A/N: I'm guessing this story is going to take me a lot longer than I previously thought. I hope you're all enjoying it. I'm enjoying writing it. I keep telling myself writing (and finishing!) a novel-length fanfiction piece is going to be the self-esteem booster I need to motivate myself to write a real, live, original novel that I can submit to publishers for rejection letters on pretty stationary. But one step at a time...
After the plane lands, Robin waits a long time to stand up and collect her things:
First, she takes a deep breath, seated with her bag and jacket on her lap, and looks out the window at the low clouds hovering over Toronto bay. She knows what's next, what's waiting for her there.
Her mother has cancer. And nothing from the past few months matters anymore; not her job or her fight with Lily or Barney or that guy she almost slept with for the wrong reasons. Instead of melding together and weighing her down, they dissipate like a slow haze. There's an expression for this, she thinks to herself, grasping for it. It takes her a few seconds longer than she thinks it should to come up with the phrase: Putting things into perspective.
So Robin sits there, thinking about it. She lets the woman beside her pass first into the aisle. She turns her cell phone on to a message from Katie that reads I'm here; she pictures her sister (sixteen with a self-important look on her face and boyfriend with a faux-hawk on her arm.) She picks up her bags and sets them down again. She thinks about standing up and going out there to meet her sister, sees herself doing it. But she can't will her legs to lift her body. She is, though she hates to admit it, scared, guilty, hesitating. She sends a text to Ted, Lily, Marshall, and Barney that says Arrived in Toronto. She watches the screen for a few minutes as their replies come back to her: Have a good time with your family, Call if you want to talk, Thanks for letting us know, and Good luck.
Robin waits until she is last, absolutely last, before looking around at the empty seats and putting on her jacket, before hoisting her purse over her shoulder and following the last of the line toward the exit.
The crowd bends toward the immigration counter. Talking, laughing. Robin moves past them and waves her Canadian passport at the attendant. She is then ushered toward customs and the baggage claim. She wishes there were winding hallways to get lost in, something to further delay going home and seeing her mother as a shadow of her mother, but there isn't.
Robin spots her own overfull suitcase before she sees Katie struggling to drag it off the conveyer belt, her sister in a grown woman's body. It's surprising how much older those few inches and a new haircut make her baby sister look, how much like Robin and her mother. She's twenty years old now – only two years younger than Robin when she first left home. Will Katie leave one day, too? Robin can't say she knows her enough to tell.
She shouts her sister's name and Katie turns; even from across the room, Robin can see her sister's eyes are red and the skin around them is splotchy, but she can't see evidence of the tear stains she knows are there streaked across her sister's cheeks.
It makes Robin feel like she was spared something.
She is aware, acutely, that Katie spent hours in a hospital waiting room surrounded by boxes of Kleenex and old magazines, in that smell of sanitizing alcohol. Robin feels guilty then glad then guilty again.
She slings her purse over her shoulder as she approaches; then the two sisters embrace in the middle of a crowd, are almost pulled along with it unnoticing. She hears Katie sniffle against her shirt and in response, Robin rubs her back, remembering when Katie was her baby sister with a scraped knee or a missing stuffed beaver or a bruised ego, remembering that she is the big sister.
"Katie," Robin says. She tries to sound comforting, tries to channel Lily. "What's wrong?"
Her sister says nothing at first, only squeezes Robin tighter. And Robin squeezes her back. The thought crosses her mind that they are both too old now to cry, to show this kind of weakness. She makes herself ignore it and her own eyes begin to water.
"I don't know," Katie answers finally.
But speaking seems to renew whatever feelings made her cry in the first place, because when they pull apart, her eyes fill up again and Robin reaches forward and touches a strand of Katie's hair. She doesn't know what else to do.
Then Katie leans down and picks up one of Robin's bags. Robin grabs the other and they pass through the crowds and out the door.
"I just hope the treatment works," Katie says in between sniffles. "The chemo makes her really sick. She didn't want any of us to touch her."
"It's okay. It's just the chemo. She won't be on it forever."
"But, it's Mom. It's hard to see her like this. And the hospital was making me sick." Katie is crying now, red-nosed, carrying a heavy suitcase through the parking lot. "It smells like dying in there," she adds.
Robin pats her younger sister's back and knows there really isn't a right thing to say at a time like this. No magic words to make all of this go away. For Katie or for herself. So she says, "I know."
"I was trying not to cry," Katie says. "I didn't want Mom to see."
"I know," Robin says. "I know."
Robin still knows what it was like when her Aunt Carol moved in after her diagnosis: her pale skin purpled from IVs and needs, her gagging then vomiting into a bucket Robin's mother held in place for her. She wonders if back then, if her mother ever thought someday, it could be you holding the bucket. Watching Katie open the car door, Robin wonders. Their eyes meet and Robin is certain they are thinking the same thing. But they both look away without admitting it, leave it that big unspoken thing that pulls them together and pushes them apart. Right now, it's their mother's turn. Their job is to be there, to help her, to be witnesses to this suffering.
When Katie calms down enough to drive, the sisters go straight to the Scherbatsky house, through the deep hallway, up the great winding staircase Robin spent her childhood pretending would someday lead to the Amazon if she kept believing it would. Now, the familiar wooden steps creak beneath her feet and she remembers, for a brief second, what it was like to believe in miracles. As the two sisters near their parents' bedroom, she wishes she still did.
They reach the door but do not cross the threshold. From her place in the hallway, Robin sees her mother lying in bed and just stops. She doesn't know why, but expects something to happen, there in the doorway with the light of the afternoon pouring through the window, highlighting the creases in her mother's forehead, the burgundy quilt covering her body.
For those few long seconds, before she fully enters the room, Robin just looks at her mother asleep. Like a kid, she thinks. How small she looks in that big bed surrounded by those extra large pillows and that heavy quilt. How tired she looks, even while asleep.
In the past seven years, she has aged, not noticeably so, but enough to keep Robin grounded. She hasn't stepped into a time warp; this isn't the home and family she left: these are people who, like she has, have grown and changed since she last saw them. It's things as small as the fact that her mother's hair has been cut to chin-length while as long as Robin can remember, her mother wore it in a long mane to the edge of her shoulder blades. She also notices the dark circles under her mother's eyes and the pained expression her face seems to fall to naturally—an image that conflicts with her memory of the woman who raised her.
She notices then, after a minute, her father standing off to the side of the bed with his arms crossed. He looks as he always has, maybe a little grayer and a little older, but just as tall and as threatening as Robin remembers him. She doesn't meet his eyes but watches him nod a greeting at his daughters as if they had gone out for coffee and were just getting back. Robin pays this no attention and instead wonders how long he has been standing there watching her mother sleep.
Katie passes through the doorway first, at Robin's hesitance, to be at their mother's side. Steering her eyes away from her father, Robin follows Katie in on tiptoe. Still, the noise of her footsteps rouses her mother from sleep and her tired eyes flutter open, disoriented.
"Hello," is all the two sisters can say.
Their mother looks at them looming over her from each side of the bed and blinks a few times in recognition. Then she smiles wide at them, a tired smile, Robin notices, a smile that looks a lot like gritting your teeth through the pain, pretending nothing hurts, a smile Robin knows well.
Their mother tries to sit up higher, exhausting herself with the effort, and Robin can hear the sound of her bandage crinkling with each movement she makes forward, the tug of it against her skin, a penalty for every inch she takes.
"How is my little bird?" she asks. She uses the nickname she's had for Robin since she was a little girl, a way of differentiating her from her father.
"I'm fine, Mom," Robin answers quietly as she leans over the bed. Hovers, rather. She doesn't know whether to hug or kiss her mother or just keep her distance, so she hovers there. She hears the bandage she knows is spread across her mother's chest and she hopes it doesn't hurt that much to lean forward like she's doing. If it does, Robin wants her to stop. Then she remembers what Katie said about their mother not wanting to be touched and starts to pull away. But her mother acts first, wrapping her arms around her firstborn like she would an anchor keeping her from floating off up into the unknown.
They hold onto each other for a few minutes like that, like it's everything, until her mother brings her hand up to touch Robin's hair. She strings her fingers through it, like she used to when Robin was still an only child, before she had the capacity to wish certain things had gone differently, when this was all she needed.
Robin feels it, in that moment. She feels the weight of her long hair against her back, the cold leather shoes on her feet, being so much smaller than everyone around her – a child in an adult's world; a child whose mother is holding her, trying to make everything better.
"I missed you," her mother says.
"I missed you too," Robin responds. Then adds, "I should have come back before now."
"Oh, honey," her mother says, reaching for and squeezing her daughter's hand. "You have your own life in New York and your job on TV."
Robin feels herself gravitating toward making some silly comment about how the news keeps coming every day, said with a movement of the wrist and a laugh, but she can't; this is her mother in front of her, tired, sick, bandaged, fighting; and before Robin was anything else, she was a daughter. She is her daughter first.
"I'm so sorry," Robin says to the lines on her mother's forehead, the pain already etched into the curve of her lips, her tired eyes. "I should have…" She can't even count on two hands the amount of times she could have came home before now, the holidays, personal days spent shopping or hung-over or just sitting in the apartment. "I should have come to visit before now," she says again.
Her mother runs her thumb across the top of Robin's hand and answers, "It's okay. You're here now. That's all that matters."
"I'm still sorry—"
"Shh," her mother says, waving her off. "I'm glad you're here. End of discussion." She lets herself rest back on her pillow.
"Tell me, how was your flight?" she asks Robin before turning to Katie and asking, "You found her alright then, eh?"
"It was fine, Mom," Katie answers.
"How are you feeling? Katie said you started chemo this morning?"
"I've been better." Her mother laughs. "I feel okay right now, just sore and tired, like I've been checked by a big defensemen right into the wall." She smiles at her own metaphor and looks over at her husband. Then she says, "At least I still have a few days before I lose all my hair." She takes a moment to herself after this, quietly, as if the chemo were another attack on her body instead of a cure, just an attack on her femininity, as if that were the worst part. Maybe it is, Robin thinks, now that the danger has passed, now that she knows she'll beat this as long as her body responds to treatment. Or maybe it's that she remembers her own mother, her own sister, the way they both passed through this first stage hairless as children in the womb.
"You seem a lot better now than you were earlier," Katie says, breaking her silence.
Their mother turns to look at her youngest daughter and says, "I feel a lot better. I'm not nauseous anymore and I think some of the pain killers are finally starting to work."
"That's good new Mom," Robin says.
After a few minutes, her father disappears from his corner and leaves to pick up Aunt Carol from the airport. Robin and Katie are left alone with their mother. For a long time, they just stand around the bed talking to her. For almost an hour, their mother shakes off sleep for them.
They talk about light topics: Robin's job (which she tries to make sound more important than it is), Katie's classes (Psychology, English, the boy who sits behind her in French) but these topics keep getting interrupted with Robin and Katie asking, "Do you want to rest?" and their mother responding, "I'm fine. Now, tell me about Tokyo," or "How is your roommate Ted," to Robin, or "What it's like living in a dorm room," or "What have you been eating in the cafeteria?" to Katie.
But she begins to nod off as Katie tells them about her roommate Lizzie and the nitpicky ways she has to have everything. Their mother twitches back awake a second later and Robin tells her, "Get some rest, Mom."
She looks from one daughter to the other and concedes, "Just a short nap." But as they back away from her bed and towards the door, she moves a little like she wants to follow them. Instead, she speaks again, "If you girls get hungry, there's lunchmeat in the refrigerator and bread in the pantry. And if I sleep too late, there is pasta in the freezer for dinner. There's also some beef stew. And—"
"I know where everything is," Katie interjects.
"We'll be fine. We know how to cook without burning the house down."
"I know that, girls. I just want to make sure you're both settling in okay."
"We're fine," Robin says. "Don't worry about us. Just get some sleep."
Robin turns the lights off and the two sisters leave the room. Their mother, naturally, waves at them. Katie positions the door so that it stays open a crack, in case she needs something. Both sisters peer through the opening and watch their mother close her eyes. Then silently, they go down the stairs.
Robin runs her hand along the familiar banister, a movement so reflex to her, it seems to her she is eighteen again, living here. The same photographs and the same artwork line the walls, and it's only just eerily comforting.
Robin and Katie walk though the dining room with its vaulted ceilings and wooden beams that divide the ceiling into four quadrants. In the kitchen, boxes of cereal, pasta, instant oatmeal, and canned goods line the counter. And when Robin opens the refrigerator, she sees it's stuffed with individual sized yogurts and bags of fruit and three gallons of milk; then she opens the freezer to find enough frozen dinners and chicken strips and homemade pasta meals frozen ahead of time – enough to feed the entire family for months.
"What the hell?" Robin asks. "Is she expecting the blizzard of the century to hit this week or something?"
"You should see the downstairs freezer," Katie says, poking around the counter.
Robin reaches into the freezer and pulls out two frozen loaves of bread to hold up as evidence.
"There's non-frozen bread on the counter. That's for when it runs out."
"Does she think none of us can drive a car to get groceries?" Robin says as she puts the bread back in the freezer.
And Katie explains, "She made Dad take us after the mammogram. She seemed to think Dad would starve if she left him on his own for meals. And she kind of knew already. It's not like the lump would have been a coincidence."
For this, Robin admires her mother. She's a walking, talking handbook on preparation for the worst case scenario.
"But Aunt Carol's going to stay here until—"
"She's already going to be taking care of Mom and driving her to the hospital while Dad's at work. She didn't want this to be any more of a burden."
Robin nods to her sister and takes the ham and cheese out of the lunchmeat drawer, the mustard and mayo off the door, and a half-eaten bag of prepackaged salad that's smashed between two of the gallons of milk. Katie gets two plates and the bread from the counter. Then they sit down at the table and assemble their own sandwiches.
Robin takes a few bites. The bread is too soft and gets stuck in her teeth and on the roof of her mouth. It takes her a while and a lot of maneuvering with her tongue to chew and swallow it. She can't remember the last time she made a sandwich like this. With her work schedule, she usually goes back to sleep at lunch time, missing it entirely.
When the sandwiches are both half-eaten in front of them, Robin asks, "What should we do now?"
"Did you want to bring in your suitcases from the car? We can bring them upstairs if you want to unpack. Mom figured you'd stay in the bedroom that used to be mine, since I kind of moved into yours when you left. Aunt Carol can stay in the guest bedroom."
"That's fine."
As they finish their lunch, Katie tells Robin about their mother's biopsy in more detail. How they waited afterward for the results. The things the doctor told them while their Mom was still under anesthesia.
"There's a chance the cancer won't respond to the treatment and he said if that happens, that's when they'd remove the whole thing. He said it has, and I quote, "worked miracles in early cases like hers." He sounded so sure about the whole thing. Then he started talking about surgical implants and that's where Dad stopped listening I think."
"Do you think she would do it?" Robin asks. "Get an implant, I mean?"
"I think so," Katie says. "She's no Aunt Carol."
They run out to the car without putting their jackets on and Robin asks, "Do you remember when Aunt Carol lived with us?"
"Kind of," Katie answers, lifting the smaller of the bags out of the trunk. Then she adds, "Maybe just from videos."
"You were… twelve years ago… you were eight," Robin says. She closes the trunk after them and follows Katie back into the house.
There has always been this gap between them: ten years, some months, some days, Southern Ontario and Upstate New York, lifestyles, ideologies. Robin was an only child for ten years. Katie maybe is now, in a way. Katie was six when Robin first became Robin Sparkles, nine when Aunt Carol's diagnosis came, twelve when Robin moved out. Robin has to count on her fingers to keep track of it – sometimes, she even imagines Katie as being her own age, how nice it would have been to have someone else.
"How long did she have chemo for?" Katie asks.
"Maybe just a month. I think they did two rounds though. There was some time in between. I don't really remember how much."
They ascend the stairs quietly and dump the suitcases on the floor in Robin's room for the next five days. It isn't long after that the hear their father's truck doors closing outside, followed by Aunt Carol's loud voice. While Robin can't make out the individual words, she knows instinctually that her father would prefer silence.
The sisters run down the stairs on tiptoe to greet their aunt. She's wearing a down vest and turtleneck sweater, as well as a pair of hiking boots. She has a duffel bag strapped across her chest, the band stretching across the flat side of her chest, and she's carrying another large suitcase and a purse in her arms. She drops them all on the kitchen floor when she sees Robin and Katie.
"Girls!" she announces. And when both Robin and Katie each hold up a single finger in front of their lips, she repeats it again, this time in an exaggerated whisper, "Girls!"
Then she comes forward and embraces them both like children. It hasn't gotten any less strange over time hugging a woman with only one breast. It still feels uneven, alien. But Aunt Carol doesn't seem to care or even notice their collective discomfort. In fact, it seems as if she goes out of her way to give them hugs. Two or three times each. She treats her scar and everything that comes with it like a battle wound, something to survive, something that is so ingrained in her that she can't separate herself from it.
"Mom's asleep," Katie whispers to their Dad, who comes in from the car carrying two more suitcases.
He nods and goes upstairs, leaving the three women locked in a five-breasted embrace in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Not five minutes after greeting them, Aunt Carol is already lecturing Robin and Katie, especially Robin, on the necessity of going for regular mammograms. "The earlier they diagnose it, the better," she's saying. "Do you want me to show you how to perform a proper breast exam?"
"No," they both say together, wide-eyed.
"We know how," Robin assures her.
"They show us every year at the—" Katie says.
Without much warning at all, Aunt Carol lifts up her own shirt.
"Oh," Katie finishes.
Aunt Carol does not shy away from displaying the raw, flat skin where her right breast used to be or the normal breast she has left. "We're all girls here," she says to them. Never mind that they are standing in the kitchen with windows that neighbors could see into. Never mind that they're all grown women by now, not young girls. Never mind that Robin and Katie's father went upstairs and could come down at any time. Never mind that they look away after only a few seconds of viewing the flat red skin but its image has already been burned into them. This is just the way Aunt Carol is. Her body, her breasts aren't hers anymore; they're a testament to the path of tribulations she survived in order to stand in front of them, two fingers deftly searching for any sign of lump.
Horrified, Robin and Katie pretend to pay attention while at the same time averting their eyes from their aunt.
"Now you take two fingers and press around it as if your fingers were the hour hand of a clock and you have to press every hour from 12am to 12pm," she goes on, in a whisper. It is the whispering, perhaps, that makes this feel so much more wrong.
"Aunt Carol," Katie whines. She has a hand in front of her eyes. "We already know!"
"You can never be too safe. Maybe if I had done breast exams on myself regularly, I wouldn't have had to have the mastectomy."
The sisters look at each other instead of Aunt Carol. Robin sighs audibly.
"I want you girls to promise me," Aunt Carol says, "that you will do this every day."
"We promise!" Katie says. "Now put your boobs away."
"Every day!" Aunt Carol says in that same loud whisper.
"Every day," Robin repeats.
When Robin's mother wakes up from her nap, the four women spend the evening around her bed. It's a bonding agent, this cancer, something like a noose around all of their necks; though no one says it, they feel its pressure, adjust their breathing, and wiggle around in their seats to be able to bear it.
They watch Humphrey Bogart movies because Robin's mother has always had a thing for the stoic, tough types. She cries at the end of Casablanca and Aunt Carol decides that at 9:00, after such a long day, it's probably time for bed.
Robin and Katie go to their rooms too, though Robin isn't sure why.
She rummages through her suitcase, putting her clothes away in the antique three-drawer dresser across from the bed. When she opens the closet to put away the empty suitcase, she finds all the things she left behind that Katie didn't claim. On the top of the pile, apparently recently added, Robin finds the old diary where she wrote the first draft of Sandcastles in the Sand and a dozen songs she never had the chance to record. On its crisp pages, she also finds the losing-her-virginity story Katie referenced when she came to New York for the first time. She finds a few other records of her own sexual exploits and of parties she went to; god, she hopes if Katie read this she at least learned not to do what Robin did, learned that it would not earn their father's attention. She was so young back then. There are also extensive entries written about her father, sometimes cataloging exchanges between then, written with a shaky hand and teary eyes. And a few lists of places Robin wanted to go, things she wanted to do before she got old. She can't help but think that sixteen-year-old Robin would already think she's old.
She picks up her phone, thinking of her friends probably sitting at the bar, she calls Lily.
"Hey honey, I'm going to put you on speaker. Is that okay?"
"Sure," Robin says. She tries to sound animated. As animated as she can given the circumstances. She's still holding the diary in her hands, turning the pages slowly.
"Robin!" she hears them all shout.
"How's Canada?" Ted asks.
"How's your mom?" says a voice she knows as Marshall's.
"It's fine. Everything here's fine. I just sat through a Bogart movie marathon with my mom, aunt and sister."
"Katie's there?" Barney asks. There's a ruckus at the table that sounds like empty beer bottles being shoved aside. "Is she legal yet?'
"Barney!" Lily scolds.
"Ow! Hey!"
"I'm glad I don't have any sisters for Barney to hit on," Marshall says.
"So inconsiderate," Lily says.
"It's okay." There's a pause after Robin speaks where she can hear the normal sounds of the bar in the background: Wendy taking someone's order, a football game on TV in the background, the cling and clatter of glass.
"Well, is she?" Barney asks again.
She stays on the phone with them for a few more minutes. "It's almost like you're here, only not actually here!" Barney interjects at some point.
The four of them start debating who is the greatest actor of all time while Robin just listens to the banter. Ted, of course, agrees with Robin's mother that Humphrey Bogart for his performance in Casablanca is the greatest actor of all time. "He has five of the most memorable movie lines ever delivered, four in that movie alone!"
"Always with the classics," Robin mutters.
When Lily suggests Meryl Streep, "for her accent in Sophie's Choice" and "general bitchiness in The Devil Wears Prada," Barney claims that having starred in Mamma Mia! automatically deducts 1000 points.
"Hey, it wasn't that bad," Marshall says. "And she looks good for her age."
"She's in her sixties. Gross," Barney says.
Then Barney makes a pretty convincing argument for Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator movies. And Marshall starts getting excitedly agitated as begins to make a case for Ian McKellan in Lord of the Rings ("YOU SHALL NOT PASS!") and Sean Connery as "Bond, James Bond."
"What about you, Robin?' Lily asks.
"I don't know. Can't we do best hockey players of all time?"
There is a collective groan. Then a knock at Robin's door. Maybe she's being too loud? She says, "Guys, I have to go. I'll talk to you later. Bye!" and hangs up before they have a chance to protest.
She opens the door and it's Katie standing there holding a bottle of wine by the neck.
So that first night after their parents and Aunt Carol have gone to sleep, Robin and Katie sit in dim light at the big kitchen table with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses.
They speak in whispers, sparingly at first. About Katie in college and the boys she's been dating. Then about Robin: Robin and Ted, Robin and Barney, Robin and Don, Argentina, Tokyo, New York.
When the bottle is halfway gone, they talk about their mother. "I just don't like seeing her weak like this," Katie says and Robin asks, "What's going to happen when we go back in five days?"
At a third of the way gone, they talk about their father, exchange stories and memories and wonder why he is the way he is. They don't come to any earth-shattering conclusions.
When all they have left is an empty bottle, they both stumble off to bed, Katie in Robin's old room, Robin in the guest room with the floral wallpaper, the one that used to be Katie's before Robin moved out and her mother redid it.
She isn't drunk, not really, but all this talking has done something to her, unhinged her a little maybe. It's only eleven, around eleven. So she calls the second-to-last person in her call history: Barney Stinson. She's almost surprised there isn't a girl in his apartment, performing a strip tease or lounging post-coital on his bed.
"I can talk," he says. "What's going on?"
She hears him light a cigarette and wonders if maybe he's already made the girl leave. Maybe there wasn't a girl at all.
Robin reaches for her own box of cigarettes and the lighter that's almost out of fluid that she bought the week before.
"Nothing," she says.
"Why'd you leave so fast earlier?"
"Someone knocked. I thought it might have been my dad telling me I was too loud, but it was just Katie. With wine," she adds.
"You aren't drunk."
"I know."
Somehow, Robin ends up telling him about Aunt Carol and the kitchen breast exam.
All Barney can say in response is, "Hot," at the sight of a Scherbatsky woman touching herself in a kitchen with windows everywhere where any neighbor passing by can see in.
"No," Robin counters, not quite able to explain the gravity of it, the way it struck her as grotesque and well, she doesn't know what else. "It was terrible. She has no shame. It's like… her body is just a body. Like it isn't even hers." She sighs. "Just trust me, it was the opposite of hot."
For a reason she can't quite name, Robin does not mention her aunt's breast cancer or the mastectomy. For a reason she can't quite name, she does not want him to know this about her family, about her, how one day she could be her Aunt Carol, no shame left, surviving her body's atrophy with the dignity of a medical cadaver on display, just a body to prod and study and grimace at.
Barney doesn't really say anything back. She can tell he doesn't understand what she's talking about and doesn't know how to answer. So she asks who won the Great Actor Debate of 2010.
"Ted appended his previous answer and went with Harrison Ford for Star Wars. Then we all jumped on it. Except not Lily because she's lame."
"Indiana Jones," Robin says. "I can agree to that."
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