qojolover

[qojolover]

i think we should talk about degendering more as a very real form of transphobia. you should not be calling a trans woman "they" when she's explained her pronouns to you. you should not be calling her a "person" instead of a woman. she's not too gnc, she's not too androgynous, you're not "confused" about her identity, you're degendering her. I fear we've gotten to a point we've forgotten the very basics of this movement is "trans women are women" and "trans men are men", and not just "trans people are someone who's pronouns you have to memorize so you don't offend them." you see her as a man in a dress and it pisses me off

[qojolover]

there is also something kind of gross to me about the constant insinuations that the "questioning social norms" component of autism immediately turns every autistic person into a genderfuckery kinkster leftist who don't give a fuck. and I say this as someone who is a genderfuckery kinkster leftist. autism isn't a political alignment, it's a disability. sometimes the autism 'sense of justice' is wrong. sometimes an autistic person will find a home in conservative ideologies for many of the same reasons as other autistic people will find a home in communist ideologies. sometimes the autistic communist will come up with dogshit analysis even as they're guided by their sense of justice, because good political analysis isn't a feeling or a neurotype, it's a skill that you cultivate. I know it would be pleasant and emotionally soothing for you to be able to believe that autism turns someone into a superpowered leftist but it's a politically fraught and deeply questionable line of thought to be feeding into

[qojolover]

all animals have a place in the ecosystem and that includes humans and im sick of encountering edgelords who say the earth would be better off if we were wiped out. you wanna mess things up for every species that has adapted to live alongside us? as far as i can tell our existance is pretty intertwined with the world we live in, and caring about animals should include caring about humans because we're also animals. so we should probably focus on doing good with the resources we have instead of fantasizing about a big nuclear reset button. you sound like a pokémon villain.

[qojolover]

it's crucial that you untie "special interest" from "expertise". "it's true just trust me bro" doesn't have any extra weight when you add "I know because it's my special interest". you are not immune from falling for misinformation, and you are not immune from sharing misinformation. not to mention the fact that "amount of knowledge" isn't even a requirement for something being classified as a special interest lol!

[qojolover]

The lion does not concern itself with the bank account balance when a little treat is calling

[qojolover]

Maybe it's just my former neglected child swag but I really hate it when people act like iPads or some technology or whatever is an independent entity which can in and of itself cause what are literally just symptoms of child neglect. Like. Come on. Put on your thinking cap. If a child literally cannot hold a pencil by the time they enter school, if they have absolutely no emotional regulation skills or situational awareness, if they don't know how to entertain themselves to an extent that it's interfering with basic developmental milestones. And the parent either doesn't understand or doesn't care or simply hasn't noticed that this is maybe not fine. Do we think the sole and primary issue going on here is rooted in. The evil technology that melts your brain or whatever. Like sorry does the iPad have legs. Is it gonna sit up and run and start eating people too

[qojolover]

Daredevil and The Punisher, commissioned by @panathemas. I loved working on this, once again thank you so much!! :D

[qojolover]

✧･ﾟ pairing: dilf!toji fushiguro x sister-in-law!fem!reader

✧･ﾟ cw: dark content, obsession, sister betrayal, breeding themes, older man x younger woman, twisted domesticity, baby care, power imbalance

✧･ﾟ status: chapter one – complete

❝ good lord, she had warned you about him. ❞

your sister left. just a weekend trip, she said. and now he watches you from the hallway. says you cook better. rub his arms better. smell like him.

✧･ﾟ requested by: anon ♡ thank you baby, this idea rotted something holy in me

♡ read at your own risk ♡

𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄-𝗌𝗆𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗋. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾-𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗐𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅-𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄, 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗇��. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖽𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝗇𝗈. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂, 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁. 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾.

“𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗈𝗈, 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽. “𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇.” 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋.” 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗈-𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖻 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅, 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽. 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝖿𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗂𝗇. 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁, 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗐𝗅. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄.

𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽. 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. “𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽. “𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍. 𝗇𝗈𝗐.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇, 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. “𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁. “𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌? 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁… 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇’. 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍.” “𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, “𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗐𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒, 𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍�� 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗒𝗋𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗈𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗉. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽. 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍. 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾. 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝖼𝖾. “𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄. 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖻, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. “𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂? 𝗂 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾—” “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝗈𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗄𝗒, 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉.

𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒. 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗆’𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍. “𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗌. “𝗁𝗈𝗐? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋. 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗍?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽.” “𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗂 𝖻𝖾?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖽𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺����𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾. “𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗋. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗅?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌, 𝖽𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. “𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒, 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗀𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗌. “𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂. 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍, 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗐. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗎𝗁? 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾. 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂’𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾, 𝗁𝗎𝗁?” 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁. “𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗒,” 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒. “𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅, 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. “𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 ��𝖺𝗆𝖺,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖾. 𝗂’𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. “𝗐𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌. “𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂’𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋. “𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗀𝗎𝗋𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗂𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝖵 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

“𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗍���𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽. “𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋. “𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗈𝖾𝗌, 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒. 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾. “𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒. 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗌.” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋. “𝗐𝗁𝗒? 𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗎𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾. “𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌. 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽.” “𝗂 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗈,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗌. “𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂’𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾. “𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾.” “𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.” 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾, 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉, 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗉, 𝖿𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾.

𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗉. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉. 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖼, 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗈𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝖺𝖼 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝖾𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌. “𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽.” “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. “𝗀𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.” “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇.” “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇, 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒’𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺’𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾. “𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾. “𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗇. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗆 𝗂 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 ��𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅, “𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇, 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇.” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗅����𝗇𝗄. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌. “𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅. “𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽’𝗏𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍. 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒. 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗅.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇, 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾, 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗓𝖾. “𝗇𝖺𝗁,” 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗈. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾.” “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋, 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇. 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼. “𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌. “𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗉?” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒. “𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉. 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋. “𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.”

𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. “𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗈. 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇’. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇’.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. “𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆,” 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝖾. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗂 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗌. 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒’𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻. “𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍? 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇’ 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍-𝗎𝗉, 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗍, 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗇’𝗌. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗀𝗒𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍-𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝗈𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. “𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗎𝗉.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. “𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. “𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐. “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝗂𝗇,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅. “𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋. “𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽.” “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗐.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. “𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌���𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗉.

“𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍. 𝗂 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋. just figured you were already in bed.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿, 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. “𝗇𝖺𝗁. 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍. 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇’ 𝗎𝗉 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗌. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒. 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝗒, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗒. 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿𝗌, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ��𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍, 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉. “𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍. “𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐. “𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗋. 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆. “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀?” “𝗇𝖺𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗐.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽, 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗋. “𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗉𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖿. “𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁. 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇’. 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗍. 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍. “𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐. “𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌, 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗍?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍.

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐. “𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇’ 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. “𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗋. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍-𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅. 𝗂𝗍 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒. “𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍.” “𝗌𝗁𝗁𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋. “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁, 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿𝖿. “𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, “𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾.

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝗈𝗐. “𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗀𝗈. 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍. “𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. “𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍.” “𝗐𝗁𝗒?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽. 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾. 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇’ 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒. 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇-𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾.” “𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾. “𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗃𝗂𝗀𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆.”

𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. “𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇’ 𝗁𝗂𝗆,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, “𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇. 𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝖾𝗋𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌. “𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍.” “𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂.” “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒-𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾. “𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝖻 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗌, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾—𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝖻 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. “𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗐𝗅, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅���. “𝗇𝖺𝗁, 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗐,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝗁𝗎𝗁?” 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇’ 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗂 𝖺𝗆, 𝗁𝗎𝗁? 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆? 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗍?” “𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍—” “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗅𝗒. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽?”

𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇’ 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇’ 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂’𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇’ 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾?” “𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂—” “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀. “𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒. 𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗍. 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. “𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌. “𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅. 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

“𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌. “𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇’ 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌. 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒. 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌.” “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍—” “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄, 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. “𝖼’𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝖾.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅. “𝗌𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ���𝗋𝖾.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍. 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗉. 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝖽𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝖻𝗈𝗐. 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎—” “𝗌𝗁𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌. “𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇’. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆. 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. “𝖼’𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇’ 𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒. 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇. 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗍. “𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. “𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈—” “𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇’, 𝗁𝗎𝗁? 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇’ 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾, 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇’ 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇’ 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇’ 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇.

“𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌. “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉. 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗓𝖾. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗀𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.” “𝗇𝖺𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺. ‘𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗂 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇’ 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽.”

𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾-𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗓𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌. “𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?” “𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽. “𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇. 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋.” 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗍𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈? 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾? 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗐’𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀? 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍.

“𝖺𝗇���𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗀𝗈 𝗈𝗇. 𝖻𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. “𝗒-𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝗇𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗎𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂���� 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽. “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝗂 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒,” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗇. “𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂?” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍. “𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂’𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂’𝗆 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽. “𝗁𝖾’𝗌.. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀’𝗌 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. “𝗂’𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒. “𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽. “𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽. “𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈!” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗉𝖾𝖽. “𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒?”

𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍. 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

“𝗁𝖾𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽. “𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍. 𝗐𝖾𝗍. 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇. 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. “𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾, 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇’ 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈𝗈.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾𝖽. “𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅? 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇’ 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝖺𝗂𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’? 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇’ 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 ’𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾?” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄.” “𝗆𝗆𝗁𝗆,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐. “𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖽.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅. “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒?”

𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽. “𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾. 𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇’ 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇’ 𝗆𝖾.” “𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍—” “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝖽𝗈. 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. “𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗒.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗁, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒-𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗋𝗎𝖻 𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅.” 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. “𝗂 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺. 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗈𝗐𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗆 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗍, 𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇, 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. “𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒. 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽.”

𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗅. 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀, ���𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗂𝗋𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄, 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝖾.” 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎… 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇. 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋.

end of chapter one...

[qojolover]

kids deserve so much more respect and it turns out that saying that is a great way to locate the horrible people in any community <3

[qojolover]

it’s necessary to fight back against adult content bans obviously because it leads to queer bans, but also, you cannot forget that we must fight back against these bans because adults have the right to make and enjoy adult content. no credit card company has the right to censor what we look at. yes, this includes the “problematic kinks” and stuff you think is gross and bad. just as we deserve to be openly queer online, we deserve to enjoy adult content without fear of total censorship, and it’s absurd how few places there are to do that online nowadays

[qojolover]

hate hate hate a “i’m a bad husband but i’m a good father” type of man because a bad husband cannot be a good father :)

[qojolover]

refusal to mourn by Andrea Cohen

[qojolover]

the commodification of friendship is the most annoying thing to come out of the internet in ages. like actually i love to break this to you but you're supposed to help your friends move even if it's hard work. or stay up with them when they're sad even if you're gonna lose sleep. you're supposed to listen to their fears and sorrows even if it means your own mind takes on a little bit of that weight. that's how you know that you care. they will drive you to the airport and then you will make them soup when they're sick. you're supposed to make small sacrifices for them and they are supposed to do that for you. and there's actually gonna be rough patches for both of you where the balance will be uneven and you will still be friends and it will not be unhealthy and they will not be abusive. life is not meant to be an endless prioritization of our own comfort if it was we would literally never get anywhere ever. jesus.

[qojolover]

decentralize and clean up your life!!!

use overdrive, libby, hoopla, cloudlibrary, and kanopy instead of amazon and audible.

use firefox instead of chrome or opera (both are made with chromium, which blocks functionality for ad-blockers. firefox isn't based on chromium).

use mega or proton drive instead of google drive.

get rid of bloatware

use libreoffice instead of microsoft office suite

use vetted sites on r/FREEMEDIAHECKYEAH for free movies, books, games, etc.

use trakt or letterboxd instead of imdb.

use storygraph instead of goodreads.

use darkpatterns to find mobile game with no ads or microtransactions

use ground news to read unbiased news and find blind spots in news stories.

use mediahuman or cobalt to download music, or support your favorite artists directly through bandcamp

make youtube bearable by using mtube, newpipe, or the unhook extension on chrome, firefox, or microsoft edge

use search for a cause or ecosia to support the environment instead of google

use thriftbooks to buy new or used books (they also have manga, textbooks, home goods, CDs, DVDs, and blurays)

use flashpoint to play archived online flash games

find books, movies, games, etc. on the internet archive! for starters, here's a bunch of David Attenborough documentaries and all of the Animorphs books

burn your music onto cds

use pdf24 (available online or as a desktop app) instead of adobe

use unroll.me to clean your email inboxes

use thunderbird, mailfence, countermail, edison mail, tuta, or proton mail instead of gmail

remove bloatware on windows PC, macOS, and iOS X

remove bloatware on samsung X

use pixelfed instead of instagram or meta

use NCH suite for free software like a file converter, image editor, video editors, pdf editor, etc.

feel free to add more alternatives, resources or advice in the reblogs or replies, and i'll add them to the main post <3

last updated: march 18th 2025

[qojolover]

"X identity queer people don't belong in Y identity queer spaces" girl what spaces??? The gay & lesbian bars that are closing down & being replaced with ✨ absolutely nothing ✨? The pride parades that are losing funding & getting smaller?? Those queer spaces???

[qojolover]

We used to dunk on people asking random users on here questions they could’ve googled but now that every single google search gives you an AI generated response it’s actually better for the environment to just ask a random tumblr user and see what they have to say.

[qojolover]

sometimes men are obsessed with other men not because theyre secretly gay but because theyre so misogynistic that they literally dont view women as people worthy of any degree of attention or value