Jacqueline "Jack" Baylor, 17, District Ten Female
On the morning of her second day in the Arena, Jack is awakened by two things, happening almost in tandem.
First, there is the harsh staccato of a rattling cough. Second, the soft thud of something large landing by her head.
She sits up, immediately on alert. With Darla slightly... indisposed, for obvious reasons, Jack is the self-appointed scout of the duo. She didn't even mean to fall asleep in the first place; she'd stationed herself only feet from the door of their ramshackle little hut. Unfortunately, it seems Jack's exhaustion from yesterday finally caught up to her, and now she's staring out the window—which is devoid of glass—as the gentle beginnings of dawn streak the sky. Darla is coughing, and there is an oblong object beside her, wrapped in a... parachute, of all things.
She scoots away from the unfamiliar object, swiveling to look at her ally. The girl is curled tightly on her mat, a blanket pulled snugly around her. Her black dress is wrinkled, her mask looking sad and frayed at the edges already—likely from all of her crying, and from sleeping on the thing. Jack cannot comment on her own state, but she's probably in similar shape.
Well... maybe not as bad as Darla. She looks pale and drawn, curled in on herself, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. But it's not just her misery that has her looking pale... her cheeks are ruddy, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. She tries to push herself up on her elbow, but ends up sinking back onto her mat. The right sleeve of her gown, which she has pulled back from her face, is speckled with red.
Jack slides backward involuntarily. She does not like sickness, and blood is even worse. "You're sick," she says hesitantly.
Darla blinks lethargically. "I'm cold. And everything hurts," she whispers. "But... I'm fine."
Jack moves forward gingerly, kneeling by Darla's head and reaching out to touch her forehead. "Do you have a fev—"
"Don't touch me," says Darla quickly. "Don't... don't come close. I might be contagious."
Jack hesitates, torn. Ever since Britta's death, she's been taking care of Darla with all the care and kindness she can muster. She's talked to her, braided her hair, told her jokes... anything she can think of to shake the other girl's despair. Her and Britta were closer than Jack could ever dream to be—she couldn't explain why, but the two somehow just clicked, leaving Jack to feel like more of a charity case than a friend.
But now, as she keeps reminding herself, their roles are reversed. It's not like Jack can just leave her friend.
"You're sick," she repeats. "Don't worry; I'll take care of you."
Darla shivers. "No, Jack... I don't want you to get hurt."
Get hurt? But Jack's been hurt before, so much and so often that it's become something of a familiar refrain in her life, yet she's conquered it somehow. She's pulled herself out of her father's toxic, abusive orbit, and she's happy with her siblings and her friends.
But wait. They aren't here, and Jack might never see them again, and she's already lost someone in this Arena. She can't lose someone else.
So she laughs, and it's tinged with a fatigued sort of desperation. "Darla, I've seen so much worse than this. A little cold is nothing compared to what I've been through."
She knows that sounds cocky, but it feels liberating, to say it aloud. She's been through so many hard times and survived them, and she'd like to think she's stronger for it, despite her weaker days. She is not letting a little sickness deter her now, or keep her from her last remaining friend.
But Darla only scoffs. "A little cold? Jack, we both know the Gamemakers would never send something so trivial—it's worse. I've got these... swollen boils and spots all over me—I'm obviously not well."
Jack holds up a hand, but Darla keeps talking—more words all at once than Jack has ever heard from her.
"And it's obviously contagious because I'm coughing blood, and I already lost Britta, I can't lose you too." Her words are quick, and slightly slurred together. Jack is almost certain she's suffering from a fever, and she wants to reach out and put a cool cloth over her forehead... but right now, Darla is all righteous indignation, all noble self-sacrifice.
"And I don't want to do this," she continues on, "I don't want to say this, 'cuz you've been so kind and helpful, and you could've just left me after Britta died, but I'm asking you to leave me now."
Jack stamps her foot against the dirt floor. "Don't be ridiculous!" she exclaims, her breaths coming fast.
"No really. It's... it's the most logical thing to do; and then at least you'll be safe. Leave me here. I don't want to be your downfall, I don't want to kill you, too—"
Her voice once again gives out, splinters like twigs cracking beneath a too-heavy foot. Jack shakes her head violently.
"How could you even say that?" Jack whispers. "You think I want to be alone, after all this?"
"No, I think you want to be alive. It's not so simple anymore, Jack, don't you get it? We have to make sacrifices. Leave me here, so that you can live longer."
Jack remembers something her sister, Kiera, said before leaving their father's home in Two. "Sometimes change is good, Jack," she'd whispered, zipping her suitcase. "Sometimes you have to leave so that you can find something better."
Her mother died of sickness. The doctors couldn't save her.
"I'd come back," she says now, her voice strained. "If I left. I'd come back."
"Whatever makes you feel better," says Darla, before bursting into a coughing fit which leaves her splayed out against the floor, eyes half-closed.
Jack has to turn away; she can't look at her ally anymore.
"I—are you sure?" she says. She's staring at the entrance, the tiny door. The strange gift with her name on it.
Darla exhales in relief. "It's all I want, Jack. Consider it a last favor from me, after all you've done."
Jack feels like she's being ripped apart, molecule by molecule, from the inside out.
"I'll look for medicine," she says, but it sounds vague even on her tongue. "I'll come back for you."
"Mm-hmmm," says Darla. She is already closing her eyes all the way. Resigning herself to death.
Even after all this, Jack cannot do the same.
She slings a bag of food over her shoulder, and she grabs a large bottle of water and her oddly-wrapped present that she assumes is Gamemaker-sent, and she walks out the door.
When she is far enough away and her tears have sufficiently dried and a numbness has begun to spread through her like a plague of its own, she collapses on a stretch of cobblestones behind a marketplace stall, and she carefully unwraps the bundle.
It appears to be an umbrella.
At the moment, Jack could scream. This is what she gets, after losing one (two) of her friends? After making the second-hardest decision of her life? Wasn't leaving her father's house enough? Wasn't being ripped away from not one but two of her homes a sufficient enough sacrifice for something beyond—
She clicks the button, expecting the umbrella to spiral open. And it does. But the handle also comes loose in her hands, and when she pulls on the first segment, a spear comes out. A spear... like the ones she used in Career training, and similar to the ones she used to hunt wild boars in Ten.
It feels like a reminder of some sort. And though Jack is far, so far, from saying anything close to a thank-you, the world does seem to spin just a little slower, the sun to feel a little brighter, as she settles in with the comforting weight of the spear, the handle nestled firmly in her palm.
...
Columbia "Colby" Novella, 17, District Five Female
Colby has walked the paths of treachery and sin since the day she was born—after all, she was raised by people who were so good at conniving and scheming that they actually made a business out of it—and yet something about the fact that she's killed someone has jarred her. Thrown her for a loop.
What else was she to do? That boy had initiated the fight and was going to stab her. It's only natural that she should retaliate, in favor of living. And yet, Cal has been looking at her as if she's personally wronged him for the past twenty-four hours. And something within her is screaming.
Why should this, of all things, shake her? She should not be feeling so out of sorts. Yet, logic is not enough to bring her emotions back into order. This is unacceptable, because Colby's whole life must be neat lines, her days perfectly scheduled and her feelings stacked safely out of the way. Yet now she is feeling... dysregulated, of all things.
It's too quiet, out on this solitary stage. Nothing interesting has happened since the Bloodbath, and it feels as if Cal and her have spoken a grand total of five words between themselves. She cannot bear his wounded look for much longer.
"Let us relocate," she says decisively. "I'm growing tired of sitting here."
Cal turns toward her. He looks tired, with bags under his eyes, his gaze dispirited and sorrowful. "What?" he protests. "But, Colby..."
She waves a hand. "Don't argue. I think it's about time we hunt. There's no use simply sitting here; we need food, supplies! I should think a sensible person like yourself would agree to this."
Callisto looks troubled. "But... if we move, we'll be in danger. I have to keep you safe, Colby."
A pang of guilt raises its unwelcome head inside her. Poor Cal, so earnest and awkward, who has always, always tried to do good. She does not want his protection—she is no damsel in need of saving, but a powerful businesswoman, beloved by all. And yet... she doesn't want him to die for her, either.
Besides, she has to tell the story. Sell the act. She must be irresistable—and Cal is a part of that.
She thinks back to those days when they were close, counting pennies in their piggy bank. They'd had this grand plan of escape, so many bejeweled dreams about living in a beautiful house somewhere far away. But of course, their parents found them out. They punished Callisto with utter severity, showing him no mercy whatsoever. She still remembers his pleas. "But Colby was with me—she wanted to escape, too. Tell them, Colby!"
The poor fool never could lie.
That day, Colby had been faced with a choice. Protect her brother and disappoint her parents, or throw him under the bus and become a star in her parent's eyes. Failure... or success.
The choice had been easy. Just like the choice to kill a boy had been simple, in the moment.
But both decisions seem to be haunting her still, no matter how hard she tries to brush them away.
"Cal, my dear," she finds herself saying, "you look troubled. Whatever could be wrong?"
He stares at her. All these years, she's witnessed their parents treat him like nothing, and she hasn't spoken a word. Now she's asking after his feelings. The poor boy must be confused.
But as always, Colby's motives are far from pure.
He takes a long time to respond, and she knows that he is carefully formulating a response before speaking. He always was so thoughtful. A truly insightful soul, if anyone bothered to listen to him.
Unfortunately, nobody does.
Cal frowns. "It's just... we're in a death match. One or both of us is going to die, and I'm just trying to make sure you get out of here, but you don't even seem to care. Nothing seems to affect you."
That's just Columbia Novella for you. She is unperturbed by any and every obstacle in her way. Yet, Callisto can never know the turmoil that happens behind her eyes, when she lets herself sit still. Which is hardly ever.
"I don't need your help," she insists, keeping her voice hushed in hopes that the Gamemakers don't overhear. This façade is not going quite to plan. "I didn't even need you to Volunteer so you could be with me."
He wrings his hands anxiously. "But it was the right thing to do. I know it was."
Colby sighs, a long-suffering sound. Dear, delusional Cal. He should've known better.
Yet, he looks so distraught, so confused. He doesn't understand.
But, to be fair, neither does she.
"Fine. What do you want, Cal?" she says, keeping her voice calm and sweet, as usual.
He looks uncertain. It's probably been years since someone has asked him that. In this, they are alike. Both trapped by their parents, even now.
"Come on, Cal," she says soothingly. "Just say it. Surely, it isn't that hard."
He gives her a look. "I just want you to be safe, and to protect you. As such, I advise you don't go hunting. The Careers are close, and if they see you and you get killed..."
He trails off. There's real pain in his eyes.
So he really cares for her. Even now, after she has shown no sign of doing the same for him.
Colby doesn't recognize herself today. She hasn't in quite a while, because she's so good at pretending that she even fooled herself. She's not sure where her real self is, beneath it all. Or if that girl ever even existed.
So she looks at her brother, and she makes a mistake.
"Fine. We'll stay here until tomorrow. But then, we're moving. My nerves simply cannot handle this for much longer."
And he looks so... relieved. Almost at peace.
And in that moment, Columbia Novella, the darling of Five and the apple of her parent's eye, envies her brother instead of pitying him. Yet another sign that she isn't herself.
But in truth, when has she really ever been?
...
Buck Taurean, 17, District Ten Male
He dreams of home. There is some part of him that knows he shouldn't be sleeping, something telling him that he's got work to do, that the sun's high in the sky and that this is so very un-Buck-like. He isn't one to shirk his responsibilities, whatever they may be. He was never given a choice. Yet, he feels so weightless, like a balloon floating on the wind. He is drifting on an open sea.
He is six years old, on his back porch on a night in late June. The sun sets, dappling the grass and draping one last cloak of warmth across the backyard as it slowly sinks away. The soft lowing of the animals, combined with his father's rocking chair—creaking steady as a metronome—is enough to make Buck sleepy. Everyone is sitting together, and the world is slow and placid... and in that moment, Buck imagines that nothing bad will happen, and that this all will last forever.
His father looks over at him, little Buck curled up against his mother's side. "Don't grow up too early," he says softly. "You blink, and this will all be gone. Just try to live in the moment, okay? Take it slow."
"Buck? Buck?"
His eyes struggle open. He reaches out of his shoes—it's probably dawn, time to milk the cow, collect the eggs, make sure that his little siblings don't have to live the way he does, make sure his family doesn't go under...
His hands reach for something, but find only the hard ground. He experiences a nasty moment of disorientation before sitting up and blinking. The afternoon sun gleams off the sparkling buildings, and the city is silent as usual. Felicia sits beside him, her eyes big and wide with concern.
A wave of dizziness hits him, but he manages not to keel over, trying to meet Felicia's gaze with a steady smile.
"Hey. Wait, I'm so sorry, I... I didn't realize what time it was."
This is unlike him. Buck wakes at dawn and works into the night. He should not be feeling this unsteady, should not feel as if the world is swimming in and out of focus.
"Oh no, it's fine! It wasn't like we were doing anything else!"
Still, he left Felicia defenseless, dreaming his hours away. He can't shake the image of his father from his head. He misses him. He misses the way he'd felt before everything happened, before his father was killed in an accident with the Capitol barely batting an eye. He misses feeling free, knowing that someone else would take care of the hard parts, and all he had to do was simply live and laugh and love...
"Buck? You look pale..."
Buck blinks. He is having a hard time staying awake—he feels like he's slipping away.
"Hey, sorry," he says, trying to act nonchalant.
"Are you okay? You look—"
"I'm fine," he says firmly, as he forces himself into a standing position.
His head spins and he wobbles. Something is wrong. Perhaps all his years of relentless labor have finally caught up with him.
But no. He is fine. He can get through this. It's not as if he can afford sickness at a time like this.
"See?" he says, mustering a smile. "All good."
Felicia looks slightly unconvinced. There's a sad cast to her gaze, and Buck cringes inwardly because... he knows that it's his fault.
Buck has never seen Felicia as anything more than a colleague, a ditzy girl he feels sorry for. He's never intended to hurt her in any form. But... when she asked if he would die for her, he saw his siblings at home, and his struggling mother, and he thought of the way that the two had only knew eau other for a week.
How was he expected to answer a question such as that?
And so he didn't. Yet, she's been acting as if he's wounded her beyond repair. And of course he feels guilty, of course he wants her to be happy, but these are the Games. He can't simply be throwing around claims like that. It seems that Felicia's only goal in all this is romance. Buck can't be faulted for wanting more than that; for wanting to get out of here.
He wants to slump back to the ground, but he manages to keep his footing for Felicia's sake. He looks into her eyes.
"Hey. Um, are we good?"
She stares at him. "I... what do you mean?"
Buck chastises himself for being stupid. Why does he even want to talk about this? He shouldn't feel any debt to this girl, this child whose path will only briefly cross his.
Would he die for her? Absolutely not. And would he put himself first, should it come to it? Likely so.
His guilt is almost too strong to bear. He can't look at her.
"Never mind," he says quickly. "It's all fine. Everything's alright."
She gives him a strange look, then nods quickly. "Of course; yeah!"
They look at each other for a long time.
Buck's heart is racing too fast and his breath is a rattle and he can't think straight. But he's sure that it's simply a minor setback. He'll get better in a few days, and then he'll win. He'll win and he won't look back, because he isn't above deceit and trickery if worse comes to worst.
"Felicia," he says quickly. "I just want you to know that I think you've got the wrong idea about us."
She stares at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... this is the Games. One or neither of us is making it out alive. And I think I've somehow led you astray—I don't love you."
The words taste bitter on his tongue, and he wants to apologize and break down and fall asleep, but... this is for the best. This will ensure that she doesn't get hurt further down the line.
She gapes, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She looks shattered.
"Felicia, I'm sorry, I really am. It's just..."
She shakes her head. "No, no. It's... I'm fine."
He's fine. They're fine.
But he's not. He's dizzy and in pain and he feels like something is so deeply wrong here. And he wants to break it to Felicia early, instead of continuing to lie to her. In a way, that's a good deed, right?
"Can we stay friends?" he pleads. He doesn't want to be alone.
She stares at him, and for once, her expression is unreadable. "Where else would I go? Of... of course."
He stares at her, and he feels sorry for her for what might be the hundredth time. Yet, somehow he is more certain than ever that he's going to make it out of here instead of her. He's got family and a best friend and people that depend on him, and she is sad and alone. That's just how the world works sometimes.
But it still doesn't make it any easier, as a part of him mourns a girl who is still alive.
...
Luz Contreras, 15, District Nine Female
They spend the day organizing their supplies, cleaning out the small shack they've found to call home—for now. Luz has spent the entire day poised for an attack, and she can tell by Asa's tensed shoulders that he's expecting trouble, yet the Arena is eerily peaceful. Not even a cannon has disturbed the haunting calm, and Luz cannot help the feeling that something is building on the horizon.
The place they've found is far from tidy—a tiny shack, nearly on the verge of collapse, composed of wooden slats that have been largely eaten at by termites. On the floor are two mats, and everything looks flea-bitten and ramshackle.
As they line up their supplies in neat order and try to close the door, which is hanging off its hinges, Asa keeps up a constant stream of lighthearted chatter. His jokes make Luz's anxious heart lighter. She cannot help glancing at the door every few moments, some unexplained worry she can't seem to shake making her uneasy and jumpy. Asa seems to notice this, as he's putting in extra effort to make her laugh. He helps her sort the food, ration the water and clean the mats on which they will sleep. By the time they have everything arranged, dusk is coming on.
"Do you feel like everything is going too fast?" says Asa. "I swear, it was just morning a few hours ago."
"It's unnerving not to have a clock," says Luz, though she's been tracking the sky in an effort to at least make some sense of the time. When everything seems to be falling out of place, she at least wants to keep some things in order.
Asa looks tired. He didn't sleep last night, instead insisting that he keep watch while Luz rests. Well, she won't let him get away with that tonight. Luz knows from her hours at the apothecary shop that rest is the best way to keep healthy, and she doesn't want either of their minds to be rusty in a time like this. She has to be ever-vigilant.
"I'm keeping watch tonight," she insists firmly.
Asa looks up, gaze dismayed. "Luz..."
"You need sleep," she says gently. "You're barely staying upright."
He shakes his head, a playful grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm fine."
She sighs. "It's been calm for far too long. The Gamemakers are probably going to do something tomorrow, if the Careers don't get us first. You need to be ready."
Asa opens his mouth to say something, but finally sighs. "I guess you're right."
She smiles. "Thank you."
As crickets begin their insistent song, a cannon pierces the fabric of the night. Asa flinches.
Luz tries to calm her racing heart. Everything about this is hard for her—the death, the uncertainty. Luz is a girl of logic and healing, raised in a family who had offered Asa Trevino a place at their table, a spot in their home. How long will it take to adapt to this setting, without jumping at every shadow and never feeling truly safe?
If she's being honest, she hopes that day will never come. Luz should never feel comfortable here. Her only goal is to make sure her and Asa survive. She'll die before she has to kill anyone—the very idea is abhorring to her.
Asa peels off his coat, grumbling with no amount of real bite about the heat. He eyes his blanket, ratty and unraveling, before tossing it away and flopping onto his back.
"I wish I could see the stars," he murmurs.
Luz notices the slightest tremor in his hands as he runs his fingers through his hair. She knows this isn't easy for either of them.
At least they have each other.
Luz leans against the wall—gently so it doesn't collapse. She gazes up at the ceiling, thinking of nights back at Nine with the trees creaking in the wind and the sweet smell of sage on the night air. Asa and Luz, only thirteen, holding each other in the school's soccer field. Asa, running into her arms after suffering his father's abuse, and Luz gently soothing away his pain. Her little sister, giggling and running around the backyard as Asa and her play some game of their own invention. Asa, weaving a daisy chain just for her.
The memories are so sweet, she can almost taste them on her tongue. But when she inhales, she smells the mustiness of the shack, and her breath catches. She is not someone who succumbs to her emotions, and rarely is she swept away from her current location, to some time that already happened. The past is past, and it's dangerous for Luz to be dwelling on anything but the here and now.
Yet, she still can't help but think of it, watching Asa stare wistfully out into the night. She can't help but wish she was back home.
He still looks jumpy and far from comfortable on his threadbare mat. Luz moves to sit beside him, and their fingers thread together as easily as blinking. Asa smiles at her and cradles her hand like something precious, and they sit in this silence for a moment longer before they hear the telltale click of shoes; the Capitol's automaton, come to announce the day's deaths.
Asa bolts upright, dashing to the door. Luz listens to the minstrel's voice, ringing high and clear in the night.
"Though only one shall leave the stage today, beware the perils of future morns," he says, his voice like a song. "The plague strikes quick as serpent's bite; you could dine with your friend and be gone by the night. Hail, young Darla Delaney of Twelve, who built walls to resist the gales of death, but was taken alone in the end."
A chill runs all through Luz's body. Asa eases away from the door, returning to Luz's side. His breathing is unsteady.
"That was needlessly creepy," he says softly. "He mentioned the plague. Was that a metaphor?"
Luz shakes her head. "It's just the Capitol playing with our heads," she says. "Ignore it."
He nods. "We've got bigger things to worry about than poetry."
He looks complacent and content, lacing his fingers through hers. She knows from previous conversations that she is his anchor when things get to be too much.
"You should sleep," she says fondly.
He nods, his eyes already half-closed. "Okay. Love you."
"I love you, too." And she's never been more certain of anything in her life.
He falls asleep within minutes, his hand still loosely linked through hers. Luz is reminded, suddenly and inexplicably, just how much she loves this boy whose eyes spark and dance with light. This boy who sees her as more than just the Girl who Helps. Asa is beautiful, and real, and he's not perfect... but he always comes back. And he never takes her for granted.
She gently brushes a curl off his forehead, gazing down at his sleeping form. He was stressed earlier—she wants to make sure that nothing's amiss. His breathing is calm and even, and the planes of his face are relaxed—though his complexion looks a bit rosy, almost flushed... Wait.
She reaches over carefully, knowing he's a light sleeper, and carefully pulls back his collar. She has to suppress a gasp at what she sees.
A tiny array of spots, red rimmed with black, are splattered across his collarbone like a spray of stars. On his neck is a swollen spot, like a boil. In that moment, Luz goes into doctor's mode, brushing her fingers across his forehead. No fever... Not yet.
She pulls away carefully, but even with her slow movements, Asa snaps awake. For a moment, he looks confused as his eyes rove the small shack, before he finds her gaze. His shoulders relax and he smiles, his gaze never leaving hers. He hasn't noticed the spots yet.
"Hi. Is everything good?"
'You could dine with your friend and be gone by the night...'
Luz knows about plagues—there was an epidemic of the Scarlet Fever during the war in Panem, and it ravaged the forces. But these aren't the same symptoms. Looking at the irritated boil on his neck, a passage of a history book resurfaces in her mind. If this is what she's thinking... The Black Death...
Well, she never learned about the spots. That was probably the Gamemakers' addition—or, it's something else. She prays that it's something else. But the few symptoms she's seen so far line up. The boil, the fever...
The death rate is high. And if Asa's case is serious, he likely won't live long.
"Luz?"
Luz clears her throat, swallows against her world fracturing. Everything is tilting around her. She checks her own forehead, only to find cool skin.
She isn't yet infected. Asa's brow is creased with worry. She has to make a decision.
If she tells him, he will react rashly. At best, he'll be in a panic, and at worst... Well, she doesn't want to think about what he would do in order to keep her well and healthy. She doesn't want to lose him. If this is what she's thinking, she wants to be beside him through every step, no matter what it will do.
She knows the standard protocol: isolate and patient. Even close family would leave their ailing loved ones behind, just so they wouldn't be contaminated.
But they're all going to die in this Games—or rather, all but one. Luz is willing to risk it, in order to keep him safe.
From what she knows, some variants of the Black Death were not highly contagious. Still, the unknown announcer's words had struck something within Luz. And Luz Contreras doesn't lie, not even in the direst of situations.
Yet, Asa is looking at her with concern. And it could be nothing. So Luz Contreras breaks all of her rules, and she says something stupid, and she knows she will regret it later.
But she says it anyway. Because, in the end, she'd do anything to keep Asa safe. And she knows he is prone to run at the barest provocation.
So she sticks out her chin, and she tries to smile, and she lies to Asa Trevino.
"Yeah, sorry. Everything's fine."
...
17th Place: District Twelve Female, died of the Black Death
Heyyyy! Sorry for the unannounced break, I had a really busy week, but we're back with another chapter. Things are certainly heating up in the Arena, and I'm very intrigued to hear your thoughts. This chapter was definitely emotional and eventful, and I'm expecting some people to yell at me about certain things, lol. But I hope you enjoyed nevertheless. We also have some sort of plague going on, inspired by The Black Death, which I did take some liberties with because I felt like it! My brain is dead today, so I don't have much to say, but I hope that you are all doing well, and thank you so much for reading!
Much Love,
Miri