Chapter Ten
Otis Redding - (Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay
Rose's room had never felt so crowded. It was littered with hand-carved knick-knacks, browning rose petals, and footprints that weren't hers, not to mention the oppressive memory of what might have been a kiss with the man who Rose had long-suspected of hating her. Unless, of course, Minho was just messing with her again.
The more she thought about it, the more annoyed Rose was. How dare that slinthead imply she was torturing him when he was clearly going out of his way to torture her. It was like everything he did had an end goal of aggravating her. In front of an audience, he was all sharp edges, but when it was just the two of them, those edges were blunter yet just as capable of cutting. What chafed even worse was the knowledge that Minho had already laid waste to Rose's solemn promise to never let him touch her again. And she hadn't fought back—she had to reconcile that humiliating fact.
And if he had kissed her? Rose didn't want to think about that.
It weighed on her mind all the way to breakfast and pressed even harder when she sat down across from him. She stared. She couldn't help herself. Rose had to puzzle him out, for the sake of her own sanity.
Minho was different today—something was off. Not his general surliness toward her—one glance at his furrowed brow gave her all the clarification she needed—but something else. His hair maybe. It looked more styled than usual. The spiteful part of her brain thought about squashing it flat.
Rose didn't realize how long she'd been staring until Minho looked up with a wicked grin and said, "See something you like?"
She opened her mouth to respond but shut it immediately when she realized she couldn't come up with a witty answer.
Newt glanced to Rose then Minho before he leaned casually next to her and whispered, "You all right?"
More humiliation, great. She managed a sheepish nod and hurried through her pancakes so she could get this day over with.
With only two jobs remaining for try outs, Rose was tasked with the last one she'd been dreading. Though being a Bagger was decidedly less traumatic than she thought it would be, especially compared to her experience Slicing, the mere mention of the job gave her the sensation of a million little centipedes running up and down her spine.
Seeing firsthand how closely Death lurked behind every Glader even on mundane days had heightened her fear of the title alone. But, thankfully, when they weren't putting people in the ground, the Baggers policed the Glade, mostly keeping watch on the entrances to the Maze, not that there were too many inquisitive souls left willing to risk their lives for a peek at more walls.
All in all, it was a rather boring job. Rose spent the early part of the day with Jackson seeing the Runners off. Thomas and Minho had both smiled at her as they jogged toward the South Door, but where Thomas' smile was laden with private affection, Minho's was laden with trouble made worse by the teasing wink he added at the end.
Jackson laughed, a deep bellow that matched his baritone. "I don't get so much as a nod most mornings."
In the afternoon, Anil sent Fen, the last Bagger, to summon Rose to the Deadheads. She hadn't visited in a while, and the place felt even more claustrophobic than before. She glanced around for the swarthy man but could not find him among the jeweled tones of the canopy.
Her eyes fell on a flat wedge of sandstone lying on the edge of the cemetery with a small heap of scrap wood beside it. The sight of it made her heart race.
"I did not actually expect you to come," Anil said, emerging from the cloistered shadows beside her. "I would have thought you would be in the Maze by now, little Greenie."
Rose laced her thumbs over the lip of her pockets and stared relentlessly at the yet-nameless block of stone in front of them. "You know that's not up to me."
"It is not?" He sounded genuinely surprised, as though she were the fool for doubting.
She ignored his question in favor of her own. "Why are we here?"
Anil shrugged one shoulder. "I thought you might like the quiet. It is always very loud around you."
Rose laughed, a booming sound that rustled against the treetops and made even the perennially tranquil Anil jump. Somewhere up above a bird took off in search of a more peaceful refuge. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so hard.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eyes. "You're something else, Anil. I'm glad you're my friend."
"We are friends?"
Rose faced him, looking every bit as perplexed as she felt. "Aren't we?"
It was the first time she had ever seen the man sincerely smile. It was a strange thing, rather robotic as the corners of his lips creaked haltingly upward. The end result was mildly frightening and only provoked another laugh from Rose.
The two of them hiked a bit above the cemetery, stopping just before they reached the secret rose bush. Rose sat down in a patch of scraggly grass while Anil sat beside her. Her eyes surveyed the graves for a minute before she asked, "How do you do it? Bury a friend, I mean?"
"I start by breaking up the earth with a pick axe—"
"No," she said with a light sigh, "I mean, how do you find the strength to do it?"
"I do not understand. I would bury a friend the same way I would bury a stranger: with respect and dignity for the life he led."
"Don't you ever feel overwhelmed by it, Anil? So many kids dead for no real reason." Rose's voice trailed off as her eyes once again fixated on that stone just waiting to be assigned a name.
"Death does not require a reason, little Greenie, and I suppose I do not feel overwhelmed because I understand that. Death is not just an end but a beginning."
Rose turned her head toward the Keeper and hugged her knees a little tighter. "A beginning of what?"
Anil raised both eyebrows as he considered. "I do not remember exactly, but I believe I once had an answer for that. It is just something I know."
Rose smiled. The Keeper of the Baggers may have been strange company, but he was good company.
They sat for a while longer in silence. If Rose had been alone, she might have felt the restless spirits of the dead boys creeping up beneath her feet or, even worse, the ghosts of the World Before plaguing the dark recesses of her mind, but it seemed even Death itself respected Anil. His presence soothed most of Rose's overworked imagination, but in doing so, it allowed one particular memory to float to the top.
"Anil, do you really think people will die because of me?"
The Keeper paused briefly before he answered, "Yes. But that does not mean it will be your fault. You, little Greenie, are hope, and hope is worth dying for."
Always with the riddles. Rose took a few long breaths, inhaling until her lungs stretched against her ribs. "Well, I don't want that. Could I stop it?"
"You could try, but you would probably fail."
Anil's eyes caught movement below and he stood up. Rose couldn't tell from her vantage who was coming, but the Keeper said, "We had better get going."
Halfway down the hill, Rose realized the intruder was Clint. She could see from his raised haunches and shifting eyes that he hated being here, perhaps a reminder of his failed attempts at saving his fellow Gladers. At the sight of Anil, he hurried over. He gave a curt nod to Rose and gestured to the other Keeper to join him in the woods.
Anil turned to Rose. His eyes mapped her face, studying everything from her forehead to her lashes to each freckle that festooned her cheeks. "I think your service as a Bagger is over, little Greenie. You may do as you wish now."
Rose glanced between Clint's anxious face to Anil's placid one, and her heart plummeted. She nodded to both of them and left the Deadheads with a tight chest. Going back home was not an option. If she had time to think, she knew what she would be thinking about, and she couldn't let herself do that. Her feet carried her instead to the Gardens, where Newt kept her busy enough to let her forgot the bags under Clint's eyes.
When evening came, Rose sat with Thomas outside her room and let him tell her about the night he and Minho had spent in the Maze rescuing Alby, which offered a sufficient distraction from her day. No more rose petals this time, and no more mention of them.
Thomas talked until she couldn't listen anymore, and when she dreamed, she found she couldn't extract even a single pearl. The hands were too close and too hungry tonight. They were as restless as Rose felt, and no matter how much of the gray matter she threw their way, they came back hungrier than before.
She must have fallen asleep outside because she didn't remember going to bed, but Rose woke up in her hammock all the same. Though yesterday had been a light day in terms of physical exertion, she was exhausted. She had trouble swinging her legs over the side of her hammock, and she considered staying in bed, but today was her last job and also her last day as the designated Greenie, so she had no choice but to get up.
It was still early, not quite sunrise but on the cusp. Rose did not wait for breakfast. She was too eager to check on Cat, who had been the largest source of her anxiety, so she headed straight for the Med-hut. She was surprised to see quite a few others already outside. Alby, Newt, and Zart crowded around the open door, lantern light spilling out into the dove gray of morning. Bustling shadows passed through the errant beams in a macabre puppet show.
"You're awake," Newt said, startled at the sight of her.
"I've been worried," Rose replied, "and since I'm supposed to be here anyway, I came."
"Probably not the best day to try Med-jacking," Alby said. "Might be better served waiting until tomorrow."
"I want to help. I need to. Please."
Alby kept his eyes firmly fixed into the glowing portal. His face was etched with the same finality of a tombstone. "Not sure you can, Greenie."
Rose could hear her breathing escalate as the first surge of adrenaline hit her veins. She muscled between Newt and Alby into the Med-hut. The first thing to hit Rose was the smell. It was more pungent than anything she had smelled, even in the Blood House. Thick and heavy, like a soup of rotted meat cooked slowly over an open flame, it caught in her throat, and Rose considered clawing at her esophagus to get it out. She dry-heaved but caught herself before she could actually throw up. Her eyes watered as the odor wrapped around her head like a suffocating rag.
The room was littered with junk. Clint and Jeff raced from shelf to shelf as they tossed useless supplies and bottles to the floor, seemingly immune to the smell. They shouted at each other, but the air was so thick, it was hard for Rose to focus on their words.
And Cat was in the center of all of it. Laid out rigid on his cot, his hands gripped the sheets in white-knuckled fists. His body sparkled with rivulets of cold sweat, each one splintering the fire light like a human diamond. Rose wished she could say he was beautiful, but the way his mouth contorted like a banshee mid-scream shattered the vision irreparably. He made no sounds but a series of staccato choking that caught somewhere in the back of his throat. His chest fluttered so fast it looked more like spasms, and a pool of fresh vomit had congealed beside his head.
"Cat," she soothed though he did not move. "Cat, I'm here."
Rose grabbed a rag from the bedside stand and mopped the sweat from his face and arms and cleared the vomit as best she could. She soaked another rag in cool water and pressed it against his brow in the hopes that it offered some margin of relief. She ran her hands down his left arm until her fingers found his clenched fist. She pried it open with just enough time for him to latch onto her and squeeze mercilessly. The pressure made her eyes pinch shut, but she hoped at least Cat knew she was there.
"Get out of here, Greenie! Somebody get her out of here," Clint yelled, but Rose ignored him. She couldn't will herself to move anyway, no matter the horror in front of her. Cat needed someone—he needed her.
Zart grabbed Rose's shoulders and tried to throw her out, but as he wrenched her back, her other hand caught the corner of Cat's sheet and ripped it away.
From ankle to knee, the boy's leg was shades of plum and eggplant and ink, roiling out like the galaxy that split their sky every night. Onyx bubbles like boiling tar ballooned around the wound where Cat's bone had broken through, and the reek intensified until every spectator inside and out was gagging.
"Not like this," Rose murmured as she gaped at the wound. "We don't die from this. We can cure this."
"What are you shucking talking about?" Clint demanded. "What is she talking about!"
They didn't know. Rose didn't know. Words were spilling out of her mouth that she wasn't even conscious of making. "This isn't how we die. It isn't right."
Jeff put his hands on his head as he stared at Rose in disbelief. "Shuck, she's going off the deep-end. We don't have time for this!"
Suddenly, Rose wrenched her hand from Cat's, and she was off and running. The sun had turned the sky orange and gold, rousing fellow Gladers from their beds. The rooster crowed down by the Blood House. And Rose ran.
She didn't stop until she reached the Box. Her arms flung wide as she commanded the attention from the monsters she knew were watching. She spun in a wild circle as she screamed, "Save him, you assholes! Save him! I know you know how. I know you can hear me. You cowards! His name is Cat. He's my friend. You save him right now, goddamnit, or so help me, I will find you and I will fucking kill you."
The Box didn't move. It didn't even make a sound—no whirring mechanisms, no squealing metal. Silence from it, silence from the Creators.
Rose fell to her knees. Through racking sobs, she whispered, "Save him."
She felt the bile rising in her throat, and she didn't want to stop it. She had to get it out. She had to get rid of this demon inside of her. She threw up in the middle of the grass. Again and again.
"Save them," she cried on her hands and knees. She was begging, and no one was listening.
Them? Rose didn't know what she was saying anymore, she wasn't even sure where she was. Visions bombarded her mind and made her clutch her temples in agony—rivers of black snaking across white plains, wild eyes and blood-stained teeth. She curled on her side, laying in her own shame. Her failure. She hadn't saved them, and she couldn't save Cat.
Rose vaguely registered two silhouettes hovering over her. If they were talking to her, she couldn't hear them. She didn't know how long she laid there crying before she felt hands underneath her, but it wasn't long enough to wash away her sins. She was carried back to the Homestead—she knew that much—but she didn't know by whom. Rose shut her eyes to the world and refused to open them.
The ground softened underneath her, and she felt like she was sinking into her own grave. Wherever she was, it didn't smell like wet grass or death, more like sun-warmed earth and ripe vegetables. A hand soothed her curls as fingernails raked gently across her scalp. With each caress, Rose came back to herself, though she still refused to open her eyes and face her palpable failures.
Somewhere nearby she caught the hiss of whispers, and this time her body did not give her the mercy of temporary deafness. She recognized the gentle lilt of Anil's voice. "Cat is gone."
A long, resigned sigh preceded the deep gruff of Alby's response. "Poor bastard. Get him in the ground before the vultures find him. I'll tell the others."
Rose squeezed her eyes tighter, willing the words away, and the hand in her hair reached instead for her face, tracing the arch of her brow down the sweep of her jaw. A single tear puddled in the hollow of her nose until a thumb wiped it away. It was the last thing she remembered before she escaped into total blackness.
She awoke to warm skin and apricot shades behind her eyelids. For once, Rose didn't feel smothered upon waking, and she relished a tip-to-toe stretch that energized every muscle. She sat up on her elbows and opened her eyes. She could tell she was in the Homestead, but she must have been in one of the Keepers' rooms because only they had their own. There was a shelf on the wall with a couple of random tools, some of Chuck's whittled handiwork, and a few bottles. Aside from a pair of wrinkled clothes and dirty shoes, there wasn't much else in the way of possessions.
Rose was on a cot with a balled-up sweatshirt for a pillow and a straw-blonde boy slumped over, asleep on a stool at her bedside. His mouth was cracked open, breathing softly onto a hand tucked under his cheek. His other arm was draped over her hips like a seatbelt. Rose ruffled his hair, and Newt sat up with a start.
"Hi," she said with a shallow smile.
"Hi." He rubbed sleep from the corners of his eyes and looked out the window. "What time do you think it is?"
Rose glanced behind her to the sun-soaked green and wrinkled her nose. "Afternoon maybe?"
Newt sat up and stretched his arms back over his head until they both heard a light pop, but then he returned his full attention to her. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay, I guess. I'm sorry about everything, Newt. I should have listened. I shouldn't have gone in there. I don't know what happened. It was like another me out there remembering something I don't actually remember."
He put a hand over Rose's and squeezed. With a nod, he said slowly, "Yeah, that was bloody weird."
Without warning, they both started laughing, strange peals that echoed off the walls and bordered a bit on the deranged, but at least it staved off the tears Rose wanted to shed. One stubborn droplet managed to make it through, and she smeared it across her face with the back of her hand.
"I just wanted to help Cat so bad. For some reason, I really thought I could, you know? How stupid is that? I'm so full of shit."
They both sobered. Newt did not let go of her hand. "You're not stupid, you're green."
Rose hung her head. "I know I didn't even know him that well. Why am I so upset?"
"It's your first time seeing death. Gets easier, I hate to bloody say it."
Rose knew she had seen death before, lots of it. If the white in her hair and the scar on her neck told her anything, she might even have had a front row seat, but that wasn't it—at least, that wasn't all of it. There was something more simmering beneath the surface, the knowledge that if this had happened anywhere but the Glade, Cat could have been saved. Rose didn't know how she knew this, but she knew it with certainty. The Creators could send up wax paper and lycra shorts, but they wouldn't send up life-saving medicine. They chose not to save Cat, and that Rose couldn't forgive.
"Did they bury him?" she asked.
"I think so. Want to go over?"
Rose nodded and the two of them headed downstairs. She found the main floor surprisingly empty. She thought she might find at least the Track-hoes mourning inside, but there was no one. Outside was even more shocking. The Glade was alive with activity. Under the late afternoon sun, boys worked the same as always, maybe a little quieter, but they were drenched in sweat and brown with dust.
"Did Thomas go into the Maze?" Rose asked with amazement.
"All the Runners did, I think. Not much they could get done by the time they went in, I imagine, but I guess it's not really about that."
Even the Track-hoes were busy in the Gardens, though the Orchard was noticeably empty. Newt hadn't been joking when he said the Gladers had gotten used to death—they had hardly skipped a beat.
Newt waved to his fellow Track-hoes as they passed, and Rose said, "You should be with them. Zart could probably really use you."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Those blokes'll be all right. I'd rather pay my respects for now. I didn't get to go to the funeral either."
So he had stayed with her the whole time… Rose wondered for a minute what the Glade would be like without Newt. Somehow he seemed to hold everyone here together; he was holding her together right now.
She gave him a grateful smile before lacing her fingers through his. His calloused hand was a welcome feeling from the last one that had held hers, and Rose held it tighter to dispel the memory. Newt looked surprised, but he didn't remove his hand as they entered the Deadheads.
The air had always been thick in there, but today it was cloying. It smelled of overturned earth and finality, and rancid notes from Cat's rotting leg lingered above all of it. Rose felt stinging bile at the back of her throat again but tamped it back down, not that she had anything left to throw up anyway.
Cat's grave was unmistakable. Someone had wet the soil, probably to make it a little easier to dig, and muddy tracks trailed away from the lumpy rectangle like tear stains. A haphazard cross had been tacked into the ground as Anil, who sat crossed-legged beside the grave, hammered his chisel carefully into the wedge of sandstone Rose had noticed yesterday. She should have known this was coming—Anil obviously had.
The tap-tap-tap of the chisel echoed in the emerald cavern loud enough that Rose wanted to cover her ears. She stared at Anil's back, hunched with purpose, as his muscles twitched. In an effort to stop the horrendous chiseling, Rose said, "You knew he was going to die."
The Keeper did not look up from his work but answered, "Yes."
"How?"
The chisel finally stilled. "I have buried enough of us. I know death."
A flare of anger ignited inside Rose, replacing the bitter sadness that had been there since morning. "You could have said something."
Anil swiveled around, still sitting, and appraised her placidly like a living human was something he had never seen before. "I did."
With a long exhale, Rose remembered Clint's visit, his uncomfortable twitching as he entered the place where he had realized his patient would ultimately rest. Cat's fate had been sealed yesterday, and yet Clint and Jeff had carried on in spite of it. Rose's angered cooled in favor of a blossoming respect for the two Med-jacks. They might be two teenage boys with no experience whatsoever, but they had treated Cat the best they could until the very end. That was worth something.
"Do you mind if I just take a minute?" she asked of Newt, and he nodded and knocked Anil on the shoulder to motion him out.
Only when Rose had the Deadheads to herself did she realize she didn't know what she was doing. She couldn't remember visiting anyone else's grave, and she had no idea what the proper etiquette was, but she still felt like she owed the kid something.
"Hey, Cat," she said with a bit of embarrassment. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you, but I hope you know I tried. Maybe Anil is right, and this is just a new beginning for you. Wherever you go, I hope it's better than here. You deserve it."
Rose stood in awkward silence, alone with a pile of dirt and a body buried somewhere beneath it. It seemed a cruel joke that Cat, the lithe and lively Cat who could fight with grace and smile with ease, was down there in some hateful box. Rose thought of the one comfort she had, the memory of a melody that played every night for her in her head, and she offered it to Cat as a final apology.
As she hummed, Rose heard footsteps behind her. She expected Anil or Newt, but instead Minho's broad frame joined her. His chest rose and fell quickly as he must have just returned from the Maze. Sweat shimmered across his neck and arms. His eyes were fixed on the sloppy cross.
Without ceremony, he interrupted her tune. "There are lyrics to that."
"There are?"
"Yeah, you used to sing them."
In the Maze, the Before Rose, she realized. Whatever this song was, it had meant as much to her previous self as it did to her current one.
"Tell me," she said.
"I'm not singing, so put it out of your head, Greenie," he scolded. Instead, Minho cleared his throat and recited the words with the same cool confidence he said just about everything. "I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away, I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time."
Rose's lips parted as she stared at his profile.
"That's all I know," Minho snapped.
It was all she needed to hear. With just those words, the whole song came surging back in a lovely mature soprano that definitely wasn't her own dreadful alto. Love. She felt love—and peace—in those words. Rose was lighter than air. She wept, but this time had nothing to do with Cat's death; it didn't even have to do with sadness. For one brief moment, though she did not know her full name nor her hometown nor anything about her family, Rose felt whole.
She flung her arms around Minho's neck and hugged him tightly. She pressed her cheek into his shoulder and felt the steady undulation of his lungs. He did not hug her back or even move, but Rose needed him to know how grateful she was for this gift.
"Thank you," she whispered into his shirt before she let go and headed back into the Glade where Newt waited.
Dinner was rather sparse and decidedly tasteless, though it was hard to tell if that was Frypan's cooking or just the way the day had gone. Everyone at her table, even Minho, took an interest in her well-being, checking to be sure she was coping all right. The truth was now that she had her song back, she felt better. Cat's death still ached, still shocked her to her core, but a real piece of the original Rose had fallen into place, and, strange as it sounded, she didn't feel as lonely as she had, even in a place full of people.
Thomas walked Rose home, where they sat as usual staring off into the woods. Rose sang her song to him, every word that she could now recall with perfect clarity, and even though she could tell she was horribly tone deaf, Thomas listened with a smile.
"That's, like, the first nice thing that's happened here. Well, second," he amended with a glance at her lips. Rose laughed and rolled her eyes.
The sun was setting, and with its departure, Rose knew the galaxy would appear. She didn't want to see it. Though the song had helped her heal, it could not erase the horror of Cat's leg from her memory. The same vibrant colors, the same vast expanse of hopelessness.
Thomas stood to leave and Rose grabbed his arm. "Stay," she said, surprising the both of them. "I don't want to be alone tonight."
"If you're sure," Thomas replied.
She nodded and took his hand, leading him into her hut. Though she only had her hammock, Rose directed Thomas to the other end where he helped her take it down from the ceiling. They spread it out in the middle of the floor like a picnic blanket, and Rose laid on her side. Thomas remained standing, his eyes watching her carefully. They held each other's gazes a long while before she said, "It's okay, Thomas. Please."
Her begging brought him to her side, and he laid down flat on his back, her back to him. Not that she was going to tell him the whole truth of her memory of the two of them from the Before, but if Thomas knew the way he had laid with her on their last shared bed, he would cringe at how awkward this was.
"It's cold," Rose said. It wasn't really, but she felt a frost in her marrow knowing that galaxy pulsated ominously above her.
After a moment, she heard a rustle, the scratch of pebbles grating against dirt and fabric rubbing against fabric. Heat flooded her as did anticipation. Thomas rolled on his side, his body molding to hers. She felt every pressure point keenly: his chest against her spine, his hips against her backside, his knees behind her knees. In a moment, his arm snaked over her waist and cinched the two of them together.
"Is this okay?" he asked, but she could tell from the escalating rush of hot breath against her neck that he knew it was.
It would be so easy just to melt into him. Rose knew she had once, and with just a brush of his fingers, she knew she could again. She could forget everything for a while, be undone and primal and not care about a thing. She felt his hands twitch against her stomach, and if she didn't stop them now, she never would, no matter how dangerous it could be.
Before they could reach the point of no return, Rose reached up and grabbed Thomas' hand. From the way his breaths slowed, he understood. He pressed his lips against the back of her neck and nuzzled his nose along its arc.
"Goodnight, Rose."
"Goodnight, Thomas."
And goodbye, Cat, she thought as she closed her eyes.
It wasn't a pearl this time, it was a diamond. It was small but beautifully cut, and when Rose held it up toward the wan light outside the grotto, it refracted a hundred tiny shards of yellow around her and across her skin. She squinted as she pulled it closer for inspection, and inside she found another memory, this one more alive than Rose had ever felt.
She saw two pairs of feet, one much smaller than the other but both pairs delicate and feminine in their own way. Bare legs draped over weather-beaten boards that bowed up at the end, defying the ancient square-headed nails that clung for purchase into the seaweed-studded supports below. Water lapped around the ankles of the longer pair of legs and taunted the shorter pair that couldn't yet reach.
The song was back, and this time Rose heard the woman's voice clearer than she had when she was awake. It was closer, next to her, as though it was being sung directly into her ear. Effervescent and delicate, like a spear of sunshine through a cloudy day. Rose was enveloped by that voice and carried away on its melody.
"Sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time…"
One of the long legs kicked up a shower of water that broke up the song with a chandelier of crystals raining from heaven.
There was laughter and then darkness.
In keeping with Dashner's system of naming the Subjects after famous scientists, I have done the same for all of my original characters. A Newt hug and kiss to anyone who can figure out after whom our dearly departed Cat was named. Rest in peace, my feline friend.