Casey's words hovered in the air. "Because I planted a tracking device in his watch."

Sarah's jaw dropped. Her body tensed. Shock and surprise consumed her.

It was a brilliant performance. And since Casey's smirk somehow managed to become even more obnoxious, clearly he had bought the act hook, line and sinker.

Sarah had known about the device in the watch since New Year's Eve. Graham had informed her of what Beckman would order Casey to do if the new version of the Intersect came online, so she had been on the lookout for any preparations Casey might be making. She had found the device on a routine sweep of Chuck's things while he was in the shower.

If she had removed it or confronted Casey, she would have tipped off Casey that she knew what was going on. She also would have needed to watch more vigilantly for whatever he used to replace the device. Leaving it alone had kept Casey in the dark and left her with fewer worries.

Keeping the device in place had been a smart move. Not telling Chuck about it – that was a different story.

When she first told him about the watch, Sarah promised that it was just a cover gift and that there were no spy devices inside. A previous gift, a phony picture of the two of them with a bug hidden in the frame, had been a debacle, so she wasn't about to plant another device in a gift. But once Casey made his move, she was stuck. She couldn't tell Chuck about device, because he would have asked why she had searched the watch in the first place. How could she tell him that Casey was making preparations to incarcerate Chuck – or worse – if the Intersect was successfully rebuilt?

Then Chuck would have asked Sarah what she would do if given the same orders. Back then, Chuck wouldn't have understood her answer. She would do what she could for him, but at the end of the day, the job still came first. Net result: Chuck would no longer have trusted Casey or her. That wasn't an option.

The mistake had been not telling Chuck about the device later, after he was almost extracted from the rooftop by Longshore, after she came back from South America to be with him. Given how their relationship had progressed since then, Chuck would have understood. This all could have been avoided if she had just told him.

The metal of the heart-shaped pendant of her necklace burned cold against her skin. Her necklace, like the watch, had been a cover Christmas gift. Both had been simple little trinkets when they were unwrapped at Ellie's. Now the watch held Casey's device, and the necklace held a secret of its own. Inside the necklace pendant, on the back of the picture of Chuck and Sarah, Chuck had scribbled three words. "I trust you."

In retrospect, she hadn't repaid Chuck's trust particularly well. She kept demanding his trust, yet she hadn't fully trusted him. It was a mistake that she had made time and again. And now he was running because she hadn't trusted in him.

Casey stood in front of her, lording his victory over her. All the emotion that Sarah had carried since finding out why Chuck had left came rushing back to the surface. She wanted to lash out at Casey, to rub his smug nose in the fact that she had known about his device and that the reason Chuck was only running because of the damn thing. But the truth was that she was angry with herself. It was her fault Chuck was gone.

She either trusted Chuck or she didn't. She either was worthy of his trust, or she wasn't. All she wanted now was to find Chuck, to protect him, to be given one more chance to show him that she deserved the trust he had given her. And for those reasons, she had to play along – for now.

Luckily, she had a convenient outlet for all that emotion. Casey would expect surprise and anger. Her surprise would be feigned, but her anger, well, anger he would get in spades.

"Casey!" she practically screamed. "You planted a device without telling me? When?"

"Back around Christmas, while you two were having dinner with Shawn Liniman."

"Two months ago?"

"Don't get all indignant on me. After Christmas we lost Chuck for three hours because you didn't put a tracker in the watch like you should have. So I had to do it. Looks like a pretty shrewd move now."

"It would have been a shrewd move if you had pulled out the tracker two hours ago."

"We had a credible lead on Bartowski's location."

"And you didn't want to tell me about the watch until you had no choice."

Instead of answering, Casey spun the case on the counter around. The screen displayed a decent rendition of a map, centered on Los Angeles. State borders were drawn with white lines. Cities were labeled in blue and marked with filled squares, the size of each square representing the city's population. Thin yellow lines snaked between the cities, marking major highway routes. A green blinking dot, flashing a good distance up the coast of California, must have represented the location of the watch. Casey grunted and gave the blinking dot a hard tap with a finger, as if trying to squish an insect crawling across the screen. "There's our boy."

Sarah's focus dropped down to the console. At the right end of a row of knobs and switches above the keyboard, she found what she was looking for, a red button with a plastic shield covering it. She shuddered.

As soon as she had found the device, she had researched it. Learning the basics about the device had been trivial. She was not entirely surprised to discover the device was not only a tracker, but had the capability to kill Chuck. Given what Beckman might order, it was a logical maneuver for Casey.

A little more research had determined something else. The chip was designed to funnel electric current from the battery via eight leads mounted to a metallic watch case. She found a mission report where a CIA agent had severed two of the leads, reducing the amount of current delivered. By cutting two of the leads, the agent had successfully neutralized a target rather than killing him. Sarah had severed the same two leads to ensure the device would only stun Chuck into unconsciousness if activated.

In a way, the device had played into her hands. Her modifications wouldn't trigger a console alert that the device had failed, which would have given Sarah a window of opportunity to react before Casey realized Chuck wasn't dead. But that didn't mean that she liked keeping secrets from Chuck, and she certainly didn't like Casey keeping secrets from her.

The device had caused her a fair bit of heartache, and she finally had her chance to vent some frustration. In an ominously quiet voice, she said, "Casey, is that a kill switch?"

Casey's answer was a slam of the lid of the case.

"Answer me, Casey."

He refused to look at her. Instead, he slowly and deliberately fastened the two black plastic latches shut.

"Damnit, don't you think I should have known about this?"

Burning eyes met her own. "And what? Told you that I had made contingency plans to kill Bartowski? Yeah, that conversation would have gone over well."

"We're not supposed to keep secrets from each other."

"Really." He folded his arms. "Anything you want to tell me about the status of your relationship with Bartowski?"

To her credit, Sarah didn't look away, but at the same time she found she couldn't speak. He was right. He wasn't the only one keeping secrets from his partner.

"That's what I thought," he said.

Somehow Casey didn't seem as judgmental as she would have expected. If she didn't know better, she would have said his tone was slightly sad.

He grabbed the case from the counter and walked into the living room. "We'll know soon enough if Chuck's getting off in San Francisco," he said. "Seattle or Stanford, either way, I'll find him."

Sarah's mind whirled. She came to quick decision and chased after him. "So," she said, "when do we leave?"

He lifted an enormous black duffel bag onto the recliner. "We? NSA will handle this."

Her eyes grew steely. "I'm coming with you."

Casey unzipped the duffel, picked up his jacket from the chair and stuffed it into the bag. "No, you're not."

"Casey–"

"This isn't a debate. You know why you need to stay put."

"I'm coming."

He shot her a warning glance. "Don't make me go to Beckman with this."

She froze. His suspicions might not be enough to keep her from coming, but she couldn't take that risk. And he knew it.

He took one last look around the room for anything he might have missed and zippered the bag shut. "Monitor communications from here in case our hero contacts Grimes or his sister. I'm guessing that I can handle Bartowski, but Beckman insisted that I take two agents as back-up." He watched her as he slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed the suitcase in his off hand.

"And if one of those agents turns out to be Fulcrum?"

His eyes swung away for the briefest of instants. "They aren't."

Sarah frowned. How could he possibly know that?

She never got a chance to ask. He said, "We should be on the ground in San Fran about 1430. I'll keep you posted." He turned and headed for the door.

Her eyes followed him as he went, assessing, looking for clues about what he wasn't saying. Casey's raised shoulders signaled that there was plenty, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming under normal circumstances. And these were hardly normal circumstances.

As he reached for the knob on his front door, he hesitated. Without turning around, he said, "Walker?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

Without another word, he opened the door and left.

After the door shut, she exhaled sharply. Plenty about the way Casey left bothered her, but for the moment she filed it all away. Their encounter had verified what she needed to know for the time being – she needed to find Chuck before Casey did.

Her calculated gamble to volunteer to join him had paid off. Casey obviously didn't want her along. Normally, that would be concerning, but right now it played into her hands.

She didn't want to go with Casey because he was wrong.

Chuck knew about the tracking device in the watch. That left two possible explanations for the watch following the same path as the plane flight. Either Chuck was trying to lure the agents to Seattle or San Francisco, or it was all an elaborate false trail.

Setting up a false trail was smart. Ticking off Casey by sending him on a wild goose chase and then deliberately luring him towards you was reckless, if not downright stupid. 'Reckless' and 'stupid' were two words not often used to describe Chuck Bartowski.

Chuck would expect the agents to hone in on the watch, so wherever the watch went was the last place the agents should go. Still, she had a problem. If the watch did end up leading Casey to Stanford, Sarah couldn't fully rule out Seattle as a destination.

Something else clicked. According to Ellie, Chuck's voice mail said that he had bought a plane ticket to Seattle, not that he was going to Seattle. Sarah smiled a fond smile. Chuck still couldn't bear to lie to his sister. He had told Ellie that he was buying the plane ticket, but not that he was planning on using it himself.

Sarah was betting hard that this was some type of decoy. She walked across the room to stare at an old black-and-white surveillance photograph mounted on the wall. In the picture Chuck was at the Buy More, a Nerd Herd desk phone pinned between his shoulder and an ear while pointing something out to a grey-haired woman. She folded her arms as she tried to put herself in his shoes. "Where are you really, Chuck? And who the hell is sitting in your seat on the Seattle flight?"

Jeff Barnes sat in the window seat of the bulkhead row of the plane, sipping a vodka on the rocks and so close to first class he could almost smell it. He leaned back in his reclined seat. "Living the good life," he said to himself with a contented grin.

The layover in San Francisco was about half complete. A fair number of passengers had disembarked, and now new passengers were starting to board. It wasn't long before a woman took the seat next to him. She was a college student by the looks of it, with stringy orangish-blond hair and a nondescript face, the type of woman you'd never look at twice. That is, unless you were Jeff. He didn't discriminate on race, creed, or personal grooming habits. He was an equal opportunity lover – a pulse equaled an opportunity.

Besides, she popped some kind of pill into her mouth as she sat, and a woman taking drugs always held promise.

"Is that anything interesting?" he asked as an icebreaker.

"Air sickness," she said. A corner of her mouth twisted upwards as if there was some kind of inside joke he was missing. "You're Jeff?"

"That would make you Glenda." he said.

"Would it?"

Something Chuck said came back to Jeff. "Oh, right. I'm supposed to say something. What was it?" He wracked his brain for a moment. "Ah. 'Are you coming to the toga party?' "

Unusually sharp eyes looked him over. "Really. You're an agent?" Her lips pursed in irritation, as if she'd committed some cardinal sin.

"I'm whatever you want me to be." His lips pursed into a little kissing motion.

Glenda looked like she might throw up. "Just … give me the package."

Jeff awkwardly straightened his body by pushing up on his heels, levering his shoulders against the backrest. He fished Chuck's watch out of his pants pocket and carelessly dangled it towards her. "Be careful with that," she hissed. She removed an orange and black dress scarf from her purse and had him place the watch directly in the fabric. The scarf-covered watch disappeared into her purse.

It took Jeff a moment to realize why she reacted so strongly. "Oh, right. Sorry." Chuck's uncle had died, and the watch was some kind of family heirloom, but Chuck had to fly back east to help with an aunt's funeral.

He never realized Chuck had so much family.

Since Chuck couldn't deliver the watch himself and his cousin was boarding the flight in San Francisco, Chuck had offered to fly Jeff to Seattle in exchange for making the delivery. Sure, the trip was short notice, but it gave Jeff an unexpected chance to visit his mother, a prisoner in the Washington State Department of Corrections. He hadn't seen Mom in a long time. A nice card and a special gift would be appropriate, he mused. Like a carton of cigarettes to use as currency on the inside. Or maybe something to make her feel pretty, like an unbreakable comb she could also fashion into a shiv. He liked the last idea. Multipurpose and thoughtful.

He turned to regard Glenda again. Having lost two relatives so close together, she was no doubt very upset. Very vulnerable. Her standards would be low. That made her very much his kind of woman.

She caught him regarding her and somehow managed to look more nauseous. Jeff pounced. He twisted to face her and spoke in a deep, seductive voice. "I get it. With everything that's happened, you're feeling lower than low. But spend five to seven minutes with me in the lavatory, and I guarantee you won't remember how low you used to feel."

With a deft motion, the woman snatched a barf bag from the pouch mounted on the bulkhead wall and vomited noisily.

Jeff leaned back. "Damn. That's never happened before."

The woman's chest heaved again, and once or twice more for good measure.

"I mean, plenty of women have told me that I've made them want to throw up, but none of them have ever actually thrown up."

A steward appeared in the aisle. He leaned over the pitiful Glenda, bracing himself against the headrest of the seat. "Miss, are you OK?"

Chuck's cousin looked up from her bent-over position and weakly shook her head. "I don't think so."

"You shouldn't fly. Let's get you off the plane."

The steward helped Chuck's cousin to her feet. Given her condition, Glenda shot Jeff a surprisingly lucid look and nodded. Then she hunched over and allowed herself to be guided up the aisle towards the front of the plane.

Jeff processed this turn of events with a dull disinterest, until he realized that while he might have lost a chance at love, he had gained an empty seat next to him for the second leg of his flight. His eyes grew wide with excitement. Life may taketh away, but it giveth right back.

He pulled up the arm separating the two seats and twisted his body so he could stretch out. He took another sip of his drink and let out a satisfied sigh. "Living the good life," he said to nobody in particular.

Chuck hadn't flown very often, and he didn't have fond recollections of the few times he had. His last flight had been for an academic competition in high school, and his memories of the trip stood out more for the turbulence, the air sickness and the mocking stares of his classmates than for any particular enjoyment of the experience.

This time around was little better. Sure, the turbulence had been minimal and none of his classmates were on this flight, but even a double-dose of Dramamine couldn't kill the queasiness in his stomach. After all, a pressurized tube at 35,000 feet was fairly easy to track, and if his ploys to throw his pursuers off his track failed, either the plane would make a quick U-turn or Chuck would be greeted by some very unfriendly faces at his destination.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't stifle a yawn. He'd been unable to sleep the previous night, so he had been going for thirty-plus hours straight. Fatigue and anxiety were starting to wear on him. Adrenalin had pretty much carried him to the plane, but now that all he could do was sit and wait, his body kept insisting it needed to shut down. Unfortunately, the constant stress of the chase short-circuited that message, as only his legs had any luck falling asleep. He squirmed in his seat, trying to generate some circulation and relieve the pinpricks.

His seating situation wasn't improving his comfort level. He had waited until the last possible moment to board, and since the airline used cattle-car style boarding, the only open seat was a middle seat three rows from the back. To his left, an obese gentleman spilled over the shared armrest, his hands clasped across his expansive gut as he dozed. To his right, a red-bearded man in a handmade wool pullover found a different way to violate Chuck's airspace, having successfully dodged any encounters with soap for some time now. Chuck reached up and tried twisting the overhead fan nozzle again, hoping to coax a little more fresh air into his face.

Despite the discomfort, Chuck was just happy that he'd made it this far. Luckily, Jeff hadn't noticed or hadn't cared when Chuck bought their tickets to the opposite destinations and then switched the tickets once they got past security. All Jeff had cared about was the free flight, so once he'd heard Chuck's offer, Jeff only delayed Chuck long enough to grab a disturbingly well-packed bag from his stalkermobile and ditch a few items that the TSA wouldn't have looked kindly upon. All the deception had cost was the price of the plane fare and the lies – the money and another small piece of Chuck's soul.

"Plane ticket? $300," he said to himself. "Another plane ticket? $425. Escaping your government handlers? Priceless."

The muttered words were enough to disturb the Incredible Bulk. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?" he said without opening his eyes.

"Sorry, sir." Chuck glanced at his other row-mate to see if he might have overheard, but while the nappy-haired man was granola enough to skip showers, apparently using an iPod didn't violate his complicated personal philosophies. Chuck went back to his thoughts.

The money was worth it. With Jeff sitting in Chuck's seat on the plane to Seattle, the airline's records would have the correct passenger count all the way to Seattle. A successful hand-off of the watch to the Stanford-student-slash-CIA-agent would leave two false trails to follow. The only real risk was if Casey or Sarah decided to call the FAA and stop Jeff's flight, because then Jeff would be thrust into a mess and the agents might figure out Chuck was traveling on Jeff's ticket. But even if his handlers found out quickly enough to make that happen, Chuck didn't think they would risk creating a major scene by getting federal authorities involved. Fulcrum agents seemed to have ears everywhere. Casey and Sarah would want to handle this themselves.

He could only hope that his initial lead and network of false trails would be enough to keep him at least one step ahead of everybody. Relying on the airlines was a major gamble, but it was the only way he knew to quickly put significant distance between himself and Los Angeles. Chuck just hoped his gambit was more gutsy than stupid. He wouldn't know for certain until the plane landed. He sighed, drawing an angrily opened eye from his neighbor.

Chuck decided that there was no sense in worrying about a welcoming party now. If they had him, they had him – and if they didn't, he had a decision to make.

Ever since he had learned about the device in the watch, Chuck had been preparing to leave, with an eye towards protecting his friends and family as best he could. The various false trails and misdirections had been carefully scripted to get himself and anyone searching for him well away from Burbank and Echo Park. The plan to fly increased his risk of getting caught, but that risk was more than balanced because he was leading the danger away. He could leave a trail to another town and go off-grid from there.

However, the strange phone call that morning had cast his plans into doubt. What if he was the only one who had a shot at stopping Fulcrum? He couldn't trust the motivations of the person placing the call, not without knowing who he was, but if there was one thing he had learned from six months in the spy world – and sixteen years of hard-core comic book reading – it was that the best lies were laced with a strong dose of the truth.

What the mystery person had said made sense, plus the new version of the Intersect had to be either operational or close to operational, or there wouldn't be a device planted in the watch in preparation for permanently shutting down the old version. By uploading the new Intersect, Chuck might become an interface to join the two data sets. An Intersect of Intersects.

Then again, the new version of the Intersect could simply overwrite the old one, or prove somehow incompatible and cause him permanent mental problems. No need to borrow trouble, though. He already had plenty on layaway.

Even though he still had a ways to go, his escape plan seemed to be working. Once he reached the termination point – hopefully not an ironic choice of words – he could conceivably go after the new Intersect. He had been planning on disappearing, but he could also try to stop Fulcrum and give himself a shot at getting his life back.

So what to choose? "Fight or flight?" he mused.

"There's going to be a fight on this flight if you don't shut up," the Bulk said.

"Sorry." Irritation at the man's sensitivity surged through Chuck. He ran a tired hand over his face and tried to refocus.

Running was the smart thing to do. Given a lead over his pursuit, Chuck should be able to find a place to hide. The roughly four thousand dollars in his pocket would be enough to get started in some quiet little town where he could pick up work without anyone asking too many questions.

He could even chance slipping across the border. He had two sets of false identification credentials left over from previous missions, along with some credentials provided by the mysterious voice on the phone, but either could be tracked by people he couldn't necessarily trust. However, once outside the borders of the United States, he would be damn hard to find, so it was tempting.

Still, hiding meant a lifetime on the run. Eventually, somebody would catch up to him. Until then, he'd live each day in fear, needing to exercise caution in every move he made. He would never contact his family or friends again. He couldn't afford to make new friends. That was no way for anybody to live.

There was a third option, he mused. He could turn himself in and hope for the best. Maybe Beckman or Graham would let him upload the new version and see if he could link the Intersects. That would accomplish the same thing as going after the new Intersect himself, with a much better chance of success. Besides, he'd accomplished a primary goal when he lured everyone away from his loved ones, so what was the down side?

He knew the answer – a not-so-comfortable room in a bunker while Fulcrum was laughing their way past the so-called government security. Tommy's escape had shown how much government security was worth where Fulcrum was involved. Chuck's life would become the equivalent of sitting in an empty waiting room until Fulcrum seized the opportunity to take care of him. He could almost hear a female attendant's voice. "The Fulcrum agent will see you now." -bang-

He giggled at the ridiculous thought, causing the Bulk to tense.

No, that wasn't a possibility. Even if Beckman and Graham agreed to it, all it did was simplify Fulcrum's job. He only had the two options.

His wandering thoughts were interrupted by a staticky voice on the plane's intercom. "This is your captain speaking to you from the flight deck," a deep voice said. "Wanted to let everyone know that we've got clear skies in front of us, so we should be landing in about an hour. So sit back, relax, and if there is anything we can do make the rest of your flight more enjoyable, please don't hesitate to contact a member of our crew."

A derisive laugh caught in Chuck's throat. The flight attendants probably weren't given much training on breaking into government facilities or in aiding and abetting a government asset fleeing his handlers. "Thanks anyway."

This time, the Bulk stirred. He turned like any massive mammal turned – slowly and with purpose. "You do realize that you're taking your life in your hands."

That was more than enough. Chuck's last comment had barely been a whisper. It was ludricrous for seat 28D to be throwing his considerable weight around over any of this.

Chuck twisted to meet the intense glare with one of his own, countering gruff annoyance with icy calm. He leaned in close as he could so only his touchy neighbor would hear.

"As a matter of fact, I do know I'm taking my life into my hands. You see, people are after me. Dangerous people. Deadly people. A pissed-off ex-Marine. A girlfriend who may have orders to kill me. An entire faction dedicated to betraying their own government for some purpose I cannot begin to fathom. I didn't hurt any of these people. I didn't break any laws. I didn't ask for this. But they want me, and if they catch me, it will not end well for me. I am sorry that you're losing a couple hours of low-quality sleep, but since I have a few bigger things going on, maybe you can see your way clear to cut me a little slack. What do you say?"

As the rant concluded, the Bulk looked far less sure himself. "If any of that is true, why would you tell me?"

"Mainly because I'm tired. Not just physically tired, which I am, but tired of so many other things. I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of living a lie." An important truth came to Chuck. "I'm tired of hiding, even when I get to hide inside my own life, because when I don't get to make any choices that matter, it's no longer my life. It hasn't really been my life for a long time now. So I choose to tell you because I'm tired, and I want somebody to understand what I'm going through."

"But I could turn you in."

"I suppose you could try. But who would believe you? Besides, then you'd be involved, and trust me when I say that the people after me have a passion for tying up loose ends."

"You threatening me?"

Chuck laughed, which only disconcerted the other man more. "I'm not threatening you; I'm warning you. You do not want to get involved with this. I don't want to be involved with this. I just want it all to be over."

The man's eyes widened as he saw … something … in Chuck's eyes. Maybe he saw the naked honesty. Maybe he saw the fear. Who knows, maybe he saw nervous exhaustion from someone incapable of recognizing just how close to the edge he really was. Chuck didn't know what the other man saw, but whatever he saw convinced the man to believe Chuck. "Good luck, buddy," the man said softly. "For some reason, I think you're going to need it."

He turned to face the other way, leaving Chuck in peace.

Chuck was left to marvel at his cathartic little outburst. Not only had it released some pent-up emotion, but it had highlighted what he needed to do. He didn't want a life. He wanted his life. And if there was a way, Chuck was going to fight to make it happen.

The next hour was a blur of dread and empowerment and fear and freedom. His laptop took a serious pounding. Chuck would type and type and type and then delete everything he'd just written en masse, laughing maniacally at the notion he could ever come up with a plan that would work. He mumbled to himself as he worked, cocking his head to one side as he considered something or shaking his head at the insanity of what he just proposed. The Bulk never stirred.

At times Chuck felt like his head might explode. Freak-outs were common. What the hell was he thinking? This kind of mission had nearly killed Bryce, and Chuck had no formal spy training. In those moments of doubt, he forced himself to remember why he was doing this. The status quo with Casey and Sarah had ended, and if it was going to end, it was going to end on his terms, damnit. And as soon as he felt slightly calmer, he'd put his head down and go back to work.

When the wheels touched down, he was scribbling notes into a wire-bound notebook on his lap, having been forced by aviation rules to shut down his computer and stow his tray table fifteen minutes earlier. Crumpled up pieces of paper littered the floor beneath him, trash he'd need to collect and ensure got discarded somewhere nobody would ever read them. But as he regarded the top sheet of paper in the notebook, he smiled.

It might have been the sleep deprivation talking, but the plan outlined on the sheet seemed feasible. If a few of his guesses were correct. If he caught a few breaks. If he could convince a few people to help him. If everything went perfectly.

Yeah, it was probably the sleep deprivation talking. But good plan or not, he was going to stop running. He was going rogue. He was going to get his life back.

Chuck was going after the Intersect.

Thanks to Baylink, who did his usual good work. This story wouldn't be what it is without him.

For this chapter, though, special thanks are reserved to MySoapBox, who did a fantastic beta that really nailed a number of things. She'll recognize that I outright stole a fair bit of something she shared because it was so real and genuine that I couldn't resist. It seemed an appropriate tribute given the stamp she helped to put on this chapter, so hopefully she doesn't mind too much.

All mistakes are my own.