eddie groans, rubbing his face again. “I’m pathetic.”

“Yep,” Gareth agrees, turning to flip through the tapes now stacked on his desk. “But at least you’re self-aware.”

That actually pulls a laugh out of Eddie— it’s soft and reluctant, but it’s a real one. He sits up, bumps Gareth’s knee with his shoulder, and sighs a bit more content. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me. Just talk to her. Like a normal person. Instead of staging your breakup tour in my room.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Fine. But when I give her the sad puppy eyes, I’m still laying it on thick. She’s gotta suffer at least a little.”

“You’re insufferable,” Gareth chuckles.

“And you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” Gareth says softly, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Eddie stays longer than he really meant to that night, still sprawled out on Gareth’s carpet like he might just move in. They half-watched a taped episode of Headbangers Ball and argued about what was the most embarrassing band to admit liking. But eventually, Eddie drags himself up, mumbling something about “needing to wallow in my own trailer-shaped coffin.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Gareth hums, tossing his jacket from the chair over to him.

Eddie laughs as he shrugs it on. “Define stupid.”

“You’ll know it when you’re about to do it.”

With that, Eddie slips back out the window and half trips over the rocks his mama has there for landscaping. His van coughs to life in the driveway, headlights sweeping away into the night as he pulls off. The house went quiet again and Gareth sits there a long while, drumming his sticks against his knees, Eddie’s words echoing around in his brain. She’s cancelled three times. She doesn’t want me anymore. And underneath all of that— Gareth’s own guilt felt sour and heavy in his chest. The last time he’d seen you, he’d been a little sharp. Sarcastic, sure, but there’d been more bite than normal in it, because he was jealous about sharing his friend and annoyed about being the third wheel. You’d laughed it off then, but… what if you really hadn’t? What if you were avoiding Eddie because of him?

The thought makes his stomach actually turn. He tosses the sticks down on the carpet once again and rubs at his face. He glances over to see the apples were still in a bag by his closet— leftovers from that stupid orchard trip. Three bright red ones, smaller and a little bruised, the kind Eddie had picked because they had “character.” 

Gareth looks at them for a long time, then sighs and stands.

His mom, Mara, is sitting at the island in the kitchen, already in her nightgown and robe. She’s sipping her nightly tea and leafing through a magazine. She looks up when she hears Gareth padding in, holding the bag of apples like they were contraband.

“Well, if it isn’t my little night owl,” she chuckles a bit, her eyebrow raised. “What’s with the produce?”

“I, uh…” Gareth clears his throat, suddenly feeling like he was twelve years old under the eye of his mother. “I was thinking about making a pie.”

Mara blinks, confused. “…Since when do you bake?”

“I don’t.” He drops the apples on the counter and sighs, leaning on it with both palms before he looks up at her. “That’s thankfully where you come in… Please?”

Her smile tugs sideways in the same way Gareth’s does, more than amused. “Alright. What’s this really about?”

Gareth sighs again, tugging at the back of his neck as he mumbles. “It’s about Eddie. And… Bats.”

“Ah.” Mara set her magazine aside, giving him her full attention. “Go on.”

“I might’ve been a little… harsh. With her. Last time we all hung out.”

“Harsh how?”

Gareth winces. “Snarky. Y’know, the usual. But maybe more than usual. And now she’s cancelling on Eddie, and he’s freaking out, and I keep thinking…” He trails off slightly, picking up one of the apples, turning it over in his hands. “What if it’s ‘cause of me? What if I screwed it all up for him?”

Mara’s expression softens, the kind she saved for when he admitted something vulnerable. She reaches over and touches his hand. “Honey, if she cares about Eddie, she’s not going to let your smart mouth scare her off. But…” She tilts her head slightly. “I think a peace offering is a good idea. Pie’s never hurt anybody.”

Gareth lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and smiles. “So you’ll help?”

“Of course.” Mara pushes up from her chair, tying her robe just a bit tighter. “Let’s see if we can’t turn these sad little apples into something edible.”

Within the hour, the Emerson kitchen fills with the warm smell of cinnamon and sugar as Mara guides him through peeling each of the apples, slicing em up, and mixing. Gareth grumbles about how stupid it was to cut apples this thin, how the dough sticks to his fingers, and how awful the crimping looked. But he sticks with it, determined, because the whole time he keeps picturing Eddie’s face in his room earlier— dramatic and worried, like the rug was being pulled out from under him while he was trying to hold onto the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Halfway through, Mara nudges his ribs with her elbow. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

Gareth shrugs, a bit defensive. “He’s my best friend. And he’s… happy with her, you know? Like, really happy, for once. I don’t wanna be the asshole that screws that up for him.”

“You’re not an asshole, sweetheart.” Mara smiles at him, soft but firm as she gives his back a gentle pat. “You’ve just got a sharp tongue. You get that from your father. But you’ve also got a good heart. This—” she gestures to the pie fixings in front of them “—this is proof of that.”

Gareth snorts, trying to hide how much the words landed in his chest. “If you say so.”

By the time the pie was cooling on the counter, the kitchen still feels warm and cozy, the clock is ticking past midnight. Gareth looks at the golden crust, then over at his mom.

“Think she’ll accept the bribe?” he asks softly.

Mara laughs and nods. “If she doesn’t, I will.”

The pie sits on the counter, steam curling from the vents in the crust. The whole kitchen smelled like what Gareth could only describe as fall— cinnamon, sugar, butter— Mara wipes down the counters when Gareth clears his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts, leaning against the fridge as he scratches his neck gently. “Think I could borrow the car?”

Mara turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “At midnight?”

“It’s not midnight,” Gareth says quickly. Then glances over at the clock. “Okay, it’s technically midnight, but— look, I should take this to her tonight. If I wait ‘til tomorrow, I’m gonna chicken out.”

Mara studies him for a long moment. Then she sighs and goes to the hook by the door. She tosses him the keys and smiles. “Don’t wreck it. And try not to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Gareth grins, wide, trying to play it as cool as he can, even as nerves buzzed like live wires under his skin. “Thanks, Ma.” He grins as he grabs the pie and saunters out to his mom’s Toyota. The drive across Hawkins is quiet, his headlights sweep past dark houses, he hadn’t even turned on the radio. Gareth keeps glancing over at the pie on the passenger seat like it might slide off and ruin his entire plan. When he pulls up outside your house, every nerve in him screams about how stupid this is. His brain keeps repeating, this is so stupid, but he still forces himself out of the car anyway. He holds the pie out in front of him carefully. And he trudges up the walk and knocks gently on the door.

It took a minute, but then the porch light flicks on, and you crack the door open. You’re in pajamas, your hair was a bit messy, and you’re blinking like you’d just rolled out of bed.

“…Gareth?” you ask, bewildered. “It’s midnight.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “And I’m not here to, like, steal your VCR or anything. I just…” He thrust the pie forward in one hand. “Peace offering.”

You look from the pie to him, your eyebrows climbing. “…Is this apple pie?”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, had those apples. From the orchard. I made a pie. Well, technically my mom supervised, otherwise it would’ve probably been some kind of war crime. But still. Pie.”

You open the door just a bit wider, still staring at him like he’d grown another head. “You made me a pie. At midnight.”

“Yes,” Gareth nods, dead serious. “Because I was… kind of an asshole the last time I saw you. And you’ve been cancelling on Eddie, and he’s losing his goddamn mind about it, and I just— I don’t want you to think I hate you or something. ‘Cause I don’t. You make him happy, and that means a lot. I was just… He’s my best friend and I don’t see him nearly as much as I used to. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. So. Pie.”

For a few moments there’s just silence between you. You peek over your shoulder to make sure your parents are still sleeping, then your mouth tugs up into a smile, soft, a smile Eddie talks about constantly.

“Gareth,” you chuckle softly, “this is the weirdest apology I’ve ever gotten.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighs, looking down at his sneakers. “I’m not good at, like, talking. But I can bribe with baked goods.”

You laugh then and the knot in Gareth’s stomach finally begins to loosen. You reach out to take the pie from him. “Thank you. That’s actually really sweet.”

“Don’t tell Eddie I was sweet,” Gareth says quickly. “He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Deal,” you smile.

For the first time all night, Gareth let himself smile back at you. It’s small, crooked, but it feels genuine. “Cool. Uh. Enjoy the pie. I’m gonna go before your neighbors think I’m some pie-wielding burglar.”

You shake your head, still smiling as you lean against the doorframe, holding the pie in your hands. “Goodnight, Gareth.”

He nods, turns, and walks back down the steps and the front sidewalk. The cool air bites at his cheeks, but his chest felt a hell of a lot lighter. When he slides behind the wheel again, the empty pie plate on the passenger seat feels more like a victory than anything else.

Because maybe he wasn’t great with words. But Eddie was his best friend, and you were somehow a part of that now. And if pie kept the balance steady, then fine— he’d bake a hundred more.

tags ;; @lunaryasha @exploding-bonbon @eternal-sunflowers @taygrls @getaapologist @deadwizzardlover @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @autumneva@samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @keaganz @thorins-queen-of-erebor @beau-hawkins @keeryhours @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn @emxxblog

[the-witty-pen-name]

Slumber Party Kissing

Gareth Emerson X F!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Synopsis: The Wheeler siblings are at odds because Mike needs to host Hellfire the same night as Nancy’s slumber party on her weekend home from college. As much as the two of them try to keep the groups apart, intermingling inevitably ensues.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI cursing; alcohol; arguing; flirting; kissing/making out; fingering; oral m receiving (+swallowing); dirty talk

A/N: Y'all- idk what came over me with this one... Comments & reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know if you like it!

The last thing Nancy wanted to hear is that she’s being forced to share the house with her brother’s weird friends. She hasn’t seen her friends in months and now her reunion is being trampled on by a band of geeks with stupid dice. She pleaded with her mother- begged practically on her hands and knees to please not let Mike have his friends over that night. 

Mike was stuck. The drama club had completely taken over the theatre room with their show coming up- the whole space is completely torn apart and they’ve essentially forced Hellfire out. Eddie cornered Mike, and put the burden to figure out a new meeting spot on him. Mike had no choice but to beg his parents to let Hellfire meet at their house that night. 

So, the Wheeler house was a house divided. Hellfire was corralled in the basement while Nancy and her friends staked their claim to the ground floors. And it worked- for a little while. Until the campaign would be interrupted, giggling girls and loud music from above distracting from the harrowing journey. Or, the girls would hear the screams and battle cries from below- Nancy rolling her eyes and becoming more annoyed with every passing minute. 

You’d been anxious about tonight ever since Nancy told you Hellfire Club was going to be there. Not because you believed what everyone said, you knew they weren’t. It was because you knew Gareth would be there, the boy you crushed on the entirety of high school. You hadn’t seen him since your graduation back in June. Now, what was supposed to be a night of girl talk and catching up with your old friends, is different than you’d hoped- your mind unable to focus on the fact that he’s so close by. 

“Hungry Eyes” by Eric Carmen blasting through the whole house on the living room stereo is Eddie’s breaking point. He slams his campaign notebook on the edge of the table as he gets up. “I’m putting a fucking stop to this,” he exclaims, kicking up from his seat. Mike panics, knowing that he’ll never hear the end of it from Nancy if Eddie crashes her party. Gareth and Jeff are in tow, and Grant steps in front of the stairs, blocking Mike from following them up. 

“Wheeler, can you turn this shit off!? Holy-” Eddie’s words fail as Jeff and Gareth stumble in behind them. You feel like you’ve been caught in something as the boys storm in. You’re frozen in place- standing in the middle of the Wheeler’s living room in your pajamas, hairbrush microphone in hand, singing along with Eric Carmen as off-key as you could manage. You feel like someone pulled the curtain back on you leaving you completely exposed. The girls who were cheering you on have all fallen silent, and Nancy looks like she might kill Eddie. Mike comes bursting into the room, but is stuck in place at the tension in the room. He doesn’t know how to diffuse the situation. 

Gareth didn’t know you were going to be here. Seeing you again has him slack-jawed. He can’t help the way his eyes rake over you. It’s been months since he’d seen you. The fabric of your pajama set looks so soft- the tiny shorts showing off more of your leg than your skirts at school ever did. He’s dreamt about being able to see you like this. He didn’t think he’d ever see you after graduation, and he doesn’t know how to handle himself. 

“Let’s go to the kitchen- I have appetizers I made,” Nancy suggests, shooting daggers at Eddie- shoving past them to go towards the kitchen. She grabs two bottles of wine by their stems from the cabinet and gestures for all of you to follow her. Embarrassed, you turn off the stereo and slip past them- avoiding looking at Gareth at all costs. You were mortified. 

“Come on, let’s get back to the campaign,” Mike tries to urge, knowing that he’s going to be facing hell from Nancy tomorrow when everyone is gone. Gareth didn’t hear him, too wrapped up in his own thoughts- his eyes still following your every move. He doesn’t break his stare until you glance up and catch him looking. He immediately shifts his focus back to Mike and nods in agreement. For now, they all retreat back to the basement to pick up where they left off. 

The group of you stand around the kitchen island, enjoying the array of finger food Nancy has put out. It looks like something taken directly out of Good Housekeeping. You’re sandwiched between Nancy and Chrissy as all the girls resume their chatter. “I am so sorry about that,” Nancy says to the group, “I tried everything to prevent that.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Chrissy shrugs, “It’s Mike’s house too.” Always diplomatic. “Besides,” she giggles looking around before she speaks, “I always thought Eddie was really cute.”

“Ew!” Nancy says in faux disgust as the group all laugh. Chrissy’s cheeks flush a rosy pink and she hides her head in her hands. 

“Sue me!” she jokes. “I can’t help it, I love the hair and the tats- he’s so hot!”

“I get it,” Tina shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “It’s the whole rock star look- it’s against the laws of nature for a loser to be that hot. Do you guys remember Billy? He was so hot.”

“He was a total psychopath!” Nancy says, jaw dropped. She leans on the table and takes another sip of her wine. “He works at the auto body shop now,” she continues.

“Mental note to slash my own tires,” Tina jokes. “Oh, he was totally insane- but god, those abs. I would go to the pool like at least three times a week the whole summer he worked there. He was a god. He totally wanted to fuck your mom, Nance-”

“EW! Shut up!” she gasps, waving her hand over Tina’s mouth. 

“What about you?” Tina asks, directing her attention back to you. “Who did you think was hot in high school?” Your face burns. 

“Uh-”

An eruption of screams from downstairs distracts everyone and you thankfully don’t have to answer. The boys have suffered a major loss in their campaign. Lucas’s character has just died a heinous death at the hands of Venca and they are riled up, desperate for vengeance on behalf of their fallen comrade. Dustin has chosen to lead the group to Vecna’s lair against the odds that are stacked against them. The boys clamor and scream as they watch the dice roll. It will be the end of everything. 

“Can you guys keep it down?” Nancy yells, stomping down the stairs with you and Chrissy closely behind, interrupting the game. Mike and Dustin shout, irritated that she's come downstairs to interfere. “Mike, I swear to god! You guys have been so obnoxious the whole night and we’ve said nothing!” 

You rock and on your heels anxiously, not sure why Nancy insisted on bringing you down here. She didn’t need back up. She could handle this fine. She mumbled something about a united front when she grabbed your wrist, dragging you downstairs with her. 

“If you girls wanted to play with us, all you needed to do was ask,” Eddie smirks, warning a scoff from Nancy- but a blush from Chrissy. Gareth wants the world to open up and swallow him whole. He can’t even bear to look over at you. “Why don’t we all just play nice?” He says, eyes flickering over to Chrissy. She giggles nervously. Good god, he was laying it on so thick- and it was fucking working. 

“You’re a pig,” Nancy states matter of factly. He ignores her and he winks at Chrissy. She giggles again, and you roll your eyes. You grab her forearm to shake her out of it. 

Gareth is jealous at how easy all of this comes to Eddie. He exudes confidence, and Gareth wishes he had just an ounce of that. He could say something to make you react that way towards him. He craves that. He wants you to look at him the way Chrissy is looking at Eddie. He’s so wrapped up in his own head he can’t see that the way you look at him is even more intense than the exchange between Eddie and Chrissy. 

Gareth’s hair is unruly from the excitement of the campaign. His curls are everywhere and you just desperately want to run your hands through it. You can imagine kissing him, and your hands are the cause of the mess of curls. His jaw is clenched, probably from the stress of the awkward situation, but you can’t help but dwell on how good it looks. You bite your lip, like it’s holding you back. 

Giving up for now, Nancy glared at Mike one more time before heading back upstairs- stomping loudly on every step for emphasis. You and Chrissy look at each other, exchanging a look, both of you communicating with your eyes before following Nancy back upstairs. You wish you had an excuse to stay. 

Your eyes are covered by slices of cucumber as you lay down on the floor of the living room. As it got later in the evening, both parties began to mellow- for your group, that meant mud masks and relaxing lotions, and nail painting. You all lounged on the furniture or the floor, wherever there was space. You laid in front of the couch as Chrissy and Tina shared the couch, their heads on opposite sides. Nancy sat in one recliner, and Vicki in the other. Ally, Samantha, Amy, Laurie and Becky joined you on the carpet. 

After the campaign ended, the boys opted to stick around and hang out, watching a crappy movie on the television set in the basement. Gareth was fidgeting, unable to relax- you were right upstairs! You were so close and still as unattainable as ever. He didn’t know if after tonight he’d have an opportunity to see you again. He should’ve taken advantage of the time when he saw you in school every day. You’re no longer in his life by proximity. He knew he should make a move, say something- anything. He just didn’t know how he would without embarrassing himself. 

Nancy had easy listening music playing softly as you all basked in the pampering. You were all just talking about nothing- college, work, catching up. You hadn’t seen these girls since everyone started going their own way after graduation. “You never answered my question earlier,” you hear Tina’s voice direct the comment towards you. You wince, grateful that none of them can see you squirm- everyone with either cooling eye masks or cucumbers over their eyes. They would be none the wiser if you could just be nonchalant- something that was never your strong suit. 

“Honestly?” you begin nervously, trying to steady your breath. It’s become so late that you’re too tired to advise yourself to not spill. “Gareth Emerson- since like freshman year when he showed up to school with his hair grown out- I would just wanna run my hands through it all the time.” You expect to be met with laughter, teasing you for having a crush on a freak- like how they reacted to Chrissy. Instead, you’re met with an unsettling silence. You sit up, letting the cucumbers fall into your lap. Everyone else had taken their masks off already, and you didn’t know. You look up and follow where everyone is looking.   

Gareth is standing right there, looking at you with his eyes wide in shock. Apparently everyone else heard someone walk in, except you. This is worse than anything- a million times worse to the awkwardness of the Eric Carmen incident earlier tonight, worse than when you got your period and bleed through your jeans in middle school, worse than when you forgot the words to the pledge of allegiance when you did the morning announcements, worse than when you tripped and accidentally spilled your lunch all over Carol… every awkward thing that you’ve done that keeps you lying awake at night is nothing compared to this. 

You’re so embarrassed, you can’t even think and you feel like the room is spinning. You can’t even say anything as everyone looks to you for your reaction. The silence is killing you. There’s nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears as your worst possible fear is coming true. You quickly get up and rush upstairs as tears threatening to fall blur your vision, and your friends let you go. You need to brush shoulders with Gareth to get to the stairs, and you feel your skin ignite at the sensation despite feeling like the house is shattering around you. 

You’ve resolved that you’re going home. You can’t handle being under the same roof as him anymore. It’s all too much. It feels like practically your entire gradutating class seems to know about your crush now. More importantly, so did he. Rather than face the sting of rejection, in the heat of the moment, you resolve to try to get dressed and sneak out the bathroom window. You decide you can be gone before people realize you’ve left. Before you do anything to put your elaborate plan into motion, you run the water to splash some on your face. There’s a hesitant knock on the door. 

“It’s Gareth,” he says softly from the other side of the door. 

Oh god no, you panic. You rest your forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. Fuck. 

“Can we talk?” He asks, tapping gently on the door. 

No. 

“Uh, yeah,” you sniffle, trying your best to hide it. You open the door to face him. You’re bracing yourself for the worst. “Listen,” you begin, resolving that you will badly lie your way out of this to salvage your pride. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that. It was just like a stupid high school crush. I’ve gotten over it…”

“What if,” he poses, finally mustering his courage, “what if I never got over it?” 

Gareth doesn’t really remember a lot of the things he was supposed to be learning when you both were still in school. He vaguely remembered things, but only because how could he be expected to look at the board when you were so close, sat right in front of him. He’d memorize the back of your head before even thinking about trying to memorize his notes. 

The day the teacher went over Punnett squares? No idea, cause you were wearing that bow in your hair. Covalent bonds? That was the day your hair was up in a claw clip- and all he could focus on was the way it accentuated your neck and shoulders. Periodic table? Maybe he could name a few if he tried, but he remembered that jean skirt you wore so much better. Stoichiometry? Couldn’t even tell you if that’s a real word- but, he remembers that your perfume always smelled like vanilla.

“What the fuck is taking him so long?” Mike finally asks the group. Gareth left to go to the bathroom what feels like forever ago. Eddie is bobbing is knee impatiently that he shakes the table. 

“You should go check on him,” Dustin says to Mike. 

“And face the wrath of Nancy? Fuck that,” Mike says, shaking his head. 

“It’s your house, man,” Lucas points out. 

“You all are pathetic, acting like babies, can’t believe you’re acting this scared of fucking Wheeler,” Eddie is exasperated and his patience has now worn thin. “Fuck, I’ll go with you Wheeler, I don’t care if your sister yells at me.” 

Heading upstairs, Eddie and the rest of Hellfire stop dead in their tracks. The entire slumber party is sitting so still, eyes directed upstairs like they're anticipating something at any second. No one even acknowledges the guys’ entrance until Jeff speaks up.

“What is going-” he tries to ask.

“SHH!” Several of the girls shush him at once. He’s taken aback. 

“What happened?” Eddie whispers, taking a seat next to Chrissy. The rest of Hellfire trickles in and takes seats on the floor or on the arms of the chairs. Everyone is waiting literally on the edge of their seats. 

“We were all talking, you know-” Chrissy whispers, “girl talk. Crushes and stuff.”

“Normal sleepover you know?” Tina chimes in, helping Chrissy set the scene for all of the guys. 

Chrissy asks if Eddie remembered you, he nods and so do the others. Of course, Eddie, Jeff and Grant remembered you. You were all Gareth would talk about outside of band practice or DnD. Jeff and Grant exchange a wary look, not sure where this is going. What the fuck happened?”

“Well, Tina asked her who she had a crush on,” Chrissy continues to explain, Eddie leaning in closer as she keeps her voice down so the girls can continue to eavesdrop. “And she said Gareth and Gareth walked in just as she was talking about him. She was so upset, she darted upstairs before anyone could say anything. Gareth followed her. We don’t know what to do!”

“You let them be,” Eddie says matter of factly. If he could run upstairs and high five his best friend he would, but being the guy’s best friend at this moment means Eddie needs to keep people distracted so you both can sort yourselves out. He goes over to the stereo and looks through the options.

“Mike, your family has shit for cassettes,” Eddie declares, “None of you have taste.” He holds up Nancy’s copy of Rio between his thumb and index finger, dangling it like it’s something smelly that’s gone bad. “I’m disappointed in you, Wheeler.”

Nancy gets up and snatches the cassette from him. Spitefully, she shoves the tape into the player and turns it all the way up. Hungry Like the Wolf starts playing halfway through cause she didn’t rewind it the last time she listened. She turns the volume dial up, and flips Eddie the bird. He walks over to shut it off, purposely agitating her. Nancy stomps over and turns it back on. 

Your hands are tangled in Gareth’s hair and it’s better than you even imagined it would be. His curls are so soft, and he moans against your lips at the sensation when you tug gently. You completely forgot everyone was downstairs until you both heard the radio switching on and off rapidly. You both pull away from a heated kiss and turn to the direction of the door, a brief moment of confusion before Gareth shrugs and connects his lips to yours again. 

You’re sitting on the bathroom counter, Gareth standing between your legs which have now wrapped around him. His hands grip the sides of your thighs, practically kneading at your soft skin. Your lips slot perfectly against his, and it’s better than you imagined it would be. Your hands travel from his hair to cup his jaw and you use your legs to pull him in even closer, until your chests are flush against each other. The sensation is dizzying. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he moans softly against your ear, when you both pull away for air. His lips trail from the bottom of your ear, down your neck and collarbone. “So fucking pretty,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing right along to your shoulder. 

“Gare, please,” you beg, not even fully sure what you’re asking for. Your breathy little plea goes straight to his cock. 

“I’ve got you baby,” he promises. His fingertips dip into the waistband of your pajama shorts and he groans, dipping his forehead to rest on your shoulder. “You’re not wearing panties?” he asks, but not a question- but more like a sigh, like the knowledge of you being bare under your set is too much for him to handle. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he presses his lips to yours again, his fingertips circling your clit perfectly. “So wet,” he praises against your lips, not breaking the kiss. 

His fingers slip into your folds and you rest your head back on the bathroom mirror, your chest rising and falling rapidly- you’re falling apart at his touch. Just like you knew you always would. You’re a moaning, pleading mess, his name falling from your lips over and over again like a prayer. The familiar knot starts to coil up as you feel your orgasm send a wave throughout your entire body. Your hands are holding his hair to keep you grounded as you become unraveled. He kisses you through it, praising you and whispering sweet things as he works you through your high. 

Your forehead rests against his, foreheads sweaty, but neither of you can even bring yourself to care. You kiss him slowly, gently pushing him back against the opposite fall. His eyes widen in surprise as he observes your actions. You move as one with him, climbing off the counter and then you sink down to your knees, eye level with the prominent bulge in his jeans. 

“Oh fuck,” he moans as you make quick work of undoing his zipper and freeing his cock from the restraint of his jeans and boxers. He’s looking down at you, trying to commit it to memory: your wide eyes hungrily staring at his cock, your manicured hand wrapping gently around him. your pretty lips kissing his tip and your tongue licking up the length before taking his cock into your pretty mouth. His hands rest in your hair and he closes his eyes, resting his head back because it already feels too fucking good. He can’t look at you- he knows it will send him over the edge too soon. There’d been so many nights he’d fantasize exactly this- he’s almost afraid that he’ll open his eyes and you’ll be gone. All of tonight being just a figment of his imagination. 

He opens his eyes to steal a glimpse of you finally, and you're looking up at him with these round doe eyes and it’s all too much for him to take. “I’m close- what should I-” he manages to say, but his coming apart only makes you all the more eager. You continue your pace, but you reach up and hold his hips, your nails slightly digging into his skin to keep him in place. It all becomes so overwhelming, and you moan feeling him pulse, knowing he’s so teasingly close. He practically whimpers as it washes over him as he finally releases and you’re still going- working him through it. When he pulls away, you do something he never imagined. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out ever so slightly, showing him his cum in your mouth before you swallow. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. He bends down to kiss you, cupping your face in his hands. He can't taste himself on you, and he thinks it might be the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. 

A loud, pounding knock on the door makes you both jump. You quickly scramble to your feet, wiping the spit from your mouth and Gareth fumbles to get his zipper back up.  “Can you two lovebirds finish up in there!?” Eddie shouts, “I can’t keep covering for your asses anymore! Emerson, we have a campaign to fucking finish!”

TAGLIST: @sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs @v3lv3tf0x @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @sunshine-mrk @danymunsonharrington @mrsjellymunson @fanficfantik @the-unforgivenn @punkrockmlchael

[girlwithadragonheart]

No cuz thats completely understandable and I respect that!! Twas why I asked first. Diverting off the topic of yandere then, how do we feel about Eddie Munson x Reader whos only like casually touchy with him? Like they love to be constantly touching him, wether its just there knees brushing against one another, arms touching just barely, or Reader holding onto the back of Eddie's jacket and walking behind him via lost dog style

This can be pre-relationship or during relationship or legit anything really- I just love touchy reader-

Anyways! Plspls pls feel free to take away or add anything ofc, and if you dont like this dont feel pressured to, I understand swear

Touchy

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Touch!starved Eddie, touchy reader, anxious reader, fluff!!

A/N: Touchy reader is my absolute favorite!!! Ugh that's so me.

Stranger Things Masterlist

You had just moved to Hawkins during the summer. You weren’t looking forward to being the new kid in school when the year started. But you had somehow managed to be taken in by a group that actually interested you. 

Hellfire.

You had played D&D with your father since you were a kid, so naturally when you heard them talking about it, you were curious. It was seemingly an article the boy at the head of the table was reading from, his voice theatrical and over exaggerating in tone. His long curly hair bounced slightly when he moved and talked.

“Dungeons and Dragons…” He begins. “Is a dangerous and seemingly satanic occult game that has taken root in our small town, Hawkins, Indiana.” You find yourself smiling as you listen from several feet away. “It’s a game promoting Satanic rituals and violence--”

Before he can continue, you’ve walked up behind him. “I’ve never known D&D to promote Satanic rituals and violence.” All the other members’ eyes turn to you, and his eyebrows shoot up hearing your voice.

He turns slowly in his chair, magazine limp in his hands as he eyes you skeptically. “You play D&D?” If he didn’t look so suspicious, he might’ve almost looked impressed. Almost.

“Yeah,” You say with a shrug. “Is that seat taken?” You ask, gesturing to the empty stool beside him.

“But you’re a girl,” one of the boys said. “Girls don’t play D&D.”

The boy with the long hair chucked a pretzel at him. “Can it, Wheeler,” he said. “Take a seat, Princess,” he said with a sweeping gesture toward the stool. You set your tray down on the table in front of you before sitting. 

“You guys are Hellfire, I’m guessing?” You said, looking at the boy at the head of the table. “And you must be Eddie.”

You didn’t miss the way he tensed in his seat slightly before a grin spread across his face---albeit a fake one. “Yup, that’s me.” Something about the way your eyes softened, and your foot nudged his under the table had his smile cracking.

You gave him a small, gentle smile before speaking again. “So, what does a person have to do to play D&D around here?” 

And that was how you’d ended up in the theater room after school that following Friday. You were seated to Eddie’s left at the table, him in his throne. The lights in the room were dimmed, and cast shadows on your Dungeon Master’s face. His hands were clasped in front of him, elbows resting on the arms of his throne as he studied each of you.

The kids were busy getting set up, but you had gotten there a few minutes earlier, so all you could do was wait. You shifted in your seat, tapping Eddie’s foot under the table with your shoe. Without tuning his head, his gaze strayed to you, and he sent you a wink, the corners of his lips turning up slightly.

You looked down at your lap, smiling softly to yourself as you felt your cheeks heat up.

After Hellfire was over, Eddie offered you a ride back home, and you gladly accepted, rather than walking in the dark. The music on the radio was blasting loudly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care seeing as it was the music you’d grown up with.

Your hand rested on Eddie’s thigh as he drove the dark roads of Hawkins back to your house. You absentmindedly tapped your fingers on his jeans to the beat of one of Sabbath’s songs. “Generals gathered in their masses…” You remembered the words easily. “Just like witches at black masses. Evil minds that plot destruction… Sorcerer of death’s construction…”

You hummed along with the song, tapping the rhythm on Eddie’s thigh as he drove with wide eyes listening to you. He was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from your palm and your voice singing next to him. 

Your entire being radiated a welcoming and warm energy, and he had never been drawn to someone so much before. He turned the volume down slightly to speak. “You know Sabbath?” His brown eyes were wide when he glanced at you, and you giggled.

“Yeah. And Ozzy, Metallica, and Iron Maiden,” You told him. “Are you surprised?” You ask.

“Well, shit,” he laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am.” You hum, singing with the radio as Eddie turns the music back up, though the wheels in his mind are turning.

It’s only a couple more minutes’ ride until you’re pointing out which turn to take, and the road is seemingly very familiar to Eddie. 

“Hey, (Y/N),” he says carefully.

“Yeah?” And you look over at him, eyes soft and body turned in his direction, all open and carefree like he isn’t the freak of Hawkins.

“Uh--” He gulps, trying to remember his thoughts. “Where exactly did you say you lived?”

“Oh. I guess I didn’t,” you laughed. “I live in Forest Hills Trailer Park,” you tell him. His jaw drops slightly. “Wh- what? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong,” he says. “I live there too,” he tells you. “It’s just a surprise, is all.”

You find later that the surprise was a very welcome one. You and Eddie hung out more often after learning that he was only a few steps away at almost all times. Driving you home after Hellfire turned into movie nights at Eddie’s.

You were both sitting on his bed, one of your legs thrown over his knee in between his legs as you watched whatever movie you’d settled on that night. Your eyes kept trying to drift shut, and you yawned, the warmth that radiated from his body was slowly putting you to sleep whether he realized it or not.

Your head slumped on his shoulder as you yawned. Eddie felt his body stay stock still, probably for the first time in his life. He didn’t want to disturb your peace. You had been close to him since the day you interrupted his speech, always finding some way to have your bodies touching.

It was the first time he’d reciprocated that touch, as he shifted, putting his arm around your shoulders carefully, hesitantly, like he was afraid you’d run away. But you only leaned closer into his body, feeling more secure than you ever had. 

Something in Eddie’s heart melted when you leaned into his chest, shifting to be on your side, wrapping your arm loosely around his waist. His arms hovered over you for a moment before he was resting them around your shoulders. This was what he craved so dearly, this closeness. And he had finally found someone that needed it just as bad.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he said softly.

A couple weeks later, you find yourself at a Corroded Coffin concert at the Hideout. You can’t really call it a concert because, well, there wasn’t much of an audience. But that never mattered to Eddie. Especially now that you were there.

You were in the front row, watching him play the solo to Master of Puppets. He was good. More than good, he was amazing. Watching his fingers move quickly over the strings, the focus on his face. He was in his element up on the stage and it was a bit intimidating. 

You felt like an outsider intruding on a private moment, regardless of whether it was meant for an audience.

Eddie successfully completed the solo, huffing for breath as he kept up with the song, only now meeting your eyes where you stood in front of him. They were blown wide and something shone in them that he hadn’t seen in a long time from anyone. Pride. You were proud of him for doing something he loved.

The smile that already rested on his face grew wider, and he winked at you, watching your cheeks turn a pretty pink.

Their set was over all too soon, and you could see the sweat glistening on Eddie’s pale skin, his hair frizzy from movement and pupils blown from adrenaline. However, he wasn’t quite done yet, you could see it in his eyes. He saw his chance and he took it, hand outstretched to you from the stage.

You looked up at him in silent question, but the way his gentle smile put you at ease had you taking his hand and allowing him to pull you up onto the stage with him. 

He was panting and out of breath, and he looked a bit nervous, but you squeezed his hand that was still in yours and suddenly he was at ease.

He took a deep breath with closed eyes before opening them and looking at you. “Y/N… will you be my girlfriend?” His words are soft, like he’s afraid you’ll run away if he speaks too loudly.

Your eyes go wide, and the look on your face has Eddie’s stomach in knots. Without barely a pause, you’ve flung your arms around his neck, putting your whole body weight into his embrace as his arms encircle your back. Warm and strong.

You don’t even mind that he smells like sweat and weed as you nuzzle your nose into his neck. You could almost cry from the overwhelming amount of care you can feel radiating off of him.

“Is that a yes?” He says in a low voice, tucking his nose into your hair.

You pull back, hands on his shoulders before leaning forward and capturing his soft lips. You let go with a last soft peck before cupping his face and looking into his deep brown eyes.

“Of course that’s a yes, silly.” 

Your constant touch on Eddie never let up, and he didn’t mind it one bit. He would often reciprocate it when he could. Most days you would have a hand on his leg during lunch, your fingers tapping a rhythm or your thumb rubbing soothing circles.

Some days you would sit beside him, hand rubbing over his upper back. A gesture that had Eddie melting like putty into your fingers. 

You were spaced out, eating your lunch and every other pretzel of Eddie’s that he handed to you, when Mike’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Can you guys like, go somewhere else with that?” Eddie shot him a glare and Dustin threw a confused glance in his direction. All eyes were on him and you. “You’re, like, always touching and it’s kind of gross. I mean I wouldn’t want my girlfriend constantly on me, it’s weird.”

You hadn’t even realized that you were touching Eddie. It was an automatic motion in your mind. Your whole body tensed like a deer in headlights before you excused yourself from the lunchroom.

“Great. Look what you did, dude,” Dustin hit him upside the head as Eddie shoved himself up from the table.

“This isn’t over,” he said, glaring at Wheeler before going after his girl.

He checked a few different places before finding you at the picnic bench in the woods. He carefully approached you, and you didn’t look up, already knowing who it was.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he said softly. Now it was his turn to rub soothing circles on your back. “Can you look at me, princess?”

You were already melting into his touch before you sat up and looked over at him. Tears brimmed in your eyes but they didn’t fall. “What?” You hated the way your voice cracked when you spoke, the way you sounded so hurt by something so simple.

His free hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing under your lower lashes, collecting unfallen tears. “Don’t cry,” he says so softly, like he’s pleading. “Wheeler doesn’t know what he’s talking about, okay?”

“But he does, Eds. He does know, and he’s right it’s weird, it’s just--” you cut yourself off, looking at the picnic table as you fidget with your hands in your lap.

“It’s just what, baby?” he asks.

“Well…” You have to make a mental decision before you speak, and that decision turns out to be quite difficult. But you need to tell him what’s on your mind, you know he’ll keep pushing you. You take a deep breath, preparing to spill your guts to the man you’re so desperately in love with.

“It’s just… I don’t really realize when I’ve got my hand on you, y’know? Like I notice if you move or if I move my hand, but, it’s not a conscious thing that I do. I guess I do that with the people I love because it makes me feel better, reminds me that they’re there.” Your gaze has fallen back down to your legs as you speak.

Eddie’s taken aback by your confession, his eyes wide, heart soft. “You… You love me?” his eyebrows knit together, not used to hearing such soft words from the people he so deeply cherishes. 

Your gaze snaps back up to him, immediately softening as you take his hands. “Of course I love you, Eddie, how could I not? You’re just so… you’re so amazing and charming and you- you care. No one could possibly care like you do.” Your thumbs rub circles over his knuckles.

His brown eyes are glistening with tears and his hands tighten around yours as he pulls you against him, arms wrapping securely around your body. His nose nuzzles into your neck, practically pulling you on top of him.

Your heart is racing from the unexpected closeness, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s holding you, he’s the one touching you, not the other way around. And you easily accept his embrace, folding yourself against him as he sniffles softly. His words are whispered so gently that they could be mistaken for the wind.

“I love you too, sweet thing.”

A/N: I hope you liked this!! Let me know if you want to be on the Eddie tag list <3

Love you guys, mwah!

Banners by @/cafekitsune

[rradiantbboneswwrites]

The Freak and the Final Girl (Masterlist)

(Ongoing)

…..Story Summary: Moments in time starting from the point you and Eddie Munson meet.

….. Warnings: Canon-Typical Angst. Canon-Typical Depictions of Graphic Violence. Grief. Loss of a Loved One. Use of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Marijuana. Eventual Smut. Minors, DO NOT INTERACT.

…..Tags and Warnings will be updated as the story progresses. Please note that my fics are not beta-read. If there are any mistakes, then I apologize and I will fix them as soon as possible.

Enjoy!

Chapter One - When We Met

Chapter Two - Project Promise

Chapter Three - Ripley

Chapter Four - Stillness of Remembering

Chapter Five - As Revelations Go…

Chapter Six…

(Remember to reblog and comment! Likes are always appreciated, but feedback is what keeps us fic writers going!)

[promethiae]

If you like the wellerman, try on this classic

[any-open-eye-deactivated2022071]

this is a pathologic ass song 

[rosslynpaladin]

The Chemical Worker’s Song. Not far off our current days’ wage slave experience. I’m telling you, you need Union Songs.

Sailors aboard a ship used to hum to warn the captain they were THIS close to a mutiny and didn’t like conditions AT ALL. Because humming was something others could keep doing when you stopped. Anyone comes close you stop, but the hum of the rest keeps on and they can’t prove who, exactly, is doing it.

Just saying.

[troyspace-deactivated20241010]

Wattpad sold to South Korean giant Naver in US$600-million-plus deal

Two sources familiar with the matter said Wattpad was set to announce the deal Tuesday evening after a competitive process that began this past fall

South Korean internet giant Naver Corp. has struck a deal to buy Toronto’s Wattpad Corp., for between US$600-million and US$700-million, the Globe and Mail has learned.

Evergreen reminder: Change of ownership = backup your works/favorites

Because you never know what changes to the ToS the new owners will implement.

[zz9pzza]

Good luck.

[naryrising]

Good fucking luck indeed.

[naryrising]

To elaborate now that I’m at a computer: this type of purchase often means a content purge is coming.  I don’t know enough about Naver to know whether they’re the type of company that will give people a warning and allow them time to save their works, or if Wattpad users will just wake up one morning to a “This content has been deleted” notice, or what, but I strongly suspect changes will be coming.  Historically, the types of content that are likely to be targeted are: 

1. RPF

2.  Any of the big ‘controversial’ subjects (underage, rape, incest, abuse, etc.)

3. Sexual content of all kinds but especially m/m

So to summarize: if you write or read any of those kinds of things, please back up your works.  AO3 is a good place to back things up, but even saving to your own computer is better than the pain of just having your works disappear into the void.

Learn from the past - please start backing your Wattpad works up now.  I hope I’m wrong, but I’m not holding my breath.

[elanorofcastile]

This is unsurprising, tbh. I remember a panel wattpad did at dragoncon years back and it was very obvious you were the product. They offered no comment on supporting users of a copyright suit came for a user (idk if this has changed but I’d assume not) which was still a not-that-long-ago memory to us fandom olds there, so it always seemed questionable. AO3/OTW is where it’s at.

[fiction-is-not-reality2]

No I don’t think y’all understand how urgently you need to back shit up: 

S.Korea is currently in a mild revolt over fanfictions (RPS specifically, which Wattpad has lots of). The petition asking for the criminalization of fanfictions (and the legal punishment as s.ex offenders of their writers) has currently passed the threshold of 200k signatures needed for the government to make a statement about it. 

[imaginethemultiversedoms]

Hi, I read your Barry sister story. The one where Ava is hit by lightning too. It’s good so far! Will there be more parts?

Thank you so much! It’s been so long since I’ve opened up Animal Instincts or Visions and Vibes. I have had some ideas rattling around, it’s just sitting down long enough to get it down! Covid has been weird and time is watery soup most days. I’ll see what I can do!

[tanzanitedepths]

Fanfiction Club: The Rules

This idea came to me when I woke up first thing this morning.

[madlori]

This is gold.

[jumpingjacktrash]

i do not see a flaw

[mother-of-a-murder]

[SLAMMING REBLOG BUTTON REPEATEDLY]

[imaginethemultiversedoms]

Can you please title thing correctly like I don’t mean this to be rude but x reader is different than an oc so when something is titled x reader but is an oc story tends to make the people looking for that content annoyed. I’m sorry if this came off bitchy or rude I really don’t mean it to sound like that but one of your stories seemed like a really awesome x reader insert story but it was an oc one. Btw your a good writer just please title things correctly

Sorry, just saw this cause my phone doesn't tell me when I get messages. Yes, I changed it. I've been in fandom long enough that I know how to tag stuff, but I had a lovely brain fart and forgot how. Then forgot to go back and change it.

Sorry for the confusion!

[bongmamaw-deactivated20210105]

i’ve stopped trash talking comic sans after learning the font is actually one of the only dyslexia-friendly fonts that come standard with most computers and i advocate for others doing the same

[not-safe-for-earth]

In the event that you would like to continue hating Comic Sans, other dyslexia-friendly alternatives include Arial, Verdana, Tahoma, Century Gothic and Trebuchet.

[bigbardafree]

thank

[invaderxan]

Random fact: Verdana is one of the few fonts which was specifically designed to be as easy to read as possible, even at smaller type sizes. It was designed this way for use on screen, but the same principles apply in print too. This is part of why some Universities use Verdana as their default font for documents.

[sanctum-sanguinem]

“In the event that you would like to continue hating Comic Sans” is one of the best things I’ve ever read on this website

[writernotwaiting]

@pedeka @lunariagold @darklittlestories

[anastasiaoftheironwood]

I’ll take Comic Sans over Arial any day. 

[writernotwaiting]

Century Gothic and Trebuchet are both quite handsome typefaces.

[iamhisgloriouspurpose]

I’m partial to Century Gothic as well. It’s serif, but not boring.

[catwinchester-deactivated201901]

There’s also a dyslexic font designed especially for dyslexic people to read.

You can install on your tablets, laptops and browers etc, so not only can you change things like documents into it, you can change websites into that font as well! 

[catwinchester-deactivated201901]

I’m sure you’re bright enough to do a google search, but since I’m dumb enough to forget to post a link, here it is. Better late than never

https://www.dyslexiefont.com/en/dyslexie-font/

[captainlordauditor]

I default to arial for this reason, but I will now be defaulting to verdana or dyslexie. nice.

[formlessdemi]

I don’t think I have dyslexia but that dyslexie font was the easiest fucking thing to read ever. Books should be written in that shit.

[lunariens]

ALSO!!!

For computer reading, when you mix up lines of text, there’s a web browser app called Beeline Reader. It looks like this

The colors are also customizable, to an extent and while I don’t have dyslexia, I have adhd which makes reading large amounts of text harder and this helps A LOT.

[imabandoningthisblog-deactivate]

HOLY SHIT

I have adhd and I have NEVER been able read like that before. Wow

[the-adhd-society]

Yasss I love beelinw reader. I use to have it for free as a student for a year and then Idk what happened.

[nylaporp]

This is important and all but I will fight you if you diss comic sans

[protectorofthesmoll]

*Walks in with soapbox*

*tests soapbox for structural stability*

*stand on soapbox*

*deep breath*

KELADRY OF MINDELAN IS ONE OF THE MOST UNDER-APPRECIATED ROLE MODELS AND DESERVES SO MUCH MORE MAIN STREAM ATTENTION. SHE IS A BADASS CHARACTER WHO EPITOMIZES HARD WORK, KINDNESS, AND FAIRNESS. SHE IS A QUICK-WITTED INTROVERT WHO CAN KEEP HER OPINIONS TO HERSELF BUT WILL DEFEND WHATEVER NEEDS DEFENDING. SHE TEACHES READERS THE IMPORTANCE OF PERSISTANCE TO ACHIEVE YOUR GOALS, THE IMPORTANCE OF RULEBREAKING WHEN RUKES ARE UNJUST, AND HOW TO LOVE AND ACCEPT YOURSELF.

AS A FURTHER NOTE, PEOPLE SHOULD READ BOOKS BY TAMORA PIERCE BECAUSE SHE CREATES A WORLD THE DEVELOPES AND GROWS AND EACH SERIES HAS A BADASS, UNIQUE, FLAWED FEMALE CHARACTER. HER WRITING IS FULL OF LEARNING TO ACCEPT YOURSELF, CASUAL MENTIONS OF PERIODS (AND HOW THEY WORK, WHICH IS ONE OF THE FIRST PLACES I GOT A GOOD DESCRIPTION OF THEM), AND TALKS ABOUT BIRTHCONTROL. ALL OF HER CHARACTERS ARE WELL WRITTEN AND HUMANIZED, AND THERE IS LOTS OF WONDERFUL FEMINIST EDUCATION. THANK YOU.

*gets off of soapbox*

*leaves, carrying soapbox*

[systlin]

NO NO COME BACK YOU’RE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

Does necromancy only work on animals? What do you do if you accidentally necromancy a fence and then it starts growing branches?

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

WHAT DO YOU DO IF YOU NECROMANCY A BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO AND IT TURNS INTO AN ENTIRE PILE OF LIMES?

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

What if I accidentally necromancy a vaccine and then someone gets an armful of very live pathogen?

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

WHAT’S THE LIMIT ON DEADNESS? HOW RECENTLY DOES SOMETHING HAVE TO BE DEAD? COULD I NECROMANCY A DINOSAUR FOSSIL? WHAT IF I NECROMANCIED THE GROUND AND THEN DINOSAURS STARTED APPEARING?

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

WHAT IF I NECROMANCIED A LIMESTONE WALL AND IT JUST TURNED INTO A PILE OF MOLLUSCS? WHAT IF I MOLLUSCED A BUILDING? A MOUNTAIN?

[thinster13]

Hey OP are you okay

[woolawool-deactivated20220724]

no

[insanity-keeps-things-fun]

OP is a necromancer having an existential crisis of the unforseen consequences of their powers

[imaginethemultiversedoms]

In the third book of the Immortals Quartet by Tamora Pierce, Daine does temporarily resurrect a tiger skin, a dino skeleton, and an army of fossilized dinosaurs after the Graveyard Hag (a trickster goddess) "lends" her a bit of her gift to see what happens. The army of fossils is in the chapter "Daine Loses Her Temper."

So, yes OP, necromancing the ground could possibly raise an army of dinosaur fossils, if you're strong enough.