Chapter 2: The Spin Cycle of Sanity

​𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 4𝚝𝚑 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 "𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗" 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎.

​𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑. 9:06 𝙰𝙼 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚢-𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜.

​𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑. 𝚁𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚗-𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 1970𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛.

​"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍.

​"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 9:07," 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊-𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍. "𝙼𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 9:06 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢-𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜."

​"𝙴𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢," 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎. "𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚞 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚆𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝙸’𝚖 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊, 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎."

​"𝙸... 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎," 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝. "𝙸’𝚖 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚔. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚜. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚘... 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝? 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐."

​𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚛. "𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝, 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎? 𝙸𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍? 𝙸𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚎? 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝. 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜. 𝚆𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕."

​𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙾𝚈𝙴𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈: 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙿 (𝚆𝙴 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝚃). 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕.

​"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚖𝚎?" 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑.

​"𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝙴𝙾’𝚜 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝙿𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞."

​𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗. 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜.

​"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚋," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢. "𝚃𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝. 𝚃𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚅𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚅𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚡."

​𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌. "𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝... 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚐𝚘?"

​"𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚕𝚢. "𝙸𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎."

​𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛. "𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼-𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝙾𝚗𝚎: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝."

​"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘?" 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍.

​"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚆𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙷𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖: 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '4' 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 '7' 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚠."

​𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜... 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔."

​"𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚠," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. "𝙱𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚝."

​𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚊-𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛.

​"𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '7'?" 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍.

​𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝. 𝙻𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍."

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