Kenz

He seems to like it, so you don’t stop. You rove your fingers through every inch of his scalp, scratching and stroking and smoothing through his curls until they’re a mass of individual strands instead of grouped twists. It’s ridiculously soft, and you wonder how you’ve been able to refrain from touching his hair before now.

There’s nothing you’d rather do than stay here for eternity. Holding him, brushing through his hair, loving him. But your bladder has other wishes. 

Wrestling yourself out from under him is difficult, but he accepts a pillow in exchange for your torso. He burrows his face into it just the same, and you can’t help but brush over his curls one last time as you stand over him, tucking the blankets up and around his shoulders.

When he’s securely tucked into your covers and snoozing away, you pad out of your bedroom, thankful that your parents work early shifts.

You seem to have woken up at a perfect time to make a breakfast larger than you normally do. It takes double the time to prepare a meal for the two of you, and you’re thankful that you think to group the eggs together in a pan to cut that extra time down. You’re setting plates at the table, stuffed with eggs, toast, and fresh fruit when Billy emerges from the hallway, staring cautiously at you where he stands.

His hair is haphazardly smoothed, but there’s no fixing the frizz that your fingers had worked out of it. Your clothes look good on him, even if the sweatpants are stretched over his upper calves instead of at his ankles from how he’d shifted in his sleep. Your shirt is riding up at his stomach and you politely avoid looking at his toned torso, even if you really want to.

“Breakfast,” You hum, pointing your spatula at the table, “Orange juice or milk?”

“Uh-” He flounders, blinking rapidly, “Water, please. Or- I can get it.”

He makes to step towards the kitchen but you whirl your spatula around to face him, intent on pampering the boy, “No, just go sit down. I can do it.”

He looks properly chided, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he ducks to hide it from you.

You set an ice cold glass of water at his place and notice that he’s waited to begin eating until you sat down. You give him the go-ahead, digging into a chunk of egg with your fork.

“Sleep good?” You glance up at him, a questioning glance shot through your lashes. He nods, silent and careful, and you realize that he seems to have closed himself off since last night, and you think that maybe leaving the bed before he woke wasn’t the best idea, even if it was just to make breakfast. You try remedying it by knocking your foot against his under the table, and he nearly chokes on his water. You leave your foot pressed flush to his own, a constant reminder of your touch on his skin.

“Does your stomach still hurt?” You try again, gulping down OJ. 

“A bit,” His morning voice is raspy and you know you’re going to fawn over it later, even if you’re trying hard not to take advantage of his vulnerability.

“It’s mostly a cut up here,” He reaches a hand under his (your) shirt, rubbing at a patch below his left pec. You can see his fingers move under the shirt, and you remember the wound that’s there from last night.

“That probably means your ribs aren’t broken,” You conclude, relief washing over you at the fact that his bruises are just that.

“Nah, not broken,” He shakes his head, stuffing fruit into his mouth and ignoring the way juice drips down his chin, “I know what a broken rib feels like.”

You still, looking up suspiciously at him with your head ducked to your plate. His shoulders slump, “Just some kid from school. He had rings on, and he hit hard.”

“Oh,” You supply lamely, “I’m glad they healed.”

You eat in silence for a few bites, but he doesn’t shy away from your touch beneath the table, and you’re thankful for that. He even shifts his foot to press more against yours, his sock slightly itchy against your skin. Right after he leans into your touch, he speaks.

“My dad doesn’t usually… do this. This was bad, he tries not to leave marks. I think-” He hesitates, and you nudge his foot with your own again, encouraging him, “I think he’d be even more angry if I missed school than whatever he was mad about in the first place. So he has to keep things inconspicuous. And if anyone sees anything I just have to make excuses.”

“I’m sorry,” You say, not out of pity, but sympathy, “I… I really don’t know how you do it. You’re strong, Billy, y’know that?”

He scoffs into his honeydew.

“I mean it,” You press on, “You just… take it. You let him do that to you because if you fight back other people might get hurt, and that takes strength. Even if it feels weak to get beat on, just know you’re saving your stepsister and her mom, and… I’m proud of you.”

He stills for a moment, jaw stiffening in the middle of a chewing motion. He swallows dry, but whatever it is goes down fine, and he clears his throat without meeting your eye.

“He used to hit my mom,” Billy admits, voice now hoarse from emotion rather than sleep. He scrunches his eyes shut momentarily, “I.. I couldn’t stop him. I was too young. And she left. So I guess I just… got bigger. Just in case.”

You recall seeing a set of weights in his living room. You had presumed they were his, but hadn’t bothered to ask among discussions of mitosis. Now, though, you realize he’s bulked himself up to combat his dad’s abuse, even if he uses it to protect others rather than himself.

It spreads a thin layer of mist over your eyes, the thought of preteen Billy experimenting with handheld five-pounders in hopes of blocking a punch. What hits you even harder is his current image, a toned teen who still doesn’t have the heart to hit back.

You can’t figure out how to respond. If you say you’re proud of him again, he might shut down. If you sound like you’re pitying him, he’ll be angry. So instead you reach over the table, your fork clattering to the wood as you take his free hand.

He’s startled by the sudden movement paired with the noise, but he makes up for his momentary flinch by ghosting his thumb softly over the back of your hand. His fingers don’t curl against yours, so it’s not a mutual gesture, you’re just holding his hand. Slowly, surely, his fingers move inch by inch, slipping between your own and settling against your skin.

You wonder if it’s the first time anyone’s ever held his hand.

“Thanks,” He breathes, his breath a huff of cantaloupe scent. He sniffles, hard, aggressively, and you know he doesn’t want you to acknowledge the tear that streaks fast down his cheek. 

You let him wipe it away without saying anything, even though you want to tell him it’s okay. You hope that the way you squeeze his hand tells him that, though, because it’s true. It’s okay for him to cry, and you’re glad that, even if he tries hiding it around you, he feels safe enough to let the tears fall in the first place.

The rest of your breakfast is filled with mindless chatter, a few gossip strands weaving their way through an otherwise pleasant conversation. He learns that Amanda Weaver has been telling everyone he gave her a promise ring, but you’d seen her fish the plain silver band off of her keychain. 

“I don’t even know her,” He snorts, “And promise rings are dumb.”

Your nose wrinkles, “I don’t think so. They’re cute.”

“They’re pointless,” He insists, shoveling egg into his mouth, “Having a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave.”

“If.” You murmur.

“Hm?” He glances up at you, mouth full.

“If they leave.” You correct him quietly, “Some people stay.”

He’s frozen. Baby blues unblinking, he stares at you like a deer in headlights. You hold his gaze with your own steady one, waiting until his brain wraps around what you’re really trying to tell him: I’ll stay.

He’s quiet, for a long time. He keeps his eyes on his eggs, roving over every crease and hill in their structure. Then he mumbles so soft you can barely hear it, “Right.”

There’s a thousand things you want to say. A thousand promises you want to make, a thousand reassuring words you want to mumble against his skin so that they’re absorbed. But the not-so-nice blare of your kitchen timer kindly reminds you it’s time to get to school, and you settle for none at all.

“Shit,” You mumble, shoveling your last bite of melon into your mouth and standing, “I’ll get my-!” 

You glance back at him when you feel a tug, and he’s sitting in place, hand still entwined with yours. He’s cautious, frozen, and you melt into a smile, squeezing his hand.

“My bag.” You clarify, “Are we taking the bus, or walking to your place?”

“Let’s walk,” He decides, his hand never letting up in its grip on yours. It’s bold, it’s forward, it’s healing.

“Okay,” You grin, keeping your fingers tightly curled around Billy’s and tugging him up through the shared embrace, “Let’s go! I’ve gotta be on time today, we’re taking a quiz in first period.”

“We don’t have to go in, we can just get my car.” He lets you drag him to the living room, “The only thing I keep in my bag are cigarettes, anyways. I can bum a few.”

“Billy,” You scold, “Where do your papers go?”

“In the trash.”

“Nice,” You scoff, wincing as you step outside and the harsh sunlight hits your eyes. You fumble with your house keys, slipping them into the lock to close up the house, “I’m gonna buy you a binder. And you’re gonna put your school stuff in it, nice and neat, and you’re gonna carry a pencil, and you’re gonna bring water, and you’re gonna-”

“And you’re gonna fall,” He yanks on your hand, pulling you tight to his side as he points at a rock you’d been headed for, “Pay attention, clumsy.”

“Oh.” You flounder, his toned arm against your cheek as you struggle to right yourself, “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” He flashes you a grin you’ve seen before, primarily aimed at his basketball teammates or a girl he’s chatting up. It’s confident, shit-eating, and it sends a wave of butterflies through your stomach.

The walk to his house isn’t terribly long. It’s a trek, for sure, but you’re there in under a half-hour, laughing all the while. Billy’s hand is still firmly gripping yours, and he’s funny, you remember, when he’s not crying.

“Dad’s not home,” He clocks the car missing from the driveway, “I can get mine and go.”

“Get your bag,” You order, face stern and brows scrunched, “And don’t throw away any of your school papers today!”

“No promises, babe,” He teases, his own key in his pocket as he jams it into the door. You’re thankful that he turns away to step inside so that he doesn’t see your eyes widen at the nickname, but you hope your hand doesn’t begin to sweat, or he’ll notice.

“Maxine?” He calls, shouting through the house. There’s no reply, and her sneakers aren’t by the front door, so you presume she’s not home.

“Probably skated,” Billy shrugs, “My bag’s in my room.”

He doesn’t have to drag you there, you know the way. You send a withering glare towards the room at the end of the hall, where you know Billy’s dad sleeps, as if it’ll cast a curse over the doorway and land him seven years of bad luck. You see the fireplace poker on your way, set neatly back in its place. There’s blood on it.

He changes quick, and you occupy yourself with the collection of tapes by his closet. He’d yanked your shirt right off of his head like you weren’t standing there, but when you’d turned with burning cheeks to give him some privacy, he hadn’t said anything.

Billy’s persistence on holding your hand is sweet, but surprising. The last thing you’d have expected from him was a clingy puppy-boy, but his head turns to track you whenever your hand nearly slips out of his own, and he wrestles with his bag one-handed instead of dropping the embrace. You’re just glad he’s finally holding onto something good in his life instead of pushing it away.

You think it’s a massive inconvenience that he can’t drive while holding your hand. He tries, at first, resting them on the center console, but when he changes lanes and almost overshoots it, you pry your hand out of his own.

“Two hands,” You laugh bashfully, “It’s okay, we- uh, later… later we can…”

“Later,” He turns his head to grin at you, a brilliant display as he slaps his now-free hand onto the wheel,  “Later’s good.”

Unfortunately, later gets pushed back a lot. When Billy pulls into the parking lot, the bell rings. He knows you’re going to be late for your quiz, so he doesn’t try to keep you, smiling softly, “Just go. See you in bio.”

Then between classes, you catch a glimpse of him in the hall. Your stomach starts acting up again, butterflies coming in droves, mind reeling with the thought of him grabbing your hand in public. He almost does, eyes widening as he catches sight of you, broad shoulders muscling everyone out of the way. But before he can reach you, a similarly-toned man steps up beside him, a basketball jersey slung over his frame.

He talks, and talks, and talks and talks and talks, all waving arms and loud jeering. Billy tries holding your gaze over his shoulder, nodding mindlessly along to whatever the boy is saying, but the warning bell rings and you send him a soft, defeated smile.

‘Later,’ You mouth, and his eyes dim when he nods.

Your efforts are futile at lunch, too. He has the class period before with a few of his friends, loud and brash, not your style. It means that you occupy your normal seat, a corner of a bench that the group to your left isn’t using, and tug out a book to entertain yourself. You feel his gaze burning against the side of your head, but if you get caught staring at him, his friends will turn it into some wild story about how you’re infatuated with him, and you’re not the type of person that makes that observation a compliment, at least, not to Billy’s friends. You almost hope he stops looking at you, too, because if they catch him staring, you don’t know how they’ll torment you.

It almost kills him to wait until you’re seated together in biology to reach for your hand. You’d never seen him arrive to class earlier than today, he’s even there before you are. He doesn’t bother to hide his staring, icy eyes tracking you from the second you walk through the door to the second you sit beside him.

You’re thankful that you’re officially seated together now, and you’re thinking that maybe you don’t hate group projects as much as you thought you did.

“Hey,” He murmurs, sliding his hand across the back of yours under the desk.

“Hey,” You hum, flipping your hand over to meet his palm-to-palm.

Everything seems right with the world again.

There’s a certain security you get from Billy’s touch, even if he probably gets more from yours. Having someone to hold grounds you, and you hope it does the same for him. It’s strange, feeling such a strong connection to someone you’d only started talking to days before, but you suppose that’s what happens when you remove all of the formalities of friendship. Your first sleepover just happened to be in an effort to keep him alive, not to eat junk food and watch movies.

You try to pay attention to the teacher, you really do. But she’s nowhere near as interesting as the soft scratching of Billy’s pencil on your paper, and you can’t help but watch as he writes.

You need a ride home?

You reach for your own pencil, scrawling your answer and sliding the paper to him in response

I can take the bus. You should take Max, she skated this morning.

He nearly breaks his pencil writing: She’s got tutoring after school today, she skates home anyways.

Okay, You decide, and you see him smile out of the corner of his eye as you write the word, Thanks, Billy.

He squeezes your hand, and he doesn’t need to write ‘You’re welcome’ for you to know it’s what he’s saying.

Biology typically drones on. You try to stay on top of your schoolwork, of course, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it. The class is suddenly a lot less dreary with Billy beside you, and it becomes a game of stifling giggles. He steps on the toe of your shoe beneath the table, you tug at one of his curls. He crowds your space with his shoulder and nudges you to the edge of your seat, you let go of his hand to pinch at his thigh. He has to stifle a groan at that one, and to do so he thumps his head forwards on his desk, using the cool plastic against his forehead to quell his rugged laughter.

The thunk of his head against the desk alerts your teacher, and you sit up straight, eyes on your paper that’s covered in doodles as you try not to laugh. She scoffs, seeing Billy slumped over the desk, and probably assumes he’s fallen asleep. When she turns away, you elbow him, dipping your head down to where his rests on the desk to whisper in his ear.

“Cut it out,” You hiss, kicking his foot beneath the desk, “She almost saw!”

“Oh no,” He gushes, turning his head so that a sliver of his face shows, glinting with a shit-eating grin, “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”

“It’s not funny!” You insist, keeping your voice as hushed as possible, “I’ve never been in trouble before, and if I get sent to the principal’s office, I’ll-”

“Y/L/N! Hargrove!” You stiffen at the voice of your teacher, your eyes widening where Billy’s only sparkle with excitement, “You two seem distracted. Anything on your minds?”

“Not mitosis.” Billy quips, straightening up from the desk and leaning back in his chair. He earns a few laughs from his scattered friends, and the teacher’s face hardens. Your stomach drops.

“You think you’re funny? You’re one missed homework assignment from failing this class. And now you’re dragging Y/N into this, too? Both of you, head to the front office. This ends here.”

There are tears burning at your eyes. You’re not the best student in the world. Hell, you’re not even in the top ten. But you’re not a bad one either, at best you slip through the cracks. You’ve never had disciplinary action taken against you, and gathering your things amongst the tense silence of your peers feels like a death sentence. 

Billy barely remembers to get his own bag, and he pointedly leaves his papers scattered over his desk. You scoop them up in your own handful, and he waits diligently by your side as you pick up your things. When you’re finally packed up he snatches your hand from where it’s hanging at your side, marching the both of you to the door.

He offers the teacher a very quaint, very polite middle finger as he drags you out of the door, and that’s what does it. The second the door shuts behind you, you burst into tears.

He looks up, alarmed at the sob you let out. The classroom you’d just exited has a row of windows that your back is facing, and he’s worried that if you turn slightly, your classmates will see you cry. As much as you’d told him it was okay to cry this morning, he’s sure you wouldn’t want your peers witnessing the meltdown you’re having. He acts fast, using your intertwined hands and yanking you into the nearest bathroom.

Your sobs echo off of the tile, and he pulls you haphazardly into his chest. Your head rests there pitifully, shoulders slumped as you cry.

“Jesus, okay,” He pants, peering under the few stalls in the back to make sure you’re alone, “What’s wrong?”

“I- I don’t know!” You do know, but it feels embarrassing to say it out loud, “I just- I’ve never been in trouble before, and it’s going on my-” You break to quell another sob, tamping it down in your chest, “Permanent record, and-!”

“Okay, calm down.” Billy scoffs, and you’re surprised to find that it’s not a derogatory one, but a fond one, “It’s fine. All we were doing was talking, it’s not like we were smoking weed in the bathroom.”

Your head shoots up and you recognize your surroundings. You glare at him suspiciously, “You don’t have any weed on you, right?”

“No!” He laughs incredulously, “I do not have any weed on me. Now,” He takes your shoulders in his broad hands, and your fingers go cold now that his aren’t intertwined with them anymore.

“You and I are gonna calm down,” He tells you, voice slow and steady. You’re the only one that needs to calm down, but you appreciate his cooperation.

“Then we’re gonna leave this bathroom, and do you know where we’re gonna go?”

“The front office,” You recite, but he breaks into a grin, shaking his head so that his curls fly.

“But that’s where she told us-”

“She can suck my dick.” Billy scoffs, “She made you cry. Forget her.”

“Billy, I can’t just forget her,” You insist, eyes wide and teary, “She’s our teacher!”

“Today’s Friday,” He reminds you, “She’s not our teacher again until Monday.”

“Fine. Where are we really going?” You look at him skeptically, raising your hand to wipe your nose against its back.

“Okay, first, ew.” Billy wrinkles his nose, yanking your hand away from your face and wiping it with a paper towel that he jerks out of the machine. He wipes your nose next, but he does it aggressively, smearing the paper towel against your face and pushing your head back until you’re laughing, trying to swat him away. The sound makes him smile, and it doesn’t fade as he continues talking.

“We’re gonna go see a movie,” He decides, hiking the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder. Your face darkens slightly, goofy grin dimming.

“We can’t.” You protest softly, “She told us to go to the front office. You said it yourself, Billy, we were just talking. But if we ditch, we’ll be in more trouble, real trouble.”

“I’m always in trouble,” He huffs, “And you’re never in trouble. You really think this’ll be a breaking point for either of us?”

“What’s gonna happen when we don’t show up to the office?”

“They’ll give us detention.”

“We have to go, then!” Your eyes go wide, and you start for the door. He lunges for your hand, grabbing it just before you can push your way out, and this time he doesn’t drop it when he pulls you back inside.

“Detention means we’ll get to sit together for two hours and mess around.”

“No we can’t,” You scoff, “They monitor you. So we can’t just mess around.”

“Hey.” He snaps, begging your attention with those icy blue eyes of his, “Have you ever been in detention before?”

“No.” You admit quietly.

“Right. I have. They don’t care. They don’t want to be there, and they know we don’t either. They’re not gonna punish us any further, ‘cause then they’d just have to sit there with us for longer. Trust me, this will be fun.”

“Fun,” You groan, slumping forwards into his chest rather than covering your face with your hands. It’s a bold move, but a well-received one, and you feel his firm chest shake as he chuckles.

“Yes, fun.” He promises, “But if you really wanna walk up to that office and get lectured…”

“Billy,” You bite the inside of your cheek, lifting your head up so that your chin rests against his chest, “I.. I do. I’m sorry, I know you want to have fun, and- and you can go to the movies if you want! But I don’t want detention on my record. Even if it won’t do anything, I just- it sounds bad.”

“Okay.” He says, after a moment of tense silence. His grin fades, but he doesn’t scoff or push you away. He sighs dramatically, “You’re changing me, y’know. Normally I’d be halfway home by now, but you’ve got me hauling myself in to see the principal, this is bullshit.”

“I told you you could go to the movies!” You gush, laughing weakly at his dramatic display. He brings one of his large hands up to your face, smearing his rough thumb beneath your eyes and wiping away the sticky tear tracks there.

“No,” He sighs again, huffing and puffing, “I’m the one that got you in trouble, I’m not gonna ditch you. We’ll just suffer together.”

His words strike something in you. He’s chosen to change himself, to face consequences for his actions when he’d normally flee. You’re proud of him, so insanely proud that you decide to change yourself as well, and when he leads you towards the office by your intertwined hands, you turn sharply and drag him the other way.

“Wha- Woah.” His eyes widen as you yank him down the hallway, your feet slapping against the shitty linoleum flooring. You beeline for the door, bursting into the daylight with your adrenaline-pumped chest heaving. You come to a stop just outside the building, looking back at him with a thrill glowing in your eyes.

“What movie are we seeing?” You pant, and his grin reappears.

“You’re trouble.” He declares in a laugh, “Let’s go.”

Billy drives fast. This time it doesn’t seem like recklessness, though, but fun. The windows are rolled down, and wind whips through the car and ruffles your hair. His own blonde curls are flying, in his face and over his shoulders against the seat.

“Slow down!” You shriek, laughing through your words, “We’re gonna crash!”

“What are we gonna crash into,” He gestures to the empty road in front of you, all farmland and dust as the same laughter bleeds into his own voice, “A haybale? You want me to slow down so you can admire the scenery?”

There is no scenery. There’s fields, half-dead grass rolling on for miles and miles and passing by so fast that it looks like the sand on a beach. The sky is your ocean, blue and foamy white where clouds streak across it. You pass isolated barns, groves of trees, and-

“Cows!”

“What?”

“Cows! There’s cows up there,” You gush, pointing aggressively at the pasture, “Stop!”

“I can’t-! Uh, okay,” Billy rushes to step on the brakes, wheels screeching against the poorly-paved asphalt as he skids to a stop.

You’re surprised he doesn’t burn through his tires with how fast he stops. You’re out of the car before he can even turn to look at you, seatbelt long unbuckled in favor of dashing for the cows. They’re grazing aimlessly in their pasture, only a weak white fence standing between you and them.

“Hey- Hey!” Billy shouts, rushing to get himself out of the car. He’s panting slightly when he finally stands beside you, regarding you with an indignant look, “What the fuck was that about?”

“Cows,” You croon, sticking your hands over the fence and reaching for the animals, “Come pet the cows with me, Billy!”

One of them seems very interested in any potential snacks your hand might be hiding. Its large, wet nose bumps against your skin and you laugh, long and loud and free, letting the animal explore your scent and petting along its face when it finally realizes you have nothing yummy to offer it.

There’s damp bits of grass stuck to your arm from where its mouth nuzzles against you,, and its tongue is purple when it comes out to swipe along your skin. You shriek, the sound morphing into an elated giggle.

“Oh,” Billy’s nose wrinkles and he takes a step back, “Gross.”

“It’s not gross!” You insist, pulling your arm away to wipe the grass on your jeans, “That’s just what cows do. You’ve never pulled over to pet some?”

“No,” He scoffs, “That’s the most ‘country’ shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah,” You nod gleefully, and he thinks maybe you’ve misinterpreted the scathing tone of his voice, “Come on, Billy, come pet the cows!”

“No thanks,” He shakes his head, “I’m gonna go smoke in the car. Jus’ come back when you’re done.”

You let him head back to the car only for long enough to get a few more scratches in under the chin of a cow to your right. Then you beeline for the passenger’s side, and Billy looks surprised at your arrival.

“Done?”

“No,” You shake your head, reaching for your backpack, “I’m just getting my strawberries.”

“Uh,” Billy watches, apprehensive as you pull a plastic bag of the fruit from your backpack, “You’re not gonna feed those to the cows, are you?”

“Duh,” You nod, pulling the bag open and nearly ripping the seam, “Cows love strawberries, I feed ‘em all the time.”

“You what?” Billy looks at you like you’ve told him you’re made of the red fruit you’re holding, “You’re gonna stick your fingers next to those animal’s faces with food in your hands and you don’t think they’re gonna bite you?”

“No, Billy, cows don’t bite! Not like that,” You insist, hair flying as you shake your head. “I’m not gonna put my fingers in their faces, I’m gonna hold the strawberries on my palm. Then they can’t bite me. Come on, I’ll show you!”

“I’m not feeding cows,” Billy insists, but he moves to get out of the car anyway. When he’s standing at full height he rips the cigarette out from between his lips, blowing smoke into the road, “But I’m not gonna let you run off on your own and get mauled by some hunk of beef.”

“You’re totally gonna feed the cows,” You grin, eyes narrowed at him as you turn on your heel and head back to the fence, “You’ll see!”

You’re already jamming your hand under a cow’s mouth, a strawberry staining your palm red and sticky, when Billy saunters up to the fence. He watches warily as you let the cow nose at your fingers, then it sticks its tongue out to sweep the fruit off of your skin.

You giggle at the ticklish feeling, but Billy’s mouth falls open in horror.

“Oh,” He groans, nose scrunched and grimace strong, “That’s so fucking gross. Its tongue is purple.”

“It’s cool!” You insist, offering the cow a hearty rub between the ears as it munches on your strawberry, hand slimy with spit, “Is there much farmland in California?”

“A bit,” Billy shrugs, blissfully unaware of the curious cow sneaking up behind him as he’s turned towards you, leaning sideways on the fence. “It’s kind of a mix. We didn’t live anywhere near farmland, but sometimes we went to visit Susan’s-!”

Before he can tell you what random relative lived far out in the California farmlands, there’s a cow tongue in his ear.

He jolts away from the fence with a squawk, nearly toppling over as one hand comes up to cover his ear. You’re roaring with laughter even as you help steady him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist while he stumbles to a stop a few feet away from the fence.

“He was looking for strawberries,” You giggle, pulling your sleeve over your hand to wipe cow spit off of his cheek, “I think that was your official welcome to Indiana, Billy.”

“Laugh all you want,” He groans, smearing his own hand over his face to rid his skin of any residual slime you’d missed, “But if we ever make it to an ocean and you wipe out, I’m laughing at you.”

“Deal,” You grin sideways at him, another strawberry in hand.

Of course, Billy does end up feeding the cows. It takes another round of hand-holding, though, where you place the strawberry in his palm and flatten yours beneath it. 

“Just be patient,” You murmur, feeling Billy’s hand tense as the cow noses at his fingers, “He just wants to say hi.”

“We’ve been acquainted,” Billy drawls, grimacing once more as the cow licks the strawberry off of his palm, “He tried eating the thoughts out of my head.”

“What thoughts?” You tease, but before you can gauge the situation and figure out whether you need to start running or not, Billy flips his hand over his shoulder to where you’re standing pressed to his back, and smears his sticky palm across your face.

“Oh,” You gasp, eyes squeezed shut and nose scrunched. You stagger backwards, nearly colliding with his car,  “Gross!”

“Oh, really?” Billy roars with laughter, grabbing you around the waist and leaning his chin over your shoulder as he presses your back to his chest, “I thought it was an Indiana welcome! I thought it was cool!”

“Not when you do it!” You can’t help but laugh, trying desperately to hold the cracked pieces of your disgusted facade together, “You’re not as cute as a cow!”

You’re lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“And to think,” He scoffs, loosening his hold on you but not letting go completely, “I was gonna buy your movie ticket for you.”

You’d almost forgotten your movie adventure. You’d been so wrapped up in having fun with Billy, soaring down the streets with music blaring from the speakers that you’d completely ignored the way he’d driven miles away from any nearby movie theater.

“Hey, yeah,” You stiffen in his grip, turning your head to knock your forehead with his. You try not to pay attention to how close you two are, keeping your focus on his stunning blue eyes, “Why are we out here? The theater’s back that way.” You jerk your thumb behind you in the direction you’d came, and his face settles into a smirk once more.

“We’re not going to that shitty theater,” He boasts, “We’re going to a drive-in. It’s a few miles into the next town over.”

It makes sense, you suppose. He has a cool car, and what better place to show it off?

“I’ve never been to a drive-in,” You gush, excitement brewing in your belly, “What are the showtimes?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs, finally letting you go to saunter back to his car and lower himself into the driver’s seat. You follow to the passenger’s side, tucking the empty plastic bag back in your backpack.

“We’ll catch something.” He reasons, hands finally back on the wheel as you shut your door and buckle your seatbelt, “People around here have nothing better to do, I bet there’s movies playing every hour.”

He gets started on the road once more, and you decide to let him drive uninterrupted. Although it hurts you to watch unpet cows whizz by the windows, you know you’ll be back too late if you keep stopping. When his tires crunch against gravel, then smooth over dirt, the unlit neon sign of the drive-in looms overhead. He leans out of the window at the counter, ordering a large popcorn and two sodas along with your tickets in that rough drawl of his.

He’s a bit rough when he stops on the asphalt, but that’s just how he drives. He’s used to driving recklessly, it’s not a habit easily broken. You hope you can help him live better, sending him a soft, sweet smile as he passes you your soda.

“This view good?” He glances over at you, hand already buried in the popcorn.

You nod emphatically, “Mhm! What movie?”

“No clue,” He lets out a huff of a laugh, “Does it really matter?”

“No,” You shrug, “‘Guess not.”

“It’s almost five,” Billy glances at his watch, “Are your parents gonna freak if you’re not home by dark?”

“They’re having dinner with friends tonight,” You recall relievedly, “They’ll probably be out way later than us. And they’ll just leave dinner in the fridge, they won’t know I’m gone.”

“Nice,” Billy nods, absentmindedly gnawing on a solid popcorn kernel, “My dad never goes out with friends. He doesn’t really have any, I don’t think. Susan does, work friends, but she’s probably not eager to show off her husband.”

He speaks about his dad with a bitter tone in his voice, words coming out brittle like they’ll snap if he tries putting any feeling into them. You hum in understanding; if your husband was like Neil Hargrove, you wouldn’t bring him around your friends either.

“You have friends,” You hum, “Don’t you ever eat out with them?”

“Uh,” He turns his head to stare expectantly at you, “Hello? Remember how I drove you a town over to see a movie, and I let you stop us halfway to stage a petting zoo?”

“I don’t mean me,” You gush, “Like, your other friends! The guys on the basketball team, or whoever you usually hang out with. That little crowd. You don’t go out with them?”

“Not really,” Billy shrugs, “They’re not my friends. Not like- um,” He drops his gaze to his lap, picking at the bucket of popcorn, “Not like you are.”

“Oh.” Is all you can manage, then you wet your throat to speak again, “They seem… no offense, shallow. Like- like they only talk about superficial stuff together. I’ve heard some of your conversations, I think.”

“Oh, so you’re updated on the riveting world of Hawkins High’s popularity pageant?” He scoffs, reaching for a cigarette, “Shit’s so stupid.”

“You say that from the top of the food chain,” You point out tentatively, “You don’t like it there?”

“It’s better than nothing.” He slows his attempts to self-medicate, hand frozen where he’s striking his lighter, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m not getting pushed into lockers. But, it’s like-” His fingers tighten slightly around the cig, jaw tight, “I got there because of what I have, not who I am. And not even that, I got there because of what it looks like I have. They think I’m some kind of rich kid ‘cause I have a nice car, but we’re lucky we don’t live in the trailer park. They think I’m mowing my way through the cheerleading team because they’ve seen us talking before. Sure, maybe I’ve flirted with a few, but-” His face darkens in frustration, nose scrunching slightly, “On the weekends, my dad makes me do shit around the house. And on the weekdays, I’m looking after my sister.” 

You don’t point out his slip-up, how in a fit of passion he’s dropped the ‘step-’. It’s nice to hear.

“I have no time to sleep around,” He chuckles darkly, disdainfully, “Not often. But because people like me, or- or like what they think of me, they just assume I’m selling myself out for it.”

“It’s bullshit,” He concludes, huffily so, “It’s all bullshit. And it’s not gonna last past high school.”

A tense silence falls over the car after he’s finished speaking. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised anymore, not after two days of emotional curveballs from the man, but you think it might be the most you’ve ever heard him speak.

He looks nervous, fiddling with the keys in his ignition. Before he can regret opening up, you reach out to take his hand, pulling it away from the keys and linking yours into it on his thigh.

“I’m glad I’m your friend, Billy.” You confess, equal parts honest and tender. You want the words to soak into his veins, flow through his bloodstream and bloom sweet blossoms inside that light up his dark world.

“Me too,” He breathes, eyes glued to your intertwined hands as he tightens his fingers into the grip. As if on cue, the movie screen lights up, and it’s just barely dark enough outside to see the film.

“Here we go,” You settle in your seat, keeping your hand securely in his own, “Popcorn?”

Billy uses his free hand to pass the bucket over, and you can feel the heat concealed by the thick paper bucket hovering just above your hands. You munch on the buttery snack, a kernel already lodged in your teeth.

To Billy’s slight disinterest, it’s an old romance movie. He should have known, all that ever plays at these movie marathon nights are romances and beach flicks. He has a fleeting thought that he’d rather be watching women in bikinis, but it seems like something he shouldn’t think while holding your hand, so he pushes it away and tries to focus on the grainy, black-and-white footage. 

The transatlantic accents and over-dressed main characters only hold his attention for a few minutes. But he’s family to Neil Hargrove, and he knows how to tune out a boring speech. He focuses more on the warmth that your hand pushes against his, sweet and soft and soothing like the blanket he used to get tucked in under at his grandma’s house. His grandma who knitted that blanket herself, just for him, and who slipped him strawberry sweets anytime his dad got too drunk to notice. And the way you hold his hand feels just like his mother used to, with her thumb stacked on his so that she could stroke it like you’re doing now. He’s only held his dad’s hand a few times, and he’s not able to remember much. He just remembers his mom had always dropped Neil’s hand in a big dramatic fashion, claiming that it was like holding a dead fish.

There’s nothing morbid about holding your hand, though. You’re not stiff and cold like his father, your fingers curve around his and mold to his skin. You not only reciprocate, you initiate, squeezing at a funny line or brushing over the back of his hand.

You’re all the best parts of the people he’s loved, and none of the bad parts of the ones he couldn’t. If he was any sleazier, he’d ask if it hurt when you fell from heaven.

You let out a particularly sweet laugh at a scene and the sound takes him back to only a few nights ago, sitting on his bed and feeling safe. He’d actually forgotten about his father until the man had stormed his bedroom, and he marvels at how you’d managed to suck the terrible thoughts from his head. 

Your study session puts mitosis in his mind. Then biology, and he wonders if there’s ever been two organisms more compatible with each other. Personally, he thinks your biology is pretty basic: you were made for him, and he was made for you. 

He’s broken out of his scientific reverie when your head falls to his shoulder. You throw a quick glance up at him through your lashes, silently begging for permission for something you’ve already done. His heart thuds in his chest as he watches you with curious eyes, and a slow nod of his head is all you need to settle against his side. You’re at an awkward angle, side arched over the center console to get your head to his shoulder. That makes it better, Billy thinks, that you had to work for it. It means you really mean it, that you’re not just doing it because it’s convenient. You’re loving him because you want to.

“Shitty movie,” Billy grumbles, his voice hoarse from its prolonged silence.

“Good popcorn,” You hum, reaching for another piece. Billy leans down to snatch it out of your hand with his teeth, and chews it with a growing grin as you chuckle. 

“You’re a monster,” You tease, and a word that his brain usually whispers at him past midnight, loathing in his thoughts and venom in his veins, becomes nothing more than a nickname.

He thinks he wants to be your monster if it makes you laugh like that, all teasing teeth and careful manhandling.

You’re almost afraid you’ve insulted him with the title until he leans his head against yours, neck bent at an angle. His ear is pressed to the crown of your head, and just in case he can hear your thoughts, you think extra hard: I love you.

You last longer than Billy had, but you lose interest in the film, too. It’s not that it’s boring, it’s just not particularly interesting, and your brain is moving too slow for you to concentrate on careful dialogue. Apparently, the excitement of the day has caught up with you. Your eyes are starting to droop, and you think Billy might be able to feel your lashes flutter against his bicep. If he can, he doesn’t say anything, he just stays curled around you in his seat.

Slowly, second by second, minute by minute, you fall asleep. You drift away from the world and all that remains is Billy’s arm against your cheek, his hand holding yours. You don’t know if you’re fully sleeping or not, all you know is that Billy is the one constant between your life and your dreams.

Billy feels your breathing even out, the soft puffs of air that hit his arm soft and consistent. It’s the last thing he wants to do, but he lifts his head to peer at your face, seeing that you are, in fact, asleep.

He has the strongest urge in the world to kiss your forehead. He doesn’t, half because he’s scared you’ll wake up and think he’s a creep, and half because he’s not sure he’s capable of loving back. He’s taking it slow, and he’ll stick with leaning his head on you. 

He does that until the movie’s almost over, and the romantic climax is shining on the screen.

The woman has fallen asleep on the man’s shoulder. They’re not in a car, they’re on a park bench, but her nose is nudged up against his bicep, too, and their hands are intertwined.

The man reaches up to her cheek, and so does Billy.

His hand is warm and slightly rough against the soft skin of your cheek, but it’s his warm breath against your face that wakes you. Your lashes flutter open, and the only thing you can see are Billy’s pretty blue eyes. You’re almost startled, almost caught off-guard, and then you notice the dark flecks of insecurity in them, ridged between peaks of blue like ocean waves. 

He can’t speak. He’s paralyzed, eyes unblinking against your own, unable to ask, to tell, to beg. All he can do is stare, and hope that his hand isn’t shaking against your cheek.

He licks his lips, and you know what he’s trying to muster up the courage to do.

“Billy,” You breathe, soft and careful, “Are you sure?”

He manages to hum questioningly, but it’s a choked sound from somewhere deep in his throat.

“You’re speeding again,” You let out a breathy chuckle, but you raise your hand to hold his to your face, “Is this because you want me or because you think you’ll never get the chance to have me again?”

“I want you,” Billy murmurs, and the man on screen echoes his sentiments.

The woman on screen leans in, and so do you.

The kiss you share is unlike anything Billy’s ever felt. What he’s used to is prodding tongues, nipping teeth, below-the-belt grabbing, but this is new. This is the soft, dewy sweetness of lips barely touching, and the watermelon balm spread over your mouth. It’s tender in the way that you hold his hand to your cheek, and only made more so by the fact that you’re still holding hands between the seats. It’s less of an active kiss and more of an embrace, lips holding each other in place and noses bumping.

Billy’s never felt safer letting his eyes drift shut. At night there’s always the possibility that his dad will unlock the door in the middle of the night and take out insomnia-fueled rage on him. In his car he’ll get arrested for loitering. Now there’s nothing but you, and that’s all he ever wants there to be.

There’s muted claps from the other cars around you as the movie ends, and you choose to attribute the closing scene of fireworks to your kiss and not the leads’. When you draw away it’s with soft, content sighs, awestruck and breathless.

“I want you too, Billy.” You vow, more than happy to let him know he’s loved, “I’m glad we didn’t go to the front office.”

“Me too,” Billy breathes, leaning in to brush his lips against yours one last time, just holding them there as his fluttering eyes stare into yours.

The sound of revving engines breaks you out of your trance, and Billy pulls away from your face to look over your head. He’s still got his hand on your cheek, and you’re cradled to his chest as he watches everyone around you disperse.

“Let’s head home,” You murmur into his collarbones, kissing the skin there chastely, “You can stay the night at my house again, if you want.”

“I should get home,” He admits reluctantly, “My dad is probably still freaked about last night.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go back,” You hum, tracing the outline of a bandage through his shirt against his stomach.

“Me too,” He sighs, and finally lets your face go when the overhead lights to the lot flick on, “But we’ll get out soon.”

“Oh? Where are we going?” You settle back in your seat, turning to face him with curious eyes.

“California,” He smiles, and his genuine one is a breathtaking sight, “And anywhere you want to stop along the way.”

“That sounds perfect,” You sigh happily, head leaning comfortably back against the headrest. A yawn breaks through your lips and scrunches up your face, and Billy has to fight himself so that he doesn’t pull over and kiss the lines near your mouth.

The silence in his car is peaceful now, serene. There’s nothing left unsaid anymore, nothing hidden in your eyes and nothing withheld in your touches. You drift off to sleep wishing you were still holding Billy’s hand, and when you wake up, you are.

“Hey,” He whispers, squeezing your hand where his is interlocked with it, “Hey, wake up. You’re home now, we’ve gotta get you inside.”

“Hm? Oh,” You hum, bleary eyes taking in the outline of your house against the harsh beams of Billy’s headlights. “Thanks, Billy.”

“Uh-huh,” He nods, offering you a hand after you undo your seatbelt, “C’mon, if you can stand, I’ll carry you up to bed.”

You;re more than happy to let him sweep you off of your feet. He can feel your smile as you bury it in his neck, and he doesn’t even worry about shutting his car off and locking it before he pushes open your front door. Sure enough there’s tinfoil covered dinner on the counter alongside a note from your parents, and Billy marvels at how well they take care of you even when they’re not home. 

“To the right,” You instruct him, realizing he’s only ever gotten into your room from the window outside, “And it’s the second door down.”

“Got it,” He murmurs, chin bumping your cheek.

Your bed is still unmade from that morning, and he yearns to slip beneath the covers again. He’s jealous when he tucks you in, and you’re glad you wore comfy clothing to school so that you can burrow under your blankets and not worry about changing.

“Goodnight,” Billy leans down, an inch away from your face, “Can I…?”

You lean up to do it for him, pushing your lips against his once more.

He melts into it, and the way that your nails scratch the hair at the base of his scalp only makes it worse.

“Goodnight,” You mumble, words wonky and misspoken against his lips, “I had fun today, Billy. I’m glad we’re friends, and I’m glad we’re more.”

“Me too,” He agrees, and the sentiments he’s agreeing to feel foreign to him. Five days ago he’d have been the least likely person on earth to have a friend, and now he’s got a partner to boot. In every sense of the word, he loves you, even if he won’t say those three words yet.

“Please be safe,” You cup his cheek, stroking over his slightly bruised cheekbone with tenderness he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to, “And if he hurts you again, stay with me instead.”

“I will,” Billy promises, dotting a dewy kiss to the side of your mouth as you settle into sleep, content with his safety.

He tells himself he’s just puttering around, throwing a stray sock into the laundry hamper and straightening a book he’d nearly knocked off of your nightstand on the way in. But really he’s waiting to make sure you’re really asleep, ring already slipped off of his finger and growing sweaty in his palm.

Once he’s sure you won’t wake, he peels back the covers on your bed, taking your hand in his. It’s got a familiar weight to it, a fact that he mentally celebrates, and his fingers shake as he slides the metal band onto your finger.

Having a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave, he reminds himself. Then, ‘If’.

“If they leave.” Your soft voice rings in his ears, and as he treks back to his car, revving the engine in the silvery light of the moon, there’s a feeling he’s never felt before rising in his chest. Hope: “Some people stay.”

You rush back to your seat to pack your bag with a strange haze over your thoughts. Everyone knew Billy, what he wanted, what he did. He was notoriously forward, and though he had been straight to the point, you hadn’t felt like... prey. Still, something tugged at the pit of your stomach, a warning to be careful.

The bell rings and you turn, finding a pair of worn boots in your line of sight. You glance up at the wearer, finding Billy already waiting for you.

“Uh, sorry,” You stammer, rushing to stand and subsequently hitting your head on the desk, “Fuck-!”

“Jesus,” Billy chuckles, and you’re worried you’ll analyze the sound and find components of mockery in it, “Careful.”

“It’s fine,” You hiss, but before you can rub at the spot you’d hit, Billy’s hand is there, mussing your hair and pushing you forwards, towards the door of the class. It’s something you’d do to your clumsy younger brother, and it feels odd coming from the chain smoking California kid everyone talks about.

“My stepsister’s out in twenty,” He informs you, a presence on your left as you walk out the front doors of the school, “So we’ve got, like, fifteen minutes to talk about our plan, if you want.”

“That’s good,” You hum, trailing after him to an impressively flashy car, “I think we should just draw everything. I know she said we could use clay, but that costs more, and I’ve already got colored pencils.”

“Fine by me,” He makes for the passenger door first, throwing it open and gesturing for you to get in, “You can put your bag in the back.”

When you’re seated, he shuts the door for you, and you’re oddly grateful for the gesture. It’s kind, and once more, out of character for the stereotypes you’ve heard about him. There’s a tense few seconds of silence in the camaro as he crosses to the other side, and your cheek finds its way between your teeth. But once he gets in and starts the car up, the stereo blares to life with a mixtape you’re sure he’s made himself.

“Sorry,” He grunts, reaching for the dial, “We can talk.”

“It’s fine,” You shake your head, “I don’t mind music.”

Though he cranks the dial back up, it’s not all the way, and the music becomes background noise to the shuffling of papers in your lap.

“So,” You start, thumbing through notes and ideas, “Like I said before, clay is difficult to work with, and messy, plus we’d have to model it and let it dry, and I think leaving clay unattended in my house would result in a disaster. And if we just draw it instead, they’re simple shapes and there’s nothing too complicated to draw, whereas clay would be harder to sculpt. And-”

“Okay, okay! Let’s just draw it,” Billy chuckles again, checking his rear-view mirrors for oncoming cars as he peels out of the parking lot, “If you wanna draw it then we’ll draw it.”

“Oh. Okay.” You sit back with a huff, unsure whether to be indignant because you were cut off or grateful that you seemed to be getting along.

“If you don’t have your colored pencils with you I’m sure my stepsister has some,” He theorizes, “But maybe you should ask her. If I ask her I’ll get one jammed into my eye.”

You let out a breathy laugh, “She’s, uh- spirited, then?”

“Mean-spirited.” Billy drawls, turning a bit harder than he should down a residential street on the way to the middle school, “She sucks.”

You’re sure that Billy wouldn’t be going out of his way to pick her up from school if she sucked. Or at least, if she sucked all the time. You’re well aware siblings have their feuds, but when she runs up to the car with a skateboard in her hands, you know he’s bluffing. If he really disliked her, she could have skated home. Now you know he’s softer than he lets on, but you keep it to yourself, smiling awkwardly up at her when she pulls open your door without looking first.

“Backseat, dipshit,” Billy scoffs, “I’ve got company.”

Company. It sounds like a dirty word, at least, coming from Billy who’s company typically consisted of girls spread eagle over the hood. But you reach for your seatbelt, “I can sit in the back, if you want?”

“No.” He pushes your hand away from the buckle, nudging it into your lap, “She’s younger and she’s annoying. Backseat, dipshit.”

With a huff she slams the door, and you’re suddenly not sure that you’ll avoid a colored pencil to the eye, either. Billy’s peeling out of the parking lot before she’s even buckled her seatbelt, and she sends him a nasty glare through the rearview mirror, one that you’re sure has the power to burn a hole through his head.

“So, uh,” You turn slightly in your seat, meeting eyes with the disgruntled middle schooler, “What’s your name?”

“Maxine.” Billy drawls, at the same time she snaps, “Max,”.

“Max?” You echo cautiously, and she snaps out of her glare at Billy to size you up. She seems relieved, almost taken aback that you’d listened to her instead of her stepbrother. She nods, and her lips curl in something that you’ll take as a smile, even if it’s barely perceptible.

“I think I’ve seen you around,” You muse, “You go to the arcade, right?”

“Yeah,” She nods, “You... you wear the green converse, right?”

“That’s me,” You laugh, raising your leg and lifting the hem of your pants to showcase the olive green sneakers.

“You know what shoes they wear?” Billy sneers from the front, glancing back at her through the mirror. 

Her face flushes as she ducks it down to stare at her lap, and you’re quick to swat gently at his shoulder, “Be nice!”

He looks at the hand you’d used bewilderedly, and Max bites back an amused smirk.

You’re nervous for a moment, afraid you’d cracked some ancient rift between the two, but Billy just clenches his jaw, shooting her another glare through the mirror and turning down a side street into a residential neighborhood.

Though he’s entered new territory, he doesn’t slow down. He’s going fast enough to pummel any unfortunate child playing in the street, and your stomach twists uneasily as he only speeds up.

“Billy,” Your voice is cautious, anxious even, “Can you... slow down? There’s too many kids here, it’s making me nervous.”

“I won’t hit anyone,” He assures you, though it does little to calm you, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe you- don’t!” You tense as a toddler veers too close to the street where he’s playing with a ball on his front lawn, your heart racing as he wobbles safely back towards his house, “Please, Billy?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response, and honestly, you think you’re lucky he doesn’t snap at you like he does Max, but he eases up on the gas, finally within the speed limit as he curves through neighborhoods in pursuit of his own.

He pulls into their driveway with ease, and it makes you question how often his parents are gone. Surely their cars would take precedence over his in terms of parking, and you worry about him and Max being left alone more often than not. You’re so caught up in pondering the stability of their home life that you run straight into Billy’s back as he wrestles with his keys, stumbling backwards and apologizing bashfully.

“Clumsy,” He labels you, but it sounds more like a nickname than it does an insult. A mere observation, not a crack.

Max is off to her room before you even step over the threshold, and ignores Billy’s shouts of, “Maxine, we need colored pencils!”

She slams her door in response, and his shoulders slump.

“Shitbird.” He mutters, and an involuntary laugh slips from your lips. He looks back at you with a sly grin, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair.

“Inventive,” You bend down to unlace your shoes, but Billy waves you off, so you keep them on. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“We’ve got a whole list of ‘em,” He boasts, and you admire the rare mention of the two of them as a duo instead of opponents, “I think her favorite is dickwad.”

“Oh, that’s even better,” You chuckle, “I’ll have to use that.”

“She usually pairs it with another insult,” He speaks as though he’s describing the plating process of a budding young chef, “Something like insufferable or shit-for-brains really gives it an extra kick.”

You fall into a comfortable silence while he points you to his room and while the rest of the house you can see seems lifeless and sterile, his room is definitely his. Posters on the walls, laundry on the floor, a discarded shirt, a belt, and- boxers, that you only notice as he kicks them into the depths of his closet. You try not to think about them as he tosses his bag on his bed, prompting you to do the same. You rifle through your papers again, watching as he arms himself with a single pencil.

“We should plan out what we’re drawing first,” You propose, hesitant to sit on his bed before he tells you that’s where you’re working. It feels too personal, you’d almost rather sit on the floor.”

“Okay,” He nods, taking the plunge and sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, “So we’re drawing…”

“Mitosis,” You freeze, glancing up at him apprehensively through your lashes, “Have you been paying attention in class?”

“I’ve been trying to dump enough ashes onto the flowers outside the window to kill them,” His head jerks upwards to look at you instead of your bag as he drawls sarcastically, and the earring in his left ear dangles, shining in the light streaming in from the windows. You heave a sigh with raised eyebrows, ducking your head to continue searching through your bag.

“Here’s a diagram,” You offer up a recent class handout, one that you’re sure he’d used to spit his gum out in, “This isn’t the order the steps are in, though. So we have to reorder them, then draw them all and write about them.”

“There’s only four,” He reasons, “That won’t take too long.”

You neglect to break the news to him that you’re a perfectionist. 

“You start with prophase,” You point to the corresponding picture, “And I’ll do metaphase. Then whoever finishes first can divide the last two.”

He nods once in acknowledgement, “I’ll get colored pencils from Max later. She won’t stab me if I offer her pizza first.”

You can’t blame him for his apprehension towards the redhead. She’s definitely fiery, but you have a sneaking suspicion she’s equally as sweet. You suppose siblings are always at each other’s throats, and Billy and Max are no exception. You get to work sketching out your diagram, and after it's formed, without a ruler to make straight lines, you attempt your own freehand ones. They’re supposed to be arrows, pointing to each part of the drawing to label them, but they come out lopsided and shaky. 

Billy glances up from his sketch when eraser shavings fly over it, peering concernedly at you as you nearly rub a hole through the paper with your eraser.

“Jesus,” He frowns, looking at the array of gray shavings on his comforter, “Are you trying to bury us?”

“Sorry!” You groan, sweeping the shavings away into your palm and dropping them into the trash can that he’s got by his nightstand, “I can’t get these lines straight.”

“Uh,” Billy straightens from where he’d been slouched against the wall, lost in his drawing, “I don’t think I have a ruler..”

“I figured,” You rub your eraser clean of pencil lead, “It’s fine, I can just-”

“Here,” He cuts you off, lunging for a record sleeve that he’s got propped on a milk crate by the foot of his bed, “You can trace it with this.”

You freeze with the sleek, stiff sleeve in your hands.

“Are you sure?” You glance cautiously at him, ghosting your fingers over the edges, “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Don't, then.” He snorts, “Just trace the edge, you won’t get pencil on it.”

You carefully line the pencil up with the side of the sleeve, peering around his room once before tracing the line you need, “Do you have a record player?”

“Not anymore,” He shakes his head, his curls bouncing, “It got- uh, broken when we moved.”

You hum sympathetically, “That sucks. Maybe you can find a cheap one somewhere, like a yard sale, or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” He glances up at you with a soft smile, but you don’t catch it, too immersed in your task. He takes the time to admire you curiously, his eyes tracing your features just like you do the arrow.

“There,” You breathe, handing the sleeve back to him once all of your lines have been drawn, “That’s perfect.”

“Mine’s done too,” He decides, tipping his folder so that you can see his final product, “That okay?”

“Looks good,” You nod, scanning the page for any possible mistakes, “That’s... A lot of detail. Wow.”

He chuckles, and you think it’s sheepishly, “Yeah. I draw fast, I guess.”

“I guess,” You parrot, “Okay, next?”

“Actually,” He slides the paper off of his lap, glancing at the clock on his wall, “It’s getting kind of late. If we want pizza delivery, we should call in now, that way it gets here before we get too hungry.”

“Oh!” You stiffen slightly, “Uh, I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t think I have money for pizza.”

“It’s fine,” He waves you off, “I got it. You’re probably the only reason I’m gonna pass this class anyways, I think I owe you more than two slices.”

“Bio’s hard,” You laugh lightly, “I think I’m doing worse in math, though.”

He groans, running a hand down his face, “Fucking math.”

“This unit is so confusing,” You gush, hearing the crunch of tires on gravel from somewhere outside, “I just can’t wrap my head around-”

“Quiet.” Billy demands, eyes wide.

“Uh- what?” You glance nervously at him. You’d started to let your guard down, to forget the rumors about Billy Hargrove, the basketball player with a whole lot of fire inside of him. You’d been comfortable on his bed, chatting about classes and drawing diagrams. But now, when he hears voices outside, he snaps.

“-parked in the damn driveway,” One grumbles, a man’s voice that makes Billy shoot out of his seat when it’s paired with heavy, thumping footsteps across the walkway.

Billy lunges for you, and you don’t have time to scream in shock before his hand, rough and large, slams itself over your mouth.

“Get in the closet,” He hisses, brow dipped in a ferocious frown, “Now!”

There’s no other way to describe how he moves you than manhandling. He grabs you tight by the arm with his free hand, dragging you up and off of the bed as you try fighting him on instinct. When you hear the front door open your brain catches up to you, and you rush to help his progress, not hinder it, so you stand from where you’d been limp in his arms and dart into the closet.

He’s barely able to slide the door shut on you before a series of knocks fall heavy on his door. They’re the type of knocks you’d only ever heard before in cop shows, the FBI banging on people’s doors ready to tackle them to the ground.

You’re petrified in the closet, squeezed between a series of shelves behind your back and the door pressed to your front. Your breathing is erratic, short, sharp intakes of breath warming your face as they hit the door in front of you and bounce right back.

“Yeah?” You hear Billy swing his door open, the hinges squeaking, “Oh, hi, dad.”

“Hi.” The same voice from before sounds, and it sends a shiver down your spine from how icy it is, “There’s a blue camaro parked in my spot. Any idea who’s that is?”

The question is sarcastic, of course, but your nose wrinkles at how unnecessary it is, not to mention condescending.”

“It’s-” Billy tries, but his dad cuts him off.

“It had better not be my son’s, whom I have told repeatedly not to park in the driveway. My driveway.”

“I’m sorry, dad.” Billy keeps his voice low, guilty, and you think it sounds earnest enough. Your breathing is calmer now, not normal but not panicked. Sure, it’ll be awkward listening to Billy get lectured by his dad, but you’d survive.

“The next time this happens,” Billy’s dad’s voice grows eerily venomous, “I will get your old baseball bat from our garage, and I will smash that car to bits, you understand? I don’t give a damn if you bought it, you’re parking it on my property and that means you’ll do it by my rules.”

“Yes, sir.” Billy recites, and your heart sinks at how impersonal their relationship seems. You’d had your concerns from the beginning, because everything about Billy’s home life seemed to indicate that it wasn’t the most conventional, but you pity the boy for his dad’s lack of human decency.

“Move it. And where’s Maxine?”

“She’s in her room,” Billy supplies readily, “She’s doing homework. And I was just about to order us pizza.”

You breathe easier knowing it’s over. That the danger has passed, that you’ll be out of the stuffy closet soon. But only silence ensues, there’s no acknowledgement from Billy’s dad. Not until-

“What?”

“There’s no spaghetti left,” Billy tries reasoning, “We finished it all last night. I just thought that pizza was-”

“Son,” Billy’s dad spits, “It is 6:30. That is well past our family’s dinnertime. And you haven’t fed your sister?”

“I was about to grab the phone, dad! To call the pizza place, and order so that they wouldn’t be later than seven. I know it’s later than we usually eat, I just thought that she’d tell me if she was getting hungry! And she hasn’t,” Billy huffs, “She’s been quiet since we got home from school.”

“You thought she’d tell you? Billy, it’s not her responsibility to run this household when we’re away, it’s yours. I’ve told you that time and time again. And she’s been quiet since you got her home from school? How do you know she’s even in her room? Do you? Have you checked on her?”

“No, dad,” Billy argues, “I haven’t checked on her. I’ve been doing my own homework, and you’re the one that left, so I don’t know why it’s my fault that-!”

You thought things were fine. Sure, it was an argument, but that’s all it was. Until it wasn’t. Until the door in front of you shakes, nearly snaps, as a colossal thud rattles its frame. You’re not sure how you managed to stay quiet, the door warping in its hinges and pressing tight against your front. You slam a hand over your mouth to muffle your newly-frantic breathing, eyes shut tight as tears bead in their corners.

“How dare you,” You hear that voice, the rough, hateful voice of Billy’s dad, only inches away from you. But he’s speaking to you, not away from you, and you come to the terrible realization that he’s slammed Billy into the closet door. You’d managed to keep up hope, imagining his stereo thrown across the room towards your location, but there’s no denying now that it’s Billy’s weight against your front, only a flimsy closet door between you.

“How dare you insinuate that this is my fault? How dare you tell me that I can’t leave my own home, and how dare you shirk your responsibilities to your sister. As if you’re not a grown man,” Billy’s dad spits, “You are more than capable of looking after a 13-year-old girl. You just choose not to, and I don’t know how else to get it through your head, Billy! This is your family, she is your sister, and when we are gone, you are her parent! She needs food, she needs attention, she needs care, she’s not a goldfish. Why don’t you care about her, Billy? Why do you keep acting like you are not a part of this family?”

There’s a moment of silence where Billy tries thinking of something to say. You use it to answer the question for yourself: because he isn’t. This isn’t a family, you realize, your chest still compressed by Billy’s weight, this is a broken home. The three of them, Billy’s dad, his stepmom, and his stepsister, they’re a family, but Billy isn’t. Not with the way they treat him, not with the things they expect of him. It’s no wonder he doesn’t like his family, because they really aren’t that.

It’s too late. Billy takes too long to answer (which you think is unfair with such a loaded question), and your stomach churns as you hear a sharp smack. You’re unfortunately certain that it hasn’t been Billy’s father on the receiving end, but your biology partner himself.

Thankfully, Billy’s dad doesn’t hear your gasp. Or maybe he does, but he thinks it’s Billy’s. Nevertheless, you know Billy hears it, and you hope that he takes some comfort in the fact that you’re still there, that you’re not selling him out and revealing yourself to get yourself out.

“You are her brother.” Billy’s dad breaks the silence, and you try matching your haggard breathing to Billy’s so that he doesn’t hear you, “You are responsible for her. And if you disobey me again, you will be punished. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Billy mumbles, and you hate how thick his voice sounds in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Billy’s dad drawls, and you have the sudden urge to leap from the closet and punch him in the teeth, “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Yes.” Billy repeats, voice strong this time, “Sir.”

“Move your fucking car.” Billy’s dad spits, leaving him with another shove to Billy’s shoulders that pushes you even further back into the shelves. Your back is going to ache tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not while Billy stands petrified against his closet door.

The heavy footsteps recede, and there’s two pairs, a much lighter one there now, too. But Billy hasn’t moved, and you come to the sickening realization that Billy’s stepmom had been lingering in the doorway the entire time. Or just outside it. You must not have heard her light footfalls when they were so consumed by her husband’s earth-shaking ones. She had to have known what Billy’s dad was doing to him, why wouldn’t she stop him? Why wouldn’t she say anything?

You don’t have time to prepare for the closet door flying open, and for a split second, you’re afraid it’s Billy’s dad. But it’s not, it’s Billy, and he meets your eye for only a split second. It’s enough for him to notice the withheld tears in your eyes, and for you to notice his own. He gulps, swallowing a lump in his throat, and his eyes drop to the floor. There’s a glaring red mark on his cheek, one that looks like it stings.

“Climb out the window,” He mumbles, gruff and secretive, “Take your bag, it’s under my bed. Wait for me down the road, I’ll drive you home.”

You don’t have it in you to argue with him, not when he looks like he’s about to burst into tears. You creep past the open door carefully, even though the footsteps have receded, both pairs, down the hallway and into a different room. You don’t have a difficult time climbing out the window, and you shoulder your backpack after your feet are firmly on the ground. 

Billy shuts his window behind you, and you’re alone now, in the darkness.

The side of their house is somewhat overgrown, twigs and leaves snapping beneath your shoes as you trek off-property. You follow the path of the street until you’ve passed other houses, and don’t seem to be lingering near theirs. Then the roar of Billy’s car travels your way, and his headlights bathe your stiff form.

He’s gripping the wheel tightly as you open the door, and he doesn’t look at you as you get in. It’s awkward, tense, and you have to sit on your hands to stop yourself from fidgeting with them and setting him off.

The drive is quiet; he’s shut off his radio. He drives fast, and this time you don’t have the heart to stop him. You’re still worried, but you think you’ve figured out why he drives fast, and you’re not sure you blame him for it anymore. He’s controlling what he can, because he can’t control most things.

You’re only five minutes out from his place when you first speak up, clearing your throat experimentally beforehand, “Do you... wanna talk about it?”

You glance over at him subtly, watching his knuckles turn white on the wheel. 

“No.”

“Okay,” You breathe, and bite your tongue to stop from speaking for the rest of the ride.

He pulls into your driveway with a rough turn, and you’re sure he only knows which house is yours because he’d seen you getting the mail two weeks ago while he was cruising through your neighborhood. On a different occasion, you’d commend him for his memory, but it seems inappropriate now.

You unbuckle your seatbelt without prompting, careful not to annoy him. But you can’t stop yourself, before you shut the door you peer down at him. Of course, he doesn’t look at you.

“Billy,” You start, carefully, cautiously, “You don’t have to talk to me about it. Or- or anyone. But if you ever need a place to stay, a safe place for the night… you can come here.”

You think he’s going to yank the door shut himself and speed off. And you wouldn’t blame him, either. But to your surprise, his eyes shift, no longer on the road ahead but on you. He glances at you through the mirror, still too timid to meet your eyes unobscured, but his gaze shatters you. It’s broken itself, and inside of his pretty blue irises is a child screaming for help. Pain pools in his pupils and threatens to drip down his cheeks in tears you wish you could wipe away before they even start flowing. 

“I mean it,” You promise, “Anytime.”

He holds your gaze, lips parting to whisper shakily, “Thank you.”

You leave him with a soft smile, throwing your bag over your shoulder lightly. You shut the door and watch him leave, much slower and more controlled than when he’d peeled in. When he’s completely out of sight you turn with a sigh, trekking up your front steps and fumbling for your keys. It takes you a minute to get in the door because of how distracted you are, and in your frustration you slump against the wood, remembering the feeling of Billy’s closet door nearly choking you.

You’re shaken up, you can’t imagine how Billy feels. And there’s no telling how often his dad does this, after all, it barely took anything to set him off. You hope he’ll be okay for the night, and for his own safety you wish he’d stayed with you. You wish he’d parked his car on your driveway, without fear of anyone smashing it, and settled on your couch for the night. But he didn’t, and when you crawl into your bed that night, you hope he’s safe in his own.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗒.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾— 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗒.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎— 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍'𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖲𝖺𝖿𝖾.

𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋.

𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽.

𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒.

𝖠 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋— 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖶𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍— 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌— 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾.

𝖡𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇— 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝖭𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖡𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒-𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌— 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍, 𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒— 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍.

𝖡𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽— 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽— 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀— 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝖽, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝖽𝗈. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖠 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾.

“𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆— 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽.

“𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖣𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋— 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗎𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀— 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗇𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

“𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾— 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼.

𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗉𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍, 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋— 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽.

“𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾—”

“𝖭𝗈.”

𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖡𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋— 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒,”

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖺𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖠 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾.

“𝖲𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖽𝗈.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖯𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖱𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖦𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

“𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?”

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌.

“𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖭𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍.

“𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀?”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽— 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖠 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖠 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖣𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖲𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗒.

𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖣𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖥𝖾𝖺𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒— 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎— 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖡𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖤𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅— 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗄.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

“𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌— 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗈 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖯𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

“𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍… 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖾— 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍.

𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖭𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖭𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀— 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.

“𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎?”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖥𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽— 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗋𝖺𝗐, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍.

“𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

“𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍.

“𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖬𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.”

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾— 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍. 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖠 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒— 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍.

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

𝖳𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁. 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗒, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽— 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗍.

“𝖡𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖢𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗉𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝖽𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗋𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎— 𝗎𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗎𝗇𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖳𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆— 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌— 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗆.

𝖦𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅.

𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋— 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝖾𝗐. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

“𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖾,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈, 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗐 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐— 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾.

“𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝖶𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍— 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇.

𝖮𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖧𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇,”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

𝖧𝖺𝗋𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉— 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝖽𝗈. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉— 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾, 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

“𝖨 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.”

𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻. 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄— 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈.

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇?”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉, 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿—”

“𝖧𝖾𝗒.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌— 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍.

“𝖶𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖳𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗌. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉, 𝗂𝖿 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍— 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆.

“𝖬𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈,”

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

“𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨’𝗆 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖮𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖮𝖿 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂𝗍— 𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

“𝖡𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾. 𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌— 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌— 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

“𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾?”

“𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍,”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾. 𝖠 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

“𝖫𝖺𝗍𝖾.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍— 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇.

𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇? 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾?

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐— 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝖥𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋-𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.”

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾,”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗐. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖭𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾, 𝗇𝗈 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒— 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗉.

“𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗒,”

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆.

“𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒.”

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾.

𝖳𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾.

𝖳𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒.

𝖳𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗒, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗎𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽.

“𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾? 𝖶𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇? 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖶𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈? 𝖳𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇— 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁?

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋-𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗒.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾— 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅-𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒— 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒.

“𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾.

“𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍… 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈— 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

“𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾—”

“𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍… 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒. 𝖪𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝗋 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾—

“𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍— 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗎𝗇𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾.

“𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒… 𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖨’𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖧𝖾’𝗅𝗅—”

“𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆, 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝖾𝗍.

“𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾. 𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖨 𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉-𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗎𝗇𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽.

“𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨’𝗆 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗒— 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗒𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗎𝗆. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗀𝗈.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖠 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆— 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽— 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝗅𝗒— 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍.”

“𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖫𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖨 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋— 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖺𝗎𝖽𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾— 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗒, 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌— 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾, 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾.

“𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽.

“𝖫𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾-𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁.

“𝖠𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗒𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗌𝗒, 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗒—𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍’𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖺 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾: 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗋, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗆𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅.

“𝖶𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾.

“𝖤𝗇𝖽,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗃𝖾𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍.

“𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾—”

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽.

“𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝙆𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙊𝙪𝙩’ 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝖲𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾— 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾— 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗒, 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖴𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒— 𝗀𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾— 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒, 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅.

𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽-𝗂𝗇, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍.

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗉𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖥𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖱𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌— 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉, 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖯𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌: 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖳𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽-𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗒. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖭𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗅𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌— 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗆𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾.

“𝖡𝖾𝖽.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇, 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁— 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒, 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽-𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.

“𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽-𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌— 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒. 𝖲𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌, 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽— 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝗒𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖧𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍— 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽.

𝖠 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗏𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖲𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾. 𝖭𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍’𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾—

“𝖧𝖾𝗒.”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅. 𝖱𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒.

“𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗉.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖠𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗎𝗉,”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖢𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄— 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗉. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋— 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍— 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾, 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒. 𝖸𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽.

“𝖫𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗒. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄-𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾— 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌. 𝖦𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗈,”

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅— 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾—”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝖺 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗋𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖡𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍— 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖨’𝗆 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖨’𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁.

“𝖨 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾,”

𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨’𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.”

𝖠 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌.

“𝖯𝗅𝗎𝗌, 𝖨 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖲𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽.

“𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝖨𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿— 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽— 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾.

“𝖭𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌,”

𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖿𝗎𝗅.

“𝖬𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍— 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒— 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌.

“𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝖾?”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾— 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌.

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍?”

“𝖲𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌?”

𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖠 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇.

𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒— 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇, 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐.

𝖣𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒— 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾.

“𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖾.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝗅𝗒, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗍— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖡𝗎𝗍—”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾.”

𝖧𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌— 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽.

𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗒𝗉𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼, 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

𝖱𝗂𝗌𝖾.

𝖥𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖱𝗂𝗌𝖾.

𝖥𝖺𝗅𝗅.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖮𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿, 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌— 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒.

𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽.

𝖯𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅.

𝖠𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍.

𝖨𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉, 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇. 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍. 𝖵𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗉, 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽. 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇— 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝖽-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖻𝗒, 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖾— 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖢𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌— 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄— 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖨𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌.

𝖡𝖾𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗂𝗍, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽-𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋.

𝖡𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌— 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗍𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅.

𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖯𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖡𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗍.

𝖳𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾— 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍.

𝖤𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾— 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇.

𝖠𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗅𝗒— 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒.

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

𝖠/𝖭: 𝖥𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌. 𝖢𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍. 𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 🙃 𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽.

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