neither lost nor found

❝God, I don't have that energy. I swear, if I have 2 extra minutes before work, I'll be sleeping❞ she replied, laughing softly. ❝The day was hectic today. We have a seal in recovery, and it requires much more attention than usual❞

Lilou tried to disguise it, but she was also more tired than usual that week. She had dark circles under her eyes, softened by her attempts to hide them with makeup, although she had never been very good at it. Her hair was a bit disheveled too, but that might have been due to the short run she had made from the car to the café. ❝Do you want to order anything?❞ she asked, while signaling to a waiter to order a coffee for her.

“A seal in recovery? What happened to it?” It definitely can’t be a catch and release situation, not this far inland in the country, unless they have some transport program…

Fletch doesn’t know, that’s why he works behind a bar and not in an aquarium. “Yes, just a coffee. Two cream. And a croissant,” he tells the waiter. “So, your job definitely sounds more exciting than mine, right now.”

Rachel was glad that Fletcher wasn't actually suffering too much, just sharing more than anything else about his aches and pains. "Technically...I'll believe you for now." She teased a bit, giving him another small nudge before watching him move in a way that made it seem like there was for sure more than he was letting on. "I think that absolutely is one of the various reasons why I'm looking forward to it too. Layers are great but also the amount of laundry I do a week? Insane." She shared with a laugh at least glad that she didn't have to share the machine with anyone. "I have no idea what Phil eats if I'm being honest. Or any groundhogs for that matter. But carrots sounds right maybe? Veggies perhaps?" Rachel really hadn't gotten that far when she'd done research about the famed groundhog. "Got anything to look forward to in spring though?"

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just clingy, and a little unconfident at points.” So long as he does his job to guard the house at night, Fletch can’t complain. His only weakness has seemed to be thunder and the vacuum cleaner, but neither have provided an instance of immediate danger for Fletch to be disappointed about it at all.

“You have to. I’m not a liar. Promise, I’m fine, and if you doubt my word, then that’s just insulting.” Fletch feigns a pout, pushing his bottom lip out and batting his big blue puppy eyes to Rachel. “Oh, right, I forgot about the laundry. Definitely paid for the wash and fold service every now and again. Excusable, because I have to take time to iron my work shirts, so if the laundromat can take care of my outside clothes…”

How could he pass up that option when the mound of dirty clothes turned into a mountain?

“Carrots, hay, maybe they’re like rabbits and like bananas.” Either way, Pete’s well fed and paid in his groundhog terms. Happy as a clam, not having to lift a paw to forage. It must be the life, but definitely very unfulfilling. “Personally? No. No plans. Well, my birthday’s in the Spring, technically, but nothing important. What about you? Anything exciting? I hope so, so you’re not as painfully boring as I am.”

Phoebe had always hated it when people were too happy, too self-fulfilled, seemingly bragging about the good times in their lives. But she realized, it was just jealousy on her end. That now she felt the same wave of happiness, she just wanted to shout about it from the rooftops. 

She noted the way Fletcher sucked in a breath, deciding not to poke at it as she was tempted to, instead just nodding at his answer. “Routine’s good,” She agreed, always finding herself at her worst when it had been disrupted in any way. Probably the whole tumultuous childhood, but she wasn’t dwelling on that with alcohol in her system, lest it reversed the giddy tipsy feeling she was basking in. “Does the routine involve anyone?” Because it was Phoebe, and she really couldn’t help but pry. “Yeah, you don’t want to piss off the Cranes.” She had yet to meet Freddie, but by the sounds of it, his reputation certainly preceded him. And Nate was an intimidating figure, the few times they crossed paths, despite Aslihan’s friendship with him. Still, Phoebe didn’t like the idea of being in anyone’s bad books, much less the two brothers in business together.

“Doesn’t that phrase apply to children and not idiots pushing thirty?” She asked, half-teasing, though the worry about Seb was completely valid. Maybe one day he’d eventually grow up, stop the whole fighting thing, focus on his Etsy store. But that would mean it’d be something not causing the assistant stress, so it’d probably never happen.

“Thank you,” She said, the first sip of water almost unbelievably refreshing, grinning at his offer. “You know I can never say no to pretzels.” Her favorite savory snack, after all. “Yeah, I’m just tired of feeling like I’ve aged fifty years after a night of drinking. Rather quit whilst I’m ahead.”

He looks to Phoebe with intrigue. “Anyone?” Fletch parrots back, humming thoughtfully to himself. “Boone, uh, well, Reggie isn’t a part of the routine so much as cleaning up after him is. Not in a bad sense, not at all. He just chases his new thoughts faster than finishing the previous ones.” It also means Fletcher can’t be sure where he can be found around town, and half the time he considers the possibility of Reg flying overhead to some impromptu adventure.

“But I got a feeling you’re thinking of anyone in terms of the romance category, in which case, no.” Not since he and Dean teetered toward something until he told Fletch about his personal conflicts (fair and respected) or whatever he and Cynthia almost got close to whatever that was before he felt himself put on the outside of whatever the problem was. 

Fletcher doesn’t speak up about it, he’s the bartender at this moment. He’s supposed to be the emotional scratching post. He does choose to pry, “What about you, you got an 'anyone'? Is that why you’re Smiles McGee? That’s not all the shots you took, you got a glow.” It could be, but it’s fair to take a stab at it.

“It’s 2024, Phoebe. Children are living at home until their thirties in this day and age. The phrase will stop applying to Seb when he puts down his fists and stays out of trouble,” he responds, digging beneath the counter to find the pretzels. Two mini bags are drawn out, some simple generic brand of salted mini twists that are placed down in front of Phoebe.

“It doesn’t get better. Thirty one year old me seriously questions how nineteen year old me survived any nights out.”

Roman didn’t know much about Fletcher. Granted, he didn’t know much about most people, due to his own apprehensiveness to open up, which most people picked up on. It was always more uncomfortable when there was less willingness amongst all parties to share. That said, the younger man intrigued him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. “You’re the youngest?” He confirmed, grasping at the context clues in front of him. 

The distillery didn’t seem like a bad place to work, all things considered. A part of him wished he could do bar-work. But with his hand, and the obvious knowledge of all the Falvey’s plaguing the town, he’d most likely see more of them in more of a social space; the bloody record store being bad enough. “I don’t think I’d cope with a housemate. I’m staying with my sister in her stupid…what do you Americans call them? McMansions. Yeah, and it’s big enough we barely see each other yet the idea of her presence irks me.” Roman laughed, though it wasn’t necessarily funny. “I haven’t hiked since I lived in L.A.,” He admitted, “But maybe I’ll take it up again. You could show me that trail sometime.” It wasn’t often Roman threw such a bone but, then again, his interest in the younger male was piqued.

Something that Fletcher will always be proud of, even though he knows he shouldn’t, and the way he captivated his mother’s attention. There was always something about the way she held onto him, coddling him and trying to find each and every way to keep him close. She held onto his hand, didn’t let him run far, and truthfully, Fletch never felt his time with her split. After all, her other three sons were old enough that they would refuse to be doted on..

(Fletch would argue that they didn’t put the effort in to spend their days with her once they were old enough to get into trouble, but they never wanted to hear it.)

“Twelve years from Hunter, my oldest brother. He was the nicest to me.”

Fletcher’s amused smile at the thought of sharing a home with Reggie widens when the word McMansion escapes Roman’s mouth. He can’t hold his laugh back either. “That sounds lonely. But I guess not for you if you’re not the sort to like housemates. I shared a bedroom until I was thirteen, until Reg moved into my spare room my place felt too big.” Reggie and his specific brand of chaos has and always will be welcomed in Fletcher’s life.

“Oh yeah? Sure! I bring Boone with me in case there’s any coyotes out, they stay away. There’s this real pretty spot, it’s up a bit but not a hard climb, heads out to a ledge that oversees the river. Too high to jump into the water from, there’s different spots for that, but it looks real nice during sunrise.”

"I'll start with three," he decided, looking over the list of options. "I prefer more like a stout or a dark lager, but I'll defer to your suggestions." He assumed Fletcher wasn't a brewer — not the way Foster was a chef — but he'd give the man some credit for being the professional in this circumstance.

“Stouts, being that they are dark, are kilned longer, but they fall within the ale category as they are fermented at or close to room temperature, but you know as well as I do that ales aren’t limited to just stouts. I’ll make your number three a blonde ale. Some brands are arguably similar to lager, but that’s what the tasting is for. For you to decide that.” Once the flight is placed in front of Foster, Fletch also grabs a piece of paper and pencil for him to take notes, should he want.

The spiel is a practiced one, just as the one earlier about the different tasting options, but this time less enthused sounding, and finally does Fletcher ask, “We’re both a long way from Philly, aren’t we?”

"Todd's fault. You were just collateral damage? Or his partner in crime?" Fletch does nudge, but it's mostly to just tease him. It's always amusing to poke at CJ.

Not as amusing as it is to see him perform a vanishing act with that honey roll. Fletcher feels like he blinked and the plate became empty. He only chuckles, biting down on his bottom lip to keep it from becoming a louder laugh. His shoulders shake with the sound, though, along with his head.

"Not really. I'm not much into horror movies, but these threads are just interesting. We all had our own share of ghost stories we shared when we camped." By camped, Fletcher definitely meant just running around the woods and finding a place to carelessly pass out in among the twigs and leaves. His mother would have had a coronary if she'd known…

"No. I've seen something scarier — someone who was D.O.A. on scene, sit up. But your muscles contract and do weird things after death, so your body can move even if you're not alive. It's interesting, but the first time you see it, it's terrifying."

CJ couldn’t help but grimace as being referred to as Todd’s partner in anything. “Gross, dude. That guy sucked.” He and Jeanie were extremely lucky to have found Seb after Todd finally did them all a favor and moved out. “He just happened to be with me one time when I went to get some Claritin, and we got into a fight, and the dude working there got involved, but still,” He shrugged, because Fletch had no choice but to believe him after all. “Todd’s fault.” 

As someone also not into horror — he much preferred action movies any day — CJ could understand somewhat the fascination with freaky stuff like this. “Yeah the guys at swim camp always told stories about like, freaky fish people who lived in the lakes and that,” The lifeguard shared, though didn’t add that those stories in particular often made him feel uneasy. “So, it’s kinda like sitting round the fire?” 

When Fletcher shared his story, CJ audibly gasped. “Zombie!” He whispered, half awe-struck, half terrified. “Wait…they were still like, legit dead? You guys just didn’t miss their pulse or anything?”

“Sure it is. He’s not here to tell his story, but you’re my friend, I take your side.”

Fletch almost suspects the latter, but he allows CJ the grace of not having to say so as well as not having to reveal the victor in that.

(Even if he does want to know, had it been physical, the number of sale displays fell in their path.)

He chuckles at the idea of fish people, and the thought of ghost stories around a campfire definitely feels nostalgic. He's too old now for that stuff, the talks around his firepit tend to consist of nonsense or booze-fueled heart to hearts, but he can appreciate them all the same.

“Yeah, dead. Like, body temp already dropped dead. Not ice cold, but you know it’s been a minute since the heart’s been pumping.” Fletch shrugs nonchalantly about it. It hadn't been his word D.O.A. call. Not by far.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so. Guy went out in a body bag on the stretcher, seemed pretty dead to me. It's kinda hard to miss a pulse when it's your field of expertise.” Or in Fletch's case, his field of study being he was a cadet at the time, but he doesn't tell CJ that.

"Phoebe! Hey, how's it going?" He heads up the length of the bar performing his due diligence in running a clean, damp rag up it to clean any stray drops and spills. "Four nights a week. It's most nights, so your chance of running into me here is pretty up there."

Even if his shifts aren't always the most consistent, but the variety keeps him from growing bored. Different customers, different levels of busyness, and all nights give him plenty of opportunity for tips to stash in his cash jar.

"Aw, cut Seb some slack. But now that you mention it, I don't think he's thrown me a 911 text in a while. Could this be character growth?" He teases the man in his absence, and it's all out of an adoration that's grown in the time Fletch has resided in Providence Peak. "What brings you out tonight? Need a top off on your drink?"

It was nice, to see Fletcher when he wasn't running around with Seb, keeping an eye on him when Phoebe couldn't. They were probably too old to take shifts babysitting their mutual chaotic friend, but the assistant was just glad there was someone else looking out for the Etsy shopkeeper, sharing her burden. "Really good, thank you!" She answered earnestly, a bright smile on her face as she thought about the last few weeks. After the little blip post Christmas, work had been more stable, and she had really found her footing again. And all her friends were doing well, as far as she knew. And Foster...well, things were just absolutely incredible.

The thought of the chef gave her the reminder she needed to finish sending him the text about being picked up, locking her phone as soon as she saw the delivery receipt, smiling over at the bartender, deciding to give him her full focus now. "And what about you? How have things been?" She hoped things were good for him, especially during these few Seb-free days of peace. "You never get sick of the hours? That said, I bet you see some sights here." Honestly, she doubted the distellery was as entertaining as The Jagged Yard when it came to unruly regulars, but she was sure it had its moments.

"Well, currently he's Nevada's problem, hence the lack of SOS messages," She half-joked, though slightly concerned he was out there not making too many terrible decisions. "Catching up with an old friend," And she shook her head at the offer, "Nah my —," She trailed off, unsure how to even label Foster, once again becoming annoyed at herself for not sorting out the whole 'defining the relationship' issue sooner. "My ride," She settled for instead, "will be coming to pick me as soon as he's done with work, so I think it's time to cut myself off. Oh, maybe a water, actually, please?" Might as well start the sobering up, though she only felt slightly lightheaded tonight — the one positive of having friends who were actually sensible when it came to drinking habits and didn't try and push the limits.

“No complaints on my end. I like the routine I have," he answers while getting back to popping pourers off empty bottles and grabbing the drip mat to throw into the sink. “Wherever there’s liquor, there’s stupid to be found. Not as bad as when I was a barback at the old gig, but you still get some chaos.” Enough for him, but he figures phoning Freddie if anything gets that wild is an easy fix.

(It would seem his name is known well enough that even if mentioned, the troublemakers quiet down, so sometimes Fletcher doesn't even have to pick up the phone.)

“I’m glad we have a network of helping hands with him. I tell you, it takes a village…”

He sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head, boring wide, worried eyes into the bar top as if he is reliving flashbacks of all things Seb-related. He's a good guy, but the street fighting bit is enough to give Fletcher heart palpitations.

As mentioned, Fletcher scoops ice into a glass, then fills it from the tap to slide over to Phoebe. “Fair enough, water it is. We love hydration after a night of cocktails. Want some pretzels, too? The mini packs are withing the expiration date — promise.”

The bit was about all Reggie could sincerely commit to, evidenced by way he nudged the side of Fletcher's shoe with his army green croc, the very same color he imagines his roommate must be with envy to be taking shots at his shoewear.

"The croc speaks for itself."

In this case, he meant that literally, his 'If you ain't crocin' you ain't rockin'' jibbitz discernible on the front of his right shoe. He doesn't wait for the offer of a bag that he knows isn't coming his way given how unimpressed the cashier was growing with the pair of them, taking each of his drinks in hand and cradling his Takis at his side as he follows Fletcher outside to the cool evening air.

With no other plan decided for his night, there's no real reason for him to decline, other than he hadn't watched any Letterkenny despite Fletcher's recommendation of it several times.

"Fine, deal. But don't get pissy if and when I ask you a bunch of questions about who's who and what's going on."

He has to manoeuvre his items in his hold so he didn't lose the can when he opened the Mountain Dew to take a swig of it as they made their way to their shared home in Bighorn Hills, the traipse passing with a variety of idle chat, including a question that left Reggie's mouth as soon as it crossed his mind upon their place coming into view.

"You ever think to yourself, damn, we live in the exact kind of spot where if someone wanted to do their own version of The Strangers, this would the exact door they'd knock on?"

"Ask away. If I had to chance a guess, I'd say you'll be a fan of Darry. I'm more of a Squirrely Dan kind of guy."

Because 'thats whats he appreciates abouts' the show the most.

(A reference he won't say now as it will be lost on Reggie until he watches.)

"You don't have to, if you don't want. I'm grown up, I can watch shows by myself. And I won't guilt you about me being lonely or anything, or about how Boone isn't a great conversationalist."

Whether his teasing guilt trip worked or not, Fletcher would find out when they settle in, but they have a walk ahead of them. One he enjoys. How can he not? His teeth might be close to chattering and his fingertips holding the Arnold Palmer can feel frigid, but it's moments on nights like this that bring him back to Philly nights when Reg came rolling through.

Minus the apartment buildings reaching to the sky with rusted fire escapes and back alleys lined with trash — he figures he had a couch and that'd been Reggie's standard when he crashed with Fletch there.

"Mm, yeah. Well, at least we won't be disturbing the neighbors with our screaming when we're inevitably murdered. Too far out, you know?" He gives Reggie a quick glance and a taunting grin at the prospect of being murdered, allows the thought to settle for a moment, and finally reaches for his keys to unlock the door. "We'll get killed by a cougar before anything out here. Not the hot mom type, the ones with whiskers and claws that hunt you. But—"

The door opens, and Boone is right there to greet both of them, tail wagging and excited whines escaping his muzzle. "That's what Boone's for. He'll keep serial killers away from the house. He's good for it."

She couldn't help but laugh when Fletcher shared he loved babies. "No I know what ya mean, it didn't sound weird, promise. And you're right I could sit to take a break." Dylan teased as she moved to slide the carrier off her shoulders carefully as she felt Fletcher watching the twins. Leda seemed to be just observing things while Lysander seemed to be just focusing on staying awake at this point. She watched Fletcher's features change as he looked at them. "Alright, so you just wear it like you're wearin' a backpack backwards. Ya got it?" Dylan asked as she carefully turned them around so he could put the straps on.

As he explained what the distance was, her eyes went in the direction that he shared they would go. "Okay, yeah that sounds like it would be a good idea then to do the fifteen minutes. Hopefully just for today, thanks for understandin' though, Fletch. I wanna have nature babies, but maybe next big purchase I make is a good hikin' stroller."

(Every day, Fletch thanks his mother for his lack of Philly accent, even if ‘wooder’ tends to pop up anytime he asks for a glass of water.)

“Flea markets give you the wildest mix of things. You never know what you’re getting into,” he muses aloud while snaking his arms through the straps of the baby carrier. Fletcher is careful, placing his hands against the babies for fear of them slipping off, and turns for Dylan to tug the straps to her preferred tightness.

Instantly, Fletch is caught in silent awe of them. These two little lives bundled and seeing so much of the world for the first time, strapped to him. He almost misses the end of what Dylan says because of it. “Hm — what? Sure, can’t be running you into the ground. They feel light, but I just put them on. No doubt they start to feel like cinder blocks once you get further in a trail, huh?”

Carmen wasn't an alcoholic by any means, in fact, in most cases she barely drank at all. But, in the off chance she did, she'd always loved the idea of visiting local businesses, breweries or distilleries when she did want something alcoholic. Granted, today she was there primarily for a gift, however, she wasn't opposed to the idea of doing some shopping for personal usage as well. "No worries at all, hon, take your time." she countered, looking at the other with a soft smile as she scanned some featured options plastered on different advertisements around the bar. She was certainly unsure of what she wanted, but she at least had an idea or she wouldn't be there. "I actually am here getting something for a friend mostly; one of my long time friends just recently bought a house and I'm putting them together a little basket; and I thought what better way to top of the gift than with a fancy bottle of whiskey." she smiled. "I'm also kind of looking for something to share with the wife once she can drink again." she spoke. "I'm typically more of a wine girl myself, so the harder stuff isn't really up my alley, but that taste sampling seems smart, can I maybe get some of your most popular flavors?"

“What’s her spirit of choice?” Fletch asks, leaning down to grab one of the tasting menus that are stored beneath the bar to slide in front of her.

“We have three, four and five tastings, but if you’re unsure even after five, I can throw an extra in.” Fletch winks to her with a sweet smile and holds a finger up to his lips as if it is some ‘big secret’. “I can also throw you my preferred liquors.”

"The cool one, not the jerk," Ingrid clarified, not mincing words when it came to Freddie. She made it clear that she had no interest in interacting with him, especially after his disrespectful behavior. "In that case, I better be fast. I don't think I am welcome when he is around," she admitted, showing that she wasn't bothered by his attitude. For her, respect was a two-way street, and since Freddie didn't seem to understand that concept, she saw no reason to engage with him unnecessarily.

"Sure thing. That's only if you don't mind me bitching about my long day," Ingrid joked as she settled into her seat. "Whatever keeps me warm enough at this point. Surprise me. I know everything here is good, so you can get as creative as you want. It's been a while since I've had a proper drink."

(The odd father-role fill in still doesn’t meet the standards of what a good parent should be, but Fletcher knows if he calls, no matter the time of day, the phone will be answered.)

He shakes his head. “Won’t be necessary. He’s at the warehouse.” A place that Fletcher doesn’t frequent often, but he knows of it. “And vent away. It’s what bartenders are for. We’re soundboards to your problems, we give advice that most people don’t take.” 

And more importantly, they can put together a drink, as Fletch demonstrates with how quick he is to grab the ingredients, fills the shaker with ice, and gets to work.

“I’m not going traditional whiskey sour, skipping on the egg whites on account of not having a chicken back here, or eggs for that matter, but…” The golden mix fills the glass, and he sticks a toothpick through a cherry and an orange slice to lay over the rim. “Now, the previously mentioned bitching. I’m all ears.”

"Good for you," she says instead, nodding. "Even having your aunt's place to fall back on, it's not like it's easy deciding to just up and move when you're that age." She laughs. "I certainly couldn't have, and I definitely would have liked to."

Anywhere, he assumes, unless she had a place to land like he did. Like she does now. He leans back in his canvas camp chair, stretching his leg to toe the side of her shoe with his boot. “But then you’d be in Michigan.” Fletch winces at her with a frown, until he relents and scratches at the curls of hair on the nape of his neck.

“In all seriousness, you’re not stuck anywhere. I get when money’s an issue, but if you have a place to land in Michigan, and you want to get out of here so bad, what’s holding you back?” The simple answer would be nothing, and she just needs the right push. He does assume there might be something anchoring her here in Providence Peak. Whether it’s his business to know, he’ll find out with how she answers.

Fletcher sinks more in his seat, leaning his head against his shoulder in his new slouched position to direct his gaze back to Esther’s. 

“Can’t say I’d want to figure it out now, in all fairness. It’s scary. I was young and dumb, not skilled in the forethought area, but even here? I came out here because I was familiar with it. It’s not such a wild leap. Not like the kinds Reg makes, I’d never keep up. He’s—” Fletch lets out a puff of air, his eyes widened in a form of disbelief. “I’m not sure if he’s brave or compulsive, but both of those go hand in hand, don’t they?”

Although, he had to admit, the airtag sounded marvelous. He could understand why it’d be creepy from a roommate point of view, but as his eldest brother, he was definitely snatching that idea for his next overly aware and extremely undervalued Christmas gift. Giving him new, ‘just in case’ phones was slowly getting old, anyway. They never lasted as long as he hoped they would.

“Good, good. I’m glad you’ve been good. I can imagine it feels about ten times colder out here than it does more in town.” Boone’s bark caused his head to snap in the direction of the back door, presumably where the dog had been eagerly waiting to be let back inside. He chuckled a little, already moving towards the door to do so before he answered, “Oh, uh — just a little bit of cream’s fine. Or milk. Whatever you’ve got. Honestly, I’m not picky.”

His face lit up excitedly at the sight of Boone — because even though he was notoriously a cat person, and would probably have to deal with all three of them sniffing his clothes angrily once he got home, he could appreciate a cute, happy dog. He let him inside and gave a few gentle pats to his fur. “Hello. Hi. How are you? Guessing you haven’t seen my brother either, huh?” He laughed, diverting his attention back to Fletcher and saying, “Thank you, by the way. I appreciate letting me stay and all.”

Even if sometimes Fletcher would like to tether him in from time to time. He’s accepted the spontaneity of his close friend and taken his tendency to disappear in stride. But since Fletch has been in Providence Peak, he’s seen more of Reg than he’s consistently seen before. There is the silent wonder of when he might bounce to somewhere else, one he chooses to never voice.

“It does! And I like the cold until it’s too much. I’m also itching to go out on the harder trails once the snow is gone, and when summer rolls around, I want to get into the river.” 

Boone steps in with the wag of his tail, extending one front paw to smack Eli on the shin in his own form of greeting. Fletch only directs his attention from fixing Eli’s coffee to him when he passes to touch his nose to Fletch’s knee next. One pat to the head, then Fletcher is crossing the space between them to hand over the mug.

“I hope that’s enough cream.” He’d done just a bit, as asked. “What? Yeah, of course! The door’s always open to you. All of you.” Almost as if Fletch has found his own pseudo family outside his own. They’d made Providence Peak more of a home to him. "Just promise you don't forget to turn off the tap."