Career Tip # 12 - Be adaptable

The best companies are never stagnant. Be flexible and adjust to changing factors, conditions, or environments. So don't get stuck in your old habits and be ready to pivot on a dime!

The day is a held breath. A jump from the dock at nine years old, water rushing over your body. Staying down for as long as possible. Eyes squeezed tight. Fighting buoyancy, losing.

Joey watches the clock. She can't focus on Chaucer or irrational numbers. Her pen scratches the paper, but it's a nervous response. A need to do something, to control something, when she has no control.

"Heard anything yet?" Dawson asks, sitting down to lunch. Pacey glares at him.

"Nothing," Joey breathes out.

Nothing can be good, or bad. What differentiates one from the other flips and changes by the minute.

Pacey hasn't asked. Appearing by her side between classes, distracting her with banter by an open locker, trying to make her feel as normal as possible on an abnormal day.

Bessie calls the school at 1:17 pm. Joey is summoned on the loudspeaker interrupting fifth-period Spanish. She makes her way to the school office, tucking the phone against her ear while her stomach flips and cramps. All day she has been unable to eat.

"Joey?"

"Yeah."

"He's coming home," Bessie's voice is combined relief and trepidation.

Joey waits for the news to relax her tensed limbs. It doesn't. Her stomach still hurts.

"That's great, Bessie. Does he have any special conditions?"

"Just the ones we expected, drug testing and reporting to a P.O. every two weeks."

Joey nods to no one.

"It almost didn't happen, though," says Bessie.

Joey looks at the school receptionist, Miss. Teakle. She is typing, pretending not to listen.

"Why?" Joey's voice drops to a whisper. She turns away from Miss. Teakle, staring into the empty hallway.

"They noted all the letters that we had written, that he had a job waiting for him at the Ice House. He even had a letter from a guard, a report on his good behavior. But then they read a letter in opposition to his parole."

"Oh?"

"It was from Sheriff Witter."

Joey's stomach twists. She closes her eyes. The sound of Miss Teakle's typing is loud and quiet at the same time.

"What did it say?"

"It was a character report. A petition to deny parole. But it's not important, Joey. In the end, they didn't focus on his letter. He'll be released on Monday."

She thanks Bessie for the call, hangs up.

"Everything okay?" Miss Teakle asks.

"Yes," Joey fakes a smile. "All is perfect."

She goes back to class, and stares at the board. It doesn't matter if the words were English or Spanish, everything is a blur.

Pacey is watching her, chewed pencil behind his left ear. When her eyes inevitably flick to his, he raises his brows in question.

She replies with a quick nod.

Pacey smiles.

The letter Sheriff Witter wrote lobbying against her father's parole will be her secret. Telling Pacey of its existence would only exacerbate their strained relationship. So she buries it deep down, down with her growing feelings for him. Hidden.

Thursday evenings at Screen Play Video are a reliable constant. Joey looks forward to the predictability of it in a world that is suddenly unchartered.

At 5pm Doris Weinstein shuffles in, fresh purple-tinged bouffant from the salon and a bedazzled walking frame. She rents only black and white films with a particular focus on Clarke Gable. After selecting The Tall Men she creaks out in time to make Bingo at the Hall.

Al Sommers comes in to satisfy his need for action. The local accountant, Al sports thick-rimmed glasses, pressed shirts, and polished loafers. But come 7:30 on a Thursday, he seeks such high-octane action as The Fugitive and Desperado. Pacey puts aside some personal recommendations for him each week, of which Al is always willing to oblige.

Close to eight pm, they do rock, paper, scissors to decide who will call Vincent Scott to advise him that his late fees for The Burbs has reached another milestone - 426 days overdue. Joey wins with the ever-reliable rock. Pacey makes the call. And just like the weeks before it, Vincent makes promises to return it on the weekend.

At 8:30, the floors mopped, Steve would interrupt their study seeking brainless dude comedies. Glancing over at their textbooks, Wayne's World 2 in hand, he'd spy a quadratic equation, and fire off an answer as though he's a savant. The answer will be wrong, but Pacey will write it down, in pencil, thank him for his smarts and Joey will erase it the moment he's out the door.

But tonight all the Thursday regularities aren't so regular anymore.

All because of Dawson.

He sets up camp in Screen Play Video. Ambling in at 5 pm.

"Surely you cannot need another video?" asks Joey.

He glances around the aisles. "I guess not. I thought I might just hang out for a couple of hours."

"Hang out? At our workplace?" Joey asks.

Pacey's head appears from the storage room, regarding Dawson's presence.

"I think you will find that this is my old workplace, too."

"Of that, I am well aware. But Dawson, we have jobs to do. This isn't the mall," says Joey.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Pacey fiddles with his name tag button.

"I won't bother you. If anything, I can provide the customers with much-needed discourse on their choices. A film- consultant if you will."

"You see this dashing black vest?" Pacey points to himself, then Joey. "Look at how good she looks in that thing. Do you know what these vests mean?"

"I think you're trying to hammer the point that I do not work here?"

"Ding, ding, ding! They mean no vest, no pay. If you want to be here for pleasure alone, be my guest, but I won't be splitting my meager minimum wage with you just because you decide to scan in a few returns."

"I won't take your earnings, Pacey. You won't even notice me. Just go about your evening as normal."

"There is nothing normal about you loitering here because you're bored," says Joey.

"I'm not bored, I'm heartbroken. There is a difference. I need a distraction, one that my best friends should be willing to indulge, just this once."

Joey and Pacey glance at each other.

Pacey shrugs. "Fine. If you're going to be here, the least you can do is tidy the children's section. Some kids came through earlier and moved everything around. I think there is a half sucked lollypop near Babar that I wasn't brave enough to touch."

Dawson rubs his hands together and smiles. "Done."

When he moves from the register, Pacey sidles behind Joey, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Welcome," he sighs.

Joey freezes. "To what?"

"The longest night of your life." He steals a peppermint from the bowl, crunching it between his teeth.

Joey wonders if she will forever be stirred by the candy-cane scent. She rubs her arms, pushing down the goosebumps that appear on a whim whenever Pacey is near.

Doris comes, and so does Al, but it's not the same, because Dawson is there. He tidied all the shelves and Pacey resumed his position behind the register with a novel in hand and legs resting on the counter.

Joey is quiet. Like she has been since news of her father's return, reluctant to share details and going through the motions of school and work as though they are obstacles to endure.

Pacey finishes his chapter, glancing around the store, but Joey is nowhere to be found. She isn't in the bathroom, or the tiny kitchen.

He opens the door to the storeroom.

"Hiding?" Pacey appears behind her. She jumps, breaking her gaze at the wall of boxes.

"Maybe."

"Makes sense. Can I join you?"

Joey nods. "It's not particularly riveting, but feel free."

He closes the door behind them and they stand in the exact positions they were when shirtless only a handful of days ago.

"What about the store?" she asks.

"Dawson has it covered."

"I bet he does."

"Are you okay, Jo?"

Joey shrugs.

She doesn't tell him that the storeroom is her favorite place. That the smells, the boxes, everything just makes her think of his fingers on her skin.

"How are things going at home? How is it with your dad?"

He asked during lunch break at school today, but her answer of 'fine' and the prodding of her hamburger spoke otherwise.

"It's good I guess. I mean, it's only been a few days."

"I imagine it would be weird. Having him there, all the time, when you've hardly seen him at all for years."

"Four times," she replies. "Four times in three years. I saw him for his birthday, a couple of Christmas visits, and once when he first went inside."

"So you've seen him more in the last week than you have since you were twelve?"

Joey nods. "He's not like I remember. Or what I think I remember about him."

"How is he different?"

"I remembered him being almost aloof. Like he cared about us, but he didn't show it. And now he is interested in our lives and wants to reconnect, or so he says."

"Maybe prison made him realize what he had all along."

Joey nods. "Maybe? Or maybe he's trying to absolve himself of the guilt of what he did to us, what he did to Mom?"

The bell on the door chimes, but neither of them move. Dawson's voice echoes a greeting.

Joey's eyes drift to the floor and Pacey steps forward, wrapping his arms around her. She falls into the hug, her fingers gripping the back of his vest.

"Is this okay?" he asks into her hair.

She nods into his shoulder.

Pacey made sandwiches for dinner, but only two. So they split their chicken salad with Dawson, who picks out the finely chopped celery, dropping it onto the Saran wrap.

"So where do you think you fall on the grief scale?" Pacey asks Dawson.

He considers it only for a second or two. "Acceptance."

"Is that the last step?"

"I think so. I have come to terms with the fact that Jen and I weren't to be. I've watched enough films to know that even the best love stories have sad endings."

Everyone nods into their sandwiches.

"What were you two fighting about the other night?" he asks after swallowing a mouthful.

Joey doesn't look at Pacey. "What do you mean?"

"When you left my place last week, Pacey, after the breakup. I saw you both down near the dock. You were yelling at each other, fighting about something."

"Joey was being ridiculous," Pacey answers without missing a beat.

She almost chokes on her sandwich. "Ridiculous is a bit rich."

"You were going to get into that tiny rowboat in the wild wind storm… in pitch black."

"I would have been fine."

"You would have been dead."

"And people say girls are dramatic." Joey rolls her eyes.

Pacey takes a bite of his sandwich to stop himself from continuing the battle.

Dawson looks between them. "You know, Jen would always go on about how she thought you two would make a good couple."

Joey swallows, washing it down with a sip of Sprite.

"Is that so?" says Pacey.

"Yeah. I kind of thought the idea of it was a bit crazy, to be honest. She wasn't privy to our childhood, I guess. She didn't know the levels of disdain you both reserved for each other."

Pacey grins at Joey, and she sticks out her tongue in response.

"But you don't hate each other anymore, it seems," he continues. "And Pacey makes you sandwiches and makes sure you don't get into rowboats during a storm."

"I guess he's alright," she shrugs with a clandestine grin, "when his mouth is closed."

Pacey grips his chest as though an arrow has pierced his heart.

Glancing between them again, Dawson says, "It's not the stupidest idea."

Pacey stops chewing. "What?"

"You two, together?"

Now is the time for protest. For Joey and Pacey to gag and cement their dependable roles as adversaries.

But the revolt never comes.

Dawson shifts his weight between feet. "I expected a vigorous denial, forcible even. But you are both just eating sandwiches and avoiding eye contact, which leads me to an unforeseen conclusion."

"We're friends, Dawson," Joey finally speaks. "Closer friends than I ever imagined being with Pacey, sure. But the relationship between our families is complicated. And I think we both need things to be simple right now."

"So you two being a couple has been on the table?" Dawson's face contorts as he says the words.

Pacey clears his throat and points to his sandwich. "This right here is homemade mayo, Dawson. Can you believe it? It's just oil, lemon juice, eggs, and mustard. Oh, and salt too. "

Dawson puts down his sandwich, mayonnaise unappreciated. "Have you two got something to tell me?"

Joey shakes her head. Pacey stares at the sandwich.

"Have you kissed?" Dawson asks when no one replies.

Pacey doesn't miss a beat. "Sure, under the mistletoe that time when we were younger. You were there, remember?"

"Since then?"

Pacey and Joey shake their heads. "Just that time under the mistletoe," Joey says, bending the truth.

A customer enters, and Joey jumps up to assist, leaving the boys with their half-eaten dinner.

"Hi, welcome to Screen Play. Is there anything I can assist you with today?" she enthusiastically greets the middle-aged woman, helping her to the romantic comedy titles.

Dawson drops his voice low as they both watch Joey move around the store. A firm countenance and bold eyes cover up an inherent self-consciousness. She tucks hair behind her ears and acts as though her body, lithe and tall, is out of her control. Like she might sink into the floor or bolt out the door at any moment.

When she thinks they're no longer looking, brown eyes seek Pacey and flick back to the woman before her.

"You haven't kissed her," Dawson begins, voice low. "But you want to, right?"

Pacey sits motionless, watching Joey and considering his answer.

"What if I said yes?"

Taking a deep breath, Dawson considers Pacey's question. "Well, I'd say there aren't many people in the world that I would encourage to kiss Joey Potter. But if anyone was going to do it, it should be you."

"Really?" Pacey can't hide the shock from his tone as he considers his friend.

"It makes sense, the two of you together. I can't really explain it."

Pacey chuckles, shaking his head. "I can't explain it either."

"But as someone who's just been through a breakup, I think it's important to consider that relationships don't always end up the way you thought they would. And now that you're friends, if things don't work out, well, the stakes get higher."

"I know. And that's why I think we'll just stay friends," says Pacey.

"Even if you want to kiss her?"

Pacey nods. "Even if kissing her is something I think about every second of every day."

They continue to watch her, finishing their dinner. Joey returns to collect the crusts of her sandwich.

"What are you guys talking about?" she asks.

"Nothing," the boys echo in unison.

Pacey locks the door to Screen Play Video and unlocks his bike from the stand. Bessie is waiting in the truck on the street.

"Just throw your bike in the back, Pacey," she calls out. "I'll drive you home."

"I'll walk," Dawson begins down the street.

"Get in," Joey aims her thumb at the truck.

Joey climbs in beside Bessie, Pacey beside her, Dawson against the door. Squeezed together, backpacks on the floor. Joey isn't sure what to do with her hands, so she rests them on her jeans.

"You working at Screen Play again, Dawson?" Bessie asks with a grin.

"No. I was just offering my services as an intern today," he says.

"What do you say, Joey and Pacey? Did he pass the test?"

Joey turns to her friend in the darkness of the cab. "He did. You were helpful today, Dawson."

"Thank you. It was good hanging out there again. Although I can't say I'll be rushing to get my old job back."

They chat as Bessie drives, all the while Pacey's leg is pressed against Joey's. Every left turn she makes shifts their bodies against the door and by the time they reach Dawson's house, the left side of Joey's body is on fire from his proximity.

Dawson jumps out, thanking Bessie for the ride.

They readjust on the bench seat, but Pacey doesn't move all the way to the door.

"How's dad been today?" Joey asks as they roll out of Dawson's drive.

"Okay, I guess. He keeps trying to help with Alexander, but he has no clue why this stranger is trying to play with him and he just screams."

"I guess it's going to take some adjustment," says Pacey.

"He rearranged some of the kitchen cupboards," says Bessie. "The coffee cups are now where the plates were."

"Like how they used to be?" Joey asks.

"Yeah."

"But it's so much easier-" Joey starts.

"I know." Bessie sighs. "He thinks he's coming back to the same place it was three years ago. He thinks the house is the same, and life is the same and we're the same."

"But we're not," says Joey.

"He'll realize it, eventually," Bessie checks both ways at the stop sign.

In the darkness, Pacey's hand slips low on the car seat beside Joey's thigh. She let her hand fall down the crevice between their legs. All the way up Bridge Street their hands rest against each other, back to back.

"Anyway. It's just a lot. He's suddenly there all the time. But tomorrow he's going to work a shift at the Icehouse, so hopefully that will give him, and us, a little space," Bessie adds.

Pacey flips his hand, taking hers, squeezing it gently. Joey squeezes back, biting a smile from her cheeks.

Their fingers cling to each other until the truck is parked in the street not far from Pacey's house.

"Thanks again for the ride, Bess."

Bessie glances at the police cruiser in the driveway. The Wagoneer still isn't there.

"You okay to go home tonight?" she asks.

Pacey sighs. "I'll be fine."

"When is your mom getting back?"

"Who knows," he shrugs. "If I were her, I'd stay away too."

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Bessie asks again.

He nods, releasing Joey's hand with a finger slowly tracing across her palm. "Night ladies."

"Night, Pace," says Joey. "Thanks for dinner."

Collecting his bike from the truck bed, he silently wheels down the side of the house.

Pacey climbs in his window.

His respite at Doug's apartment was short-lived. Only two nights of bliss before he was back in the house with his father, alone.

Late night arrivals meant he would inevitably be drunk. Without the protection and buffer of Mary in the house, Pacey isn't willing to risk an outright confrontation.

So he shimmies through the window and eats some Ritz crackers from his bedside drawers for a snack until he sees car lights in his window and the Wagoneer pulls into the driveway.

Standing by his door, Pacey waits.

It's difficult to hear over the television, but his father turns the volume down when his mother enters.

Car keys jangle onto the table, Pacey moves to his bedroom door, tilting his head, listening.

"Thought you were gone for good," says John, gruff.

"Don't be ridiculous. I was with Linda," Mary answers.

"Plotting your escape?"

Pacey closes his eyes, pressing his ear flush with the door.

"I told you she was having trouble with the kids."

"Sure she was," John says.

Footsteps make their way closer, but Pacey stays in place.

"Is Pacey here?" asks Mary.

There is no reply. Pacey can only assume John offers an indifferent shrug.

Her footsteps echo on the floorboards. She goes to the bedroom. Heavy treads pass by Pacey's room, and when they have disappeared, he dares to open the door just a crack.

He witnesses his father enter their bedroom.

"Suppose you heard the news?" John slurs.

"What news?" Mary's voice is strained. Pacey hears coat hangers clanging together. She is hanging her favorite jacket, the maroon pea coat with the broken button. Her suitcase is on the bed.

"Don't play dumb," John snarls.

"You're too drunk for this conversation."

"Bullshit. You heard he's home, right? So, did you run to Linda's preparing to leave me? Or were you just waiting for the opportunity to come back and see him?"

"I ran to Linda's to get away from you. To get away from your downward spiral. Do you think I wanted to be here when he was granted parole? So you can rant and rave and get so drunk you can't stand."

John laughs, and something bangs. Pacey takes another step out of his room. He can see them now, his mother with her hands in a suitcase, his father pacing nearby, shirt untucked.

"You're going to see him now that he's home, aren't you?" spits John.

Pacey holds his breath, confusion making him unsteady.

"No! Why would I? He has been in prison for years, and I've been here with you! Or did you forget that?"

Pacey blinks. John walks toward Mary, determination in his step. But as he passes the door, he catches sight of Pacey in his peripheral vision and stops.

They both turn to look at him.

"When did you get home?" John barks.

"Not long ago," he stands stoic, his mind anything but.

Mary pushes past John and hugs Pacey, hard. She whispers a plea in his ear, "Don't."

When she pulls back, he can only stare at her blankly.

"You sneakin' in the house?" asks John. "I didn't see you come in."

"I suspect you were probably too drunk to see me. Half-passed out in your chair," Pacey says, monotone, stripping all semblance of emotion from words he shares with his father.

"You got some mouth on you, boy," John raises a finger.

Ignoring him, Pacey turns to his mother. "How was your trip?" he asks.

Mary is still wary. "It was fine. I picked up some groceries on the way home. Pacey, can you help me collect them?"

Stumbling back to the living room, John collapses in his chair and increases the volume on the television. He's moved onto Wild Turkey, the amber liquid teetering on the edge of his recliner armrest.

Pacey follows Mary outside in his socks. They grow wet from the sodden ground. In the darkness, he watches her open the trunk. She looks different, older, more frail than he can remember seeing her.

"Mom, what Dad just said to you…"

She reaches for a paper bag and stops.

"Why does he think you're going to see Mike Potter?"

Her eyes shift to the closed front door. "I don't know what you think you heard in there, but it was nothing. He's just drunk."

"It wasn't nothing, Mom."

Scratching at her arm, she goes quiet, considering her options. "If I tell you to leave it alone, will you?"

"No. I heard too much in there."

She sighs, tired. "If I answer your question, Pacey. I need your absolute reassurance that he never knows what you know. I need to know that my answer will stop you from asking questions about this."

Pacey nods. He just wants to understand.

"Promise me, " Mary's voice is severe.

"I promise."

She reaches into the trunk, depositing a bag into his arms, then another. Pacey glances in the bag. Rice. Milk. Oreos. Apples rubbing their skins together.

"Mike Potter and I had an affair."

Her admission lands between them. Pacey blinks. Driveway pebbles dig into the soles of his feet.

"It was years back. Your father knows about it, as I'm sure you could ascertain from our reunion."

" Mike Potter? " The words feel strange on his lips.

He stares at his mother. The woman who washes his sheets, the woman who makes him dinner. She is a gossip, creative, critical, a life force and timid all at once. Every association he has with her involves this house and their family. Her truth strips those layers off. Like maybe it was an illusion all along.

"I invited the Potter's over for dinner once, just being friendly, seeing as you and Joey were in the same class and were always together. We all seemed to get along quite well, so we had a few dinners together, like you saw in those photos from the basement. We even went out dancing once or twice. But Mike and I found we had a lot in common. Then, well … things got complicated."

"I don't understand." Pacey struggles.

"You don't need to understand, Pacey. Now, take those bags inside and come back out to me for more. If we take too long out here, he will get suspicious."

"Mom!" he pleads.

"Go!" She pushes him towards the front door.

Inside, he dumps the bag on the counter, avoiding eye contact with his father. Returning to the car, a million questions swirl in his head.

"I don't know where to begin," he starts.

"Then don't, Pacey. Just know that it happened. But it's over now."

"When was it?"

"It's not important."

"But it is!" He tries to keep his voice low.

"It started before prison, before Lilly got sick. You must have been eight or nine at the time."

Pacey can't stop staring at Mary, the wrinkles stemming from her mouth, knitted cardigan slipping from her shoulders.

"Your father was heartbroken. I think deep down, he still is." She takes a bag and closes the trunk.

"I knew that Mike Potter had affairs. I just didn't expect one of them to be with my own mother."

"There is no plural, Pacey. What happened between us happened over several years." Mary struggles with the next confession. "When he cheated on Lilly, it was with me."

"Why didn't you just leave Dad? Why did you have an affair?"

She laughs, but the cackle is acidic. "You don't leave the chief of police. You don't embarrass him. You don't expose him to scandal."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? You live with him too, Pacey. You think he was just going to let me leave this house, whether it be alone or with another man?"

"That's not an excuse to stay with him. That's not an excuse to keep me here, too."

Pacey feels his eyes fill, but he blinks it away.

Her voice dips low, moving closer to her son. "Remember that car accident I had, where I broke my arm and ended up on a ventilator?"

He nods.

"I never had a car accident, Pacey. It's never a car accident or a fall. You, of all people, should know that."

Pacey grips the paper bag. The pieces he knew were there all along fall into place.

"You almost died," he struggles to say the words.

"And that's why I'm here, Pacey. That's why I come home from Linda's, even if I don't want to. If I don't come home, he will find me, and if he can't find me, he will find you. So we stay. And I get the groceries out of the car, and I cook dinners, and I spend hours on quilting projects because that's all I can be now. His."

A spark fires in her eyes that Pacey hasn't seen in years. He thought it went out, but it was still there, just waiting for a match. Her cardigan has slipped right off her arm. Pacey reaches out with his free hand and pulls it back onto her shoulder.

"Get inside now before he comes out here," she climbs the stairs. Pacey collects the last of the groceries.

In the kitchen, he leaves the bags on the counter. Mary puts away boxes of cereal. He tries to catch her eyes again, but she evades him. What's left of her spark won't be shared in a room with John Witter. The conversation is closed.

Pacey goes directly to his room.

Rifling through his closet, he finds shoes, a jacket, his scarf. He opens the window and climbs out.

His bike leads the way through quiet Capeside streets and he arrives at the Potter house out of breath. His mind is a swamp.

Inside, a warm glow of light trickles out the windows and he can see them inside. Bessie, Bodie, Mike, Joey.

Bodie is washing the dishes, Joey is drying them, a dinner plate clutched in her hand. Mike and Bessie are sitting at the table, talking, laughing.

For all of Bessie's irritations on the drive home, she's still happy. A child, her father returned. Their reunion would be about re-discovering each other, and adapting.

There were moments like this in his life, but they are slippery and faded. When all his siblings were at home, they would cackle and tease and endure Mary's cooking together. But everyone is gone now and he's stuck in a place without a smile.

Mike Potter's hair is cropped short. It seems lighter from this distance, gray at the temples. He's skinnier than Pacey remembers.

Pacey tries to imagine his mother with him; covert phone calls and hotel liaisons. All happening while they were kids watching movies at Dawson's house. While they filled backpacks with candy and planned adventures to explore the ruins. While Joey and Pacey spent sunrise to sunset bickering.

He watches them for a little longer, until Mike Potter turns, and notices something in the yard.

Pacey freezes.

Mike smiles, says something, and walks from the kitchen, through the dining room.

Grabbing at his handlebars, Pacey jumps on the bike. He's ready to tear through the trees and out of sight, but the screen door rattles closed and Mike is peering at him in the darkness.

"You've grown at least a foot taller since I saw you last, but I can still recognize you lurking in my garden, Pacey."

He looks left and right, considers scrambling up the limbs of a tree.

"Hey, Mr. Potter."

"Are you here to see Joey or me?" he asks.

Stepping forward into the porch light, Pacey replies. "In all honesty, I'm not sure."

They meet in the middle, Mike at the top of the stairs, Pacey at the bottom.

"Do you wanna talk?" Mike asks.

Pacey nods.