Chapter 4: The Lag of the Land

𝚃𝚑𝚎 "𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝" 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜-𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢, 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛-𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 "𝚂𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝙱𝚘𝚝_9000." 𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔-𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛.

"𝙷𝚎’𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 '𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑' 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚎𝚛 "𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔" 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. "𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎. 𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙼-𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝. "𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕? 𝙰 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝?"

"𝙰𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚞𝚛," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍. "𝙰 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘, 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙻𝚊𝚐. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗; 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝.

"𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚐. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚊 '𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎-𝚆𝚒𝚍𝚝𝚑 𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚒𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙.' 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 20 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 900. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢?"

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚔𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢’𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛—𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚡𝚎—𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚢, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙-𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎.

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝?! 𝙽𝚘! 𝙽𝙾!" 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔. "𝙼𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝙼𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍! 𝙼𝚘𝚖! 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚡!"

"𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍.

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝.

"𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍! 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚔𝚎!" 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢!"

"𝙴𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚝. "𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙷𝚎’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎."

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎?" 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍. "𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍?"

"𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝙼𝙸, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍. "𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚎' 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔.

𝙰𝚜 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙼-𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝.

"𝙽𝚘𝚠," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚎. 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚎, 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢’𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗, 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚊 𝚓𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

"𝙽𝚘! 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐?!" 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. "𝙸... 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊 '𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝙹𝚒𝚐' 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚎. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 '𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚕' 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐."

"𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜. 𝚆𝚎’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚘𝚝𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛."

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊," 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛, "𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜."

"𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚢, 𝚔𝚒𝚍," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊’𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍. "𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝙸𝚗-𝙻𝚊𝚠 𝚅𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝' 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜."

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