Happy holidays, all! THANK YOU SO MUCH for continuing to read. I know that sticking around for a slow WIP such as this is not easy, and I truly am so thankful for each of you who has, especially as I fear the slow pace of my posting is dragging even more on a plot that is taking its time through our trio's misadventures. There are so, so many quality fics out there (most of which, I'm sure, do not come with such extended wait times), and it is certainly not lost on me that it is a privilege to have your continued readership. Thank you, DarlyDixon'sLover, Str1der2015, and Hasick, SnailVenom, Walking Addicted, Sleeyyume, and Fritzo, for taking the time to comment on one or even both of the last two chapters, it truly means so much. A FFN comment alert is honestly my favorite email to pop into my inbox, so thank you to every one of you who has or does participate in that.
"That's it," Daryl exhales, as the car jolts and putters to a slow and final stop, "out 'f gas." For a moment they all sit motionless, letting the car settle into place. After two days on and off the highways, a night spent in a raided industrial bakery, and long interludes of finding nothing much worth stopping for, they finally truly stop. They'd been running on fumes for over a mile.
After an interlude, Simon releases the steering wheel from his precise ten-and-two positioning and breaks the settled silence. "What now? Leave the car?"
Daryl glances into the back, to Beth and to their mobile micro-home. "Yeh," he mutters, displeased to relinquish what little stability and comfort they have. "No tellin' when we'll find gas. Could be days. No good splittin' up." There's no need to mention that Beth and he are each somewhat incapacitated. Under better circumstances he wouldn't think it wise to split their small numbers so indefinitely; under these, he won't risk it at all. They're staying together. There's a gap in the conversation for Beth to speak and have her say, but she does not take it. In the absence of her input Daryl and Simon proceed with the formulation of a plan without her. "We pack the water, the food, the best of the blankets, we wear the layers we need. We take the essential tools, the weapons, and we go." Nevermind they'd only packed the SUV with essentials, they're once again downsizing, taking what's critical over what's merely crucial. But water, food, blankets, and weapons don't comprise all that qualifies as critical. There's Beth's collection of birthing books, dog-eared and underlined, for one, and the assortment of noisemakers and detractors she's been assembling since she'd realized a baby would one day be arriving. Also the solar oven. Then, too, the perimeter lines, snares, and arrow-making tools. Traveling light is tough when what one is shouldering is the survival of their family. Moreso when it's known just how dear the coming by such things has become. They've been stripped-down more than once before and built back up to this, but each rebuilding exacts a cost and they at present are short the toll. Just as they are short the gas, short the destination, and nearly short the water. In his grizzled voice, Daryl stoically delineates their course of action, "We pack what we c'n carry and we leave the rest." Although self-evident, it did feel as though the saying it outright was necessary, as this time, there's no outside power forcing the separation. Only prudence. And life, unforgiving in its severity and intransigence.
Simon studies the road as it sprawls ahead of them. "Keep to the same route?" Daryl looks too, squinting ahead, then nods. Their best chance for water, for now, is to keep to the route they'd charted. They'll stick to the highway; he's in no hurry yet to take on the uneven terrain of the woods.
The road stretches out before them as they take a moment more to process this letting-go, coming to terms with putting yet another moratorium on progress. And then seatbelts unclick, doors open, and the packing up of what they can commences. It isn't that they hadn't anticipated an inevitable parting of ways with the car, they've had go-packs packed from the start. In Beth's are her books, also the alarms and timers and turn-key noisemakers. She's got extra socks, changes of underclothes, woolen long johns, and a modest supply of hygiene basics. With those, she's packed the batteries, candles, lighters, and flashlights, having first stored a Streamlight and emergency candle in each of the other two bags. As for their food and medical provisions, they'd prepared against the eventuality of having to abandon or surrender any one pack by divvying their supply equally between the three. What water they still have they carry in their clipped canteens. On their persons they wear their standard weapons and carry melee arms strapped within reach onto each of their packs. Simon carries flints and the alarm lines, general tools, gear, carabiners, and cookware. He carries too their tattered copy of Huck Finn. Daryl keeps the weaponry tools. Most of the weight of the canned goods had likewise been stored with him. With them, he carries his unacknowledged stores of formula. At the bottom of his pack he's got swaddling cloths tucked away, and two sets of infant jammies. These items aren't crucial, not yet. But the leaving behind of tiny pale pajamas, which take up so much more space in his heart and investment in the future than in his pack, feels too much like an abandonment of something far greater than bits of cotton soft enough to snuggle. As he weighs and divests, assessing every object in his pack, Daryl's hand rests finally on them. They're not critical, but he cannot make the cut. Despite leaving them behind signifying a trust in later being able to source more, he does not like the sense of it. They'll be needed. That much he must trust. And, so, sensible or not, Daryl decides he can bear the minimal extra bulk and weight of holding onto one of each. Also prime to be culled are the two identical paperbacks he's got, dark in color, bearing the image of the back of a woman's muslin capped head — a portrait from an earlier century. He has yet to open them, but they too make the cut, bent and stuffed in under changes of socks and other gear. Before his time encamped on the island, he never would have made such a call. Likely he would have scorned any of his companions who did. But now, without expending the time to examine why or how he arrived here, Daryl does keep them. Tucking them away for days not so bleak as these.
They all carry socks and gloves and other personal sundries. Beth carries trash bags and ponchos for rain, emergency blankets and a flattened roll of toilet paper. The lines and wires they use for snares are split between Simon and Daryl, and their bedrolls and empty water jugs tether to the undersides of their packs. They leave behind blankets, cups, changes of clothes, the skillet and everything else but one aluminum camping pan and the solar oven, also strapped to Simon's pack. Although they were never under the illusion they'd be able to foot it too long with the weight of cast iron cookware, the inevitable forfeiture of the skillet isn't nothing. With it being as well seasoned as it is, they need hardly any oil to cook anything. Food never gets stuck or wasted, and the cleanup is effortless, but with everything else, they just can't justify the extra pounds. They leave lanterns and ropes, changes of boots and miscellanea camping gear. The toughest call was the matter of the tent. To take it would be some protection against the elements, but also more weight, more bulk. Already they are hardly setting out traveling light. In the end, the choice was made to bring it, as well as a tarp. But that lead to a second and keener round of weeding. Beth's books were ripped apart and the pages she knew and those her pregnancy already had surpassed were left behind. Daryl unpacked the swaddling cloths, Simon reassessed redundancies both in tools and kitchenware. He couldn't let go James' book. Other things were ditched or condensed and then the overall weight of the three packs redistributed. Simon took the tent and oven and heaviest load, Daryl the tarp and empty gas can, and Beth the dew catcher, pruning saw, and an empty water gallon. The second packing made them lighter and reallocated some of the weight Daryl would have been carrying pre-injuries.
With packs on and water canteens lower than anyone would like, Simon shuts the vehicle doors, then clicks the car locked and pockets the keys. Feeling eyes on him, he shrugs, "If we get gas, we'll want it like we left it. We'll want it here."
Daryl squints into the horizon, shading his eyes with his palm, "Don't think we'll be back this way."
Simon considers, then unpockets the keys and stashes them atop the passenger side back tire. "Let 'em work for it." Daryl snorts, taking up his crutch as he does. And then they walk.
They walk, slowly and in silence with Daryl hobbling as best he can. The sun is still high overhead, giving them time before the sun sets. All that lies in view is grass fields and distant woods. This road could be one of hundreds of Georgian roads, nothing distinctive in it to mark it or claim it. Their plan, as much as they have one, is to follow it — if not to something better, then simply just to something.
...
Less than thirty minutes on foot, already sweating from his exertion, Daryl drinks from his canteen. They'd sourced a little water the day before, and boiled it with drops of bleach.
Although this did replenish their supply by some, their water scarcity still is paramount. Daryl swallows and coughs, the doing so increasing the pain in his chest and shoulder. As he wipes at his brow and readjusts his cumbrous improvised walking support, Daryl considers how different these days of his recovery would be passing were Beth not struggling with a sort of recovery herself. Likely she would be there, ever watchful, monitoring every wince and gritting of his teeth. There'd like as not be more fever testing and offerings of meds and urgings for rest and food and fluids. It's not the case that she's not watchful; despite the blank and distant gaze of hers, he's aware he's in her focus. It's not lost on him she's silently taking stock of everything, still earnest in her intention to see him well. But what needs doing is all she is doing for the present. It's enough. As things stand, she'd still be checking and changing his dressings if he'd let her, but he can mostly manage it, and unsure of whether the usefulness of an occupation or some distance from direct reminders of that night mark the better course for her, Daryl's opted to keep the business of his injuries to himself. They do rest though, every several miles or so, whenever Daryl calls them, too aware of his own enervate state to bother with pride over pain or fatigue. If two gunshots and a knife wound haven't stopped him less than a week since incurring them, he at least he can claim a respite when he needs it. Suspecting, too, Beth is not in the state to take one for herself.
...
Beth paces, arching and bending her back some as she does, finding it easier to keep moving than to stand in place. The pack off her back is a welcome relief. She, like Daryl, keeps her eyes trained on their surroundings. Once the scenery along the road transitioned from open fields back to woods, Simon's intermittently been shrugging off his pack to foray into the wood in search of signs of a stream or spring. This marks his fourth time today, so far yielding nothing but a series of walkers. They haven't seen too many, none in too large a group, but it feels only a matter of time for that trend to wear out, and so while Beth and Daryl each welcome the respite from walking, they both remain on alert, listening for any crunch of a footfall or any unnatural shift in the vegetation.
Daryl leans his weight against the plank crutch, resting his badly throbbing leg. He glances at Beth through a side-eye. "Should m'ybe be lookin' t' make camp soon." Had their communication not otherwise derailed, he never would have been compelled to voice this sort of thing aloud. His brow creases, "Light won't last too much longer." In answer, Beth nods fractionally, feeling obligated to reciprocate at least that much. Their watchful eyes shift and jump, still scanning, never truly resting.
A shadow passes above them and Beth's eyes raise to sky, watching as a hawk circles lazily above them. The creature dips and glides, flaps and soars. It crosses through the colorless sky, graceful and serene. In an instant there's a red splatter and an explosion of feathers as a bolt powers through the bird, sending it careening to the ground. Daryl passes the crossbow to Beth. "Sorry," he grunts, as he moves out to claim their next meal. Beth holsters her gun and takes the pulleyed weapon, stepping into it to re-cock the bow. She manages it, then pulls an arrow from the quiver and loads it into the track. She wasn't materially bothered by the killing of the hawk. At least there'll be food. At least she'd glimpsed its flight. At least it was only a bird this time that they were killing. With pragmatism and focus, Beth raises the bow to cover Daryl as he lets his guard down, stooping to retrieve the bird as well as the arrow that killed it.
Ahead of them sounds the rustling of leaves, in the opposite direction Simon had gone. Beth's pivot is immediate. Capably she aligns her eye with the sight, focusses, and waits. No sooner does the first rotten skull present itself through the brush than Beth takes her shot, taking the first of the still-unseen cluster down with little effort. She lowers the bow and once again steps through the foothold, bending to hoist back the string. Her grip's just taken hold of it when the string pulls back much easier than it should. Daryl is there beside her, helping to pull back and cock it. He's fixing in place the arrow he'd recovered as Beth moves to yield him the bow.
"Naw," he grunts, "y'did good. Keep goin'." At the tree line's edge emerges two, no five more, with no telling how many more behind them. Beth looks once to Daryl, he nods, and then she's focussed, raising the bow and training it on the nearest walker. She fires. The bolt misses it's true mark by an inch and thus more scathes her target than strikes, but it is enough to take it down if not finish it. Meanwhile, Daryl's unsheathed the smaller of the two knives he wears, and holding it loosely, reaches back and hurls it, sending it spinning forward at a deadly velocity until it lands square between the sunken eyes of what no longer bears any resemblance to a human. Next he throws the knife concealed in his boot, powerfully meeting impact with an emaciated walker charging through the brush. Beth fires a third arrow, and by the time it meets its mark the rest of the pack has drawn closer. With a slash of his large hunting knife, Daryl's cut free the elongated 18-inch pruning saw on the back of her pack and thrusts it to her as he swings aside the bow at its stock and readies for close-quarter melee. "Watch yourself," he tells her as they brace for a clash, his hunting knife in one hand, an orange-handled billhook in the other. Testing himself, Daryl transfers his weight from one foot to the other then back again before swinging a decisive strike split down the cranium of an ably moving biter. With his other hand he turns and thrusts his hunting blade through what should have been an ear, while Beth swings to decapitate and then pierce through the skull of another. Daryl heaves his hooked blade several yards to take down two together, then grits through the exertion and pulls back the string on his bow. He loads and fires as Beth hacks sideways into a roamer coming at her. The blade sticks. She yanks, but cannot get it unstuck. She grunts as she tries again to wrench it clear, all the while the half-cleaved thing hisses and lunges ever nearer. Daryl's head turns, checking for her; he moves swiftly and wrests the thing free. Clearing the blade, he plies it to hack with decisive violence at the neck, stomping then — with little care for his condition or balance — forcefully on the animated head where it's fallen at their feet. Beth ducks and evades an attack then wields her knife to take down a thrashing gnashing mess of bone and gore. She drives the blade in true but stumbles down with it, failing to have planted her feet properly before striking. "Greene!" Daryl's there, rushing to her, wrestling her free from jaws and talons — anything, though already rendered inanimate, that still could threaten to take her. "I got you." He leans in and braces his arms as he holds out his hand to her to lift as she too lifts herself. "Y'all right?" A little stunned, Beth nods. "Weren't scratched none?" Beth looks, as does he, to one arm, then the other. She shakes her head, she seems fine. "Didn't bang your head?" Beth again shakes 'no'. She hasn't struck her head, but as she regains her balance, Beth spits the bit of sick that's risen up. The unsettled churnings of her stomach mostly had subsided as she'd progressed further into her second trimester, and since their move into the apartment, she'd mostly managed to keep clear of walkers. Tangling now with them close up and again breathing in the foulness turned her stomach with immediacy. Though the stench of sour decay and thickened rot was quick to strike and overwhelm her senses, Beth loses little time recovering. Swiping her hand across her mouth, Daryl clasps her by the back of her head and leaning in, kisses her softly atop her knit cap. Taking up her knife then, he handles it easily and pitches it across the road into what looks to be the last of the dead emerging through the branches. Once all is still, Beth scans, then covers the distance to retrieve their weapons — by her count, three knives, four arrows, Daryl's melee blade and hers. It's a gory mess pulling the blades and arrows from crushed and impaled heads. Beth holds her breath with her face turned aside as she steps on the carcasses and stoops to pull each free, the growing roundness of her belly making her uncomfortable but not unable to do it. Again armed, Beth finishes the walker she'd only felled, skewering it with a second piercing by arrow. Her hands are full when she returns to Daryl, their three packs, and the shot-through hawk. Daryl and Beth each produce rags from back pockets and begin the work of cleaning blades and arrows. For weapons that perform double duty in protection and meal prep, Beth applies some drops of disinfectant before thoroughly rubbing them dry.
Daryl exhales. His body is killing him. His body worked for him when needed, but he does not expect he'll be good for much more walking this day. His hip, his shoulder, his leg, his muscles, they all hurt. He feels light-headed and could probably do with some water, but he does not sit, or go for a canteen; he moves toward Beth and stands silently beside her. She's slipped back by now into her unseeing listlessness, unanimated without some purpose to move her. Standing in close proximity, Daryl lets his hand drop open near hers. Edging in, his rough fingers slowly move through and link with hers till he's holding her hand. He squeezes it once, then draws hers with his to together touch and hold to her belly. Beth does not speak or look, but neither does she flinch, or pull away, or passively abide a hollow holding of her hand. She accepts the gesture, somewhere beneath the surface, desperately glad for his being there.
The low whistle of a whippoorwill sounds within the trees, heralding Simon's imminent return. "Nothin'," he shakes head. "No sign of water. Thought— Woah, you two got some action," he remarks, taking in the carnage. He eyes Beth's hand in Daryl's and takes it as a sign things will improve. He looks away, "Everything okay?"
Daryl grunts an affirmative. "Got a hawk t' roast."
Simon nods, still mostly working at affecting brightness than exuding. "Sounds good." Simon rubs the chill out of his hands. "Thought I might've been onto something, but if there ever was a stream there, it's long gone. Might've found a spot f'r the night though. There's a camp down there, abandoned, but mostly intact. Took out three dead, but pretty sure they were roamers j'st passing through. Could save us putting up and striking th' tent. There're a couple dug fire pits. Didn't scout the whole place, but that alone saves us some labor."
Daryl feels like shit. He'd been going crazy cooped up in the back of the car all that time, immobile for days, but the prospect now of getting off his feet even fractionally sooner is enough for his okay. He looks to Beth. She only blinks. "Let's do it," he grunts.
...
The encampment must have housed a dozen people or more by the looks of it. Seven tents — some makeshift others store-bought — stand fully or semi-erect in a sort of half-circle.
There are chairs and coolers, a propane stove, and all around signs there had been kids. Two red fuel cans stand side by side the entrance to a mossy mildewed grey-blue tent, but they too are mossy and full of rainwater. The propane canisters are all long gone as are any bottles of water. It's unclear what happened here; the site is too well-assembled for a horde to have moved through, and with none of the telltale signs, it doesn't appear to have been an act of mass violence. Seemingly too much was been left behind for the residents just to have moved on. It's like a ghost town, suspended in animation; just one more tableau of the end of the world, without context or epilogue to reveal its story.
After an initial sweep confirming they truly are alone, Beth sets to work on the fire, Daryl on the cleaning and butchering of the bird. Simon sets snares, after which Daryl helps him hang and adjust the dew catcher. As the bird roasts and Daryl sits elevating his leg, Beth and Simon set perimeter lines. As the sky transitions to dusk, the campsite fills with the aromas of smoke and roasting game. Simon pulls up a camp chair beside Daryl at the fire and Beth slips silently into the green and beige tent.
Simon brushes his nose and adjusts his wool cap, "You find any food?"
Daryl's mouth twitches, and softly he blinks before shaking his head. "Not much," he rumbles lowly. "Found a little oil," he rasps. "Tin of sardines. An' I think some flour; not much of it anyway."
"Could be more in th' tents, maybe." Simon cocks his brow at Daryl. "Could try for some pancakes. Use the oil an' flour, a little salt. Wouldn't take much water. Fry 'em t'night, save half for th' morning, reheat 'em with the sardines. M'ybe find some greens." He's looking to Daryl, waiting for his vote.
Daryl cracks a sort of smile through the bemused squint he returns to Simon. "G't after it." Simon smiles, maybe his first true smile in some days, and rises to set to work. Daryl blows on his hands and holds them nearer the flames. "You spot any rocks the right size, we oughta toss 'em in the embers for the bedrolls."
"On it," he nods. Carefully mixing the sparse ingredients directly into the plastic baggie of flour, Simon glances at Daryl, "How you doing?"
Daryl tugs at the scruff of his beard. "Half m' body hurts like hell. Don't think I could stand if I wanted."
His hands at work, Simon surveys the camp and surrounding alarm lines. "Think we need t' keep watch?"
Weighing the matter, Daryl looks and appraises. They're more than two days out from the cabin. There's no car on the road giving them away. He'd covered their tracks as they trekked in. Housed as they are, incognito in an infiltrated ghost camp surrounded by trip alarms, chances are they're safe. Even so, there's always a risk of sleeping through the sounding of a tripline or of the dead descending too many in number to engage. As for the living, there's little chance anyone still breathing wouldn't think to look for and circumvent trip lines if a stealth approach were their aim. All things considered, as exposed as they are, there's little reason not to keep a watch, and yet, each of them is plagued with exhaustion. The night will be cold. And now that they're on foot, it isn't the same for them as it had been; without the car, there's no sleeping off a watch the following day. Simon can see Daryl just wants to shake his head with a, "Naw, we'll be okay." But they've incurred too many losses to be so cavalier.
The teen rubs at his eyes, knowing prudence is the better call. "You let me get a few good hours in, I can stick it out the rest 'f the night."
Daryl cocks his brow. "Y'sure?" Beat, and far from in the mood to act the hero, he's ready to take the offer.
Simon nods as he shakes and mixes the batter within the bag, "If I c'n eat something', an' sleep, maybe till ten 'r eleven, I c'n make it till dawn."
"Deal," Daryl nods with appreciation. "Th'nks."
"No sweat." Regretting the loss of their skillet, Simon pulls a frying pan from the camp's makeshift galley. Wiping it clear first of dirt and fallen leaves, he economically rubs on a sparse amount of oil to grease the pan. Heating the pan in the flames, he then pours all the batter in at once, opting for the time saver of a griddle cake they'll just cut into wedges. Simon carefully sets the pan not over the flame directly but atop the heating rocks and the embers he rakes over to them. Eventually the batter will begin to bubble and pop as it bakes into a passing approximation of a carbohydrate. They sit there, Daryl and Simon, each thinking his own thoughts, waiting for the meal to cook.
In time, as the game crisps and crackles, spitting drips of fat into the fire, Daryl rises and with his knife shaves off a bit of the bird. He inspects it, then pops it in his mouth. Once more he cuts into the bird, deep, inspecting the color. He licks his lips then nods. "'S done."
"Right," Simon nods, assessing the bread. "I'll grab Beth." He rises from his seat and ducks his head into two tents before he finds the one she's tucked herself into. Simon unzips the archway door, feeling the temperature inside fractionally warmer than where he stands. "Hey," he says, "food's ready." There where she's curled up atop a padded mat, bundled in blankets and sleeping bags, she does not stir. "Beth—" He gives her a minute, watching the mound of bedding gently rise and fall with the steadiness of her slumber, then rezips the tent and returns to the fire and Daryl. "She's out."
Daryl nods. "Better j'st let 'er sleep." Daryl carves the bird and drops three equal handfuls of it onto three mismatched dishes Simon sourced from somewhere. Simon tests the griddlecake. It's cooked through and pretty dense. He's unfazed by it being somewhat burned on the bottom; they can shave off the edges that are charred. With his knife he cuts the loaf into six equal wedges and serves three of them alongside the meat. He never did forage for greens. Returning to his chair, he and Daryl start in on the meal while it's warm. The fire pops and sparks. The sky's still light but growing dimmer, and the meager warmth of the low-built fire does more to evoke warmth than emit it. They'll likely extinguish it soon, before it's visible in the dark from any distance. His mouth full of food, Daryl leans forward and stokes the fire with a crowbar laying by, pushing at the fist-sized rocks Simon set in to warm them later.
Simon sets Beth's plate in the pan, thinking maybe it might help to keep it warm. "How's she doing?"
Looking up, Daryl's expression shifts several times over as he chews. He squints some as he swallows. "She's okay." Listening, Simon breaks off a bit of the bread and with it mops up what little juice has gathered on his plate before popping it into his mouth. "She's tough. Her whole family's tough." Daryl scrapes off the burnt edge from his bread. "She'll come through, j'st needs time." Simon listens. He nods. They eat, sitting mostly in silence, thinking ahead to better times.
His plate cleared, Simon stretches and rises. "Gonna find a spot t' lie down. Wake me when you're ready."
"Go 'head in with her."
Simon nods. With a flashlight he goes tent to tent, collecting pillows and bedding. Before settling in, Simon brings two thick blankets back to Daryl as well as a tarp to keep out the wind. Daryl props his feet up closer to the fire as Simon passes him one of the heated rocks, wrapped in fabric so as not to burn. He brings two more into the tent with him, slipping one beneath Beth's blankets by her feet. Moving quietly, he unlaces and removes her boots for her; Beth expels a soft sort of sigh or moan, but does not wake. At long last, Simon fixes himself his own sort of bed, also heated by a firestone. He lies there, meditating on the deliciousness of being at rest and with the hope of being warm. He is tired and cognisant that all too soon he'll be getting up, spending the rest of the night upright and in the cold. His mind active, Simon worries he might fail to fall asleep right away and he'll waste what precious time he has, but sooner than he's aware, Simon's asleep, leaving only Daryl awake.
Tell me (gently), is the story feeling too slowly paced? I know my descriptions of setting and character actions (and in this chapter, in particular, the contents of their individual packs) can be cumbersome for some readers. I'm all set to keep going as I have been, but if readers are getting antsy — which for no reason I can explain it sort feels as though some or many are — then I can maybe work to try to find a new tack. (FYI, in my mind we have three key settings still to reach with some woods and roads etc. in between, and at least 15 chapters still to go.) I'm definitely open to hearing what's working and what's falling a little flat.
** Also, I wrote a mini-scene the other day while I was editing this chapter, but I can't decide if, in the end, I should include it in this story when I reach that point. The question I'm facing with it is whether it's better to include it because "the more chapters the merrier" and it creates a little more world-building, OR, because it does nothing to further the overall plot of the story and ultimately is just another scene of something or someone getting in their way, is it better to cut it? If anyone has thoughts on the matter, please feel free to post in comments or to PM, or even to pre-read/beta the rough first draft of the chapter if you'd like.
Thank you again, and Happy 2020!