Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"
Автор книги: Mariah Dietz
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
“LO!” MERCEDES’ smile is stretched wider than I think I’ve ever seen it, and knowing this reaction is because she’s happy to see me makes that maternal instinct inside of me burn like a flame. That light is such a welcoming feeling; to be missed and cared for is something I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced to this extent, and while it’s coming from a ten-year-old girl I nanny for, rather than a friend or boyfriend or even a family member, it makes me feel a slew of emotions that has my lips lifting into a smile and my eyes filling with tears that I wipe away as she hugs me.
“How was your Christmas?”
She pulls back from me, her eyes still bright. “It was so fun! We had four of them!”
Mercedes notices my gape and laughs. Braiding her arm with mine, she leads us into the living room where the tree is still standing. I was slightly concerned when I left ten days ago that they wouldn’t remember to get one, or would bypass the tradition. Two bachelors living in a house, I could definitely see that happening, especially when I had witnessed their living conditions BM: Before Me. If mounds of dirty laundry and unrecognizable objects weren’t of concern, I figured a tree wouldn’t either. I didn’t know how to broach the subject without sounding like I was meddling, so I attempted my discreet intervention by using Summer as my liaison. Since our conversation took place via text, I couldn’t see or hear her reaction, but she sent me a smiley face after assuring me one would be up and thanking me for pulling out the boxes of ornaments I had stored in the laundry room after realizing I was the only one who knew where they were. Sure, I told both King and Kash where I had moved everything, but neither one seemed overly interested, more just shocked at the transformation of their house.
The tree is tall and has wide gaps between branches, some spaced over a foot apart. The lights are multi-colored, and the ornaments, which don’t match, primarily consist of homemade ornaments that I can tell were done at the hands of Mercedes over the years.
She wraps her small hand around mine, turning my attention from one of the first sights I’ve wanted to draw that isn’t a person. “We did one here with Summer, and another one with my grandma, and one with my grandpa, and then one with Dad’s work.”
“That’s like Groundhog Day.”
“Like what?” She faces me with sincere curiosity.
“I just mean that’s a lot of Christmas!”
“It was. But it was amazing! And now you get to open your gifts because you weren’t here!”
“My gifts?”
Mercedes raises her eyebrows with a silent duh! and she heads to the tree, retrieving a single wrapped package from below the boughs. She sets the box on my lap, where I carefully inspect it with appreciation. The wrapping is covered with snowmen and is perfectly folded and taped—clearly Summer assisted. Mercedes slides it closer, her patience once again waning.
Inside is a pillow of tissue paper that Mercedes eagerly helps me remove. Below are several different pens, rubber erasers, charcoals, acrylic paints, oils, and brushes. They’re an expensive artist’s quality, too, not the cheaper student grade. I’m still eyeing the brushes when Mercedes pulls a smaller box free from the bottom and pushes it closer to me.
“There’s more?”
“We each got you something.”
My chin drops and I silently wait for her eyes to meet mine before asking her what that means.
“This is from King.”
King?
I haven’t seen him since snapping at him after he crossed too far over the asshole-line again that day in the bathroom. Curiosity is heating my entire body. It’s going to be a joke, a gag, something utterly useless.
“Open it!” Mercedes growls then reaches forward without waiting and lifts the lid. Inside is a golden bangle. A delicate feather creates half of the bracelet, tiny marks and details reminding me of the one I held.
“I told him you were going to love it.”
I am completely speechless because I do. It’s beautiful and elegant while being chic and modern. Not only that, but while this could be an inside joke, I feel quite confident it serves as an apology.
“You love it … right?”
My fingers are still wrapped tightly around the bracelet as they fall into my lap, and I look up at Mercedes, my smile climbing impossibly wide. “I love all of it! Thank you!” Her arms fling around my neck, jostling the bracelet with her aggressive hug.
“I have something for you, too.”
Her eyes are wide, gleaming with excitement for what those words promise when she pulls back, and I’m proud of her for not squealing like I can tell she wants to. I lean forward and lift the gift bag I had brought while still securely holding the bracelet.
I agonized over what I would get her. Champagne tastes on a beer budget became Cristal Champagne on a Pabst Beer budget when it came to shopping for her and the brands I know she adores.
With an easy pull of tissue paper, Mercedes pulls out a custom helmet I ordered with Summer’s assistance, covered in a shell that is comprised of sketches I had to send in that include ones of her riding and several of the images I drew while she wore the bandages on her chin that now only shows the slightest red seam.
“I love it,” she whispers, her eyes wide as her hands turn the helmet to see the other side again. “I love it.” This time when she says the words, her eyes meet mine, and a warmth passes through me that has my eyes once again filling with tears.
“WHAT DO you do on the weekends? Like party and shit?” I appreciate that Parker often begins conversations at a completely random point, skipping over customary greetings and diving right into whatever his question or intent is. Sometimes it makes my head spin as I mentally exchange the pleasantries out of habit before I’m able to respond, but I’m slowly adjusting.
“More like work and shit.” I drop the dishtowel I was using to dry the counters and lean against the stove to face him. I’ve been here for over an hour, waiting for Mercedes. Summer picked her up from school to go get fitted for a new bike, something I didn’t even know happened, leaving me to find something to do to occupy myself. I settled on deep cleaning the kitchen.
“But you’re young! You’re supposed to be having fun, making mistakes!”
“Yeah, that’s just never been me. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I was raised in a small town where it was really hard to get into much trouble because everyone knew who everyone was and what they were or were not supposed to be doing. Like my friend got grounded for two weeks our freshman year of high school and she tried to sneak out on her last night of house arrest to help our friend get ready for homecoming, and she didn’t even make it a mile before she was caught.” I notice Parker’s eyes widen with humor and nod, a trace of a smile on my lips. “It’s pretty hard to walk too far out of line when you live on large plots of land without public transit and over a thousand local guardians.”
“So you never did high school things? Like get drunk? Have sex?”
“I don’t think there’s necessarily an age tied to either of those events, but yes, I experienced those and other ‘normal high school activities.’” My fingers quote his term and then drop when I realize I’m acting far too much like one of the thousand local guardians I just told him about. “I mean, we all did stuff, just not the kind of stuff I see in movies and hear about now.”
Parker’s phone buzzes and his eyes, still laden with humor, meet mine briefly before he frees it from his pocket. I’m pretty sure by the way this conversation has been going, if his phone hadn’t rung he would be asking me more questions about my sexual experiences, but I’m hoping I’m wrong as I stand up and head over to where my notepad’s lying on the counter. I feel the familiar energy course through me, the desire to open the cover and seek out a blank page. My mind is already silencing Parker’s voice and selecting the illusion it wants to breathe life into.
“Sorry, Lo, I’ve got to run. Spencer and Kash are waiting for me to do a few retakes.”
My lips press into a tight smile as I try to hide my relief. “No problem. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, I’ll be by tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
He leaves, and I’m not sure if my sigh is physical or merely mental as I reach for my things and head to the table. I don’t like drawing on a flat surface because the light falls unevenly, but I only have an easel at home and school, so I have plenty of experience with poorly lit level planes. I don’t bother wasting the time to find the next empty page, simply flipping to one near the very back.
The need to draw has become a tightly wound ball of tension, and as charcoal lines are cast across the paper, the tangled web quickly relaxes, melting like a fine thread of sugar hitting the water until I feel nothing.
I turn my head as I work to see if the shading is correct. I’d lift the pad up to get a better angle, but that will only create a bigger mess from the charcoal dust that collects with shading. I use the side of my thumb to create a stroke of color and jolt when I realize I’m not alone.
“How did you do that so fast?”
I use the back of my hand to try and brush some hair out of my face. The same strands fall back across my cheek as I look to King. “It’s one of the reasons I prefer charcoal.” My mouth feels too dry as I swallow and turn my attention back to my drawing. “It’s very forgiving, versatile, and fast.”
“But that was like twenty minutes.”
“It’s not done. I haven’t finished shading and blending, or softening it. I don’t have an eraser with me.”
“Do you always work that fast?”
I shrug absently. “Some take longer, others less. It depends on what I’m working on, if I’ve done it before, my mood.”
King moves until he’s directly behind me, never asking if I mind as he looks over my drawing. “What does it mean when you draw something in twenty minutes?”
“Are you asking if I’ve drawn you before?”
King doesn’t reply, but I can feel him staring at me from over my shoulder, waiting for me to look at him. I’m reluctant to do so, but it’s pointless. I’m the one who threw tact out the window by asking the question I knew he was alluding to. His brown eyes aren’t teasing like I expect but intent, causing me to shift slightly in my chair before looking away. “I draw everyone I spend time with. It’s easier when I’m familiar with people because I know so many of their expressions.”
I expect him to make some sort of distasteful joke, but his eyes return to the drawing, and my fingers burn with the familiar itch to draw as I notice how much darker his lashes look when reflecting off his dark eyes from this angle.
“You should do this work for Kash. It could open doors for you. Who knows, you could get grabbed up by a huge company to design logos.”
“That sounds cool and all, but I don’t want to design logos. Logos are about being clever and creative. I never construct anything new. Everything that I draw already exists. I don’t know how to draw something if I can’t see it.”
“How do you know unless you try?”
It’s not necessarily fair that his question infuriates me, dredging up countless memories shared between my dad and me about art and the few doors it will ever be able to offer me, and the far longer hall of doors it never could. Still, I find the fact that he chose to give up his love and passion to ride to go into the business side of things a factor that will make it nearly impossible for him to understand why doing that seems like an impossibility. “You couldn’t ask me to give up my art any easier than you could ask me to stop breathing. The end result would be the same.”
He furrows his brow, catching me off guard. Then I watch his lips purse as the muscles in his jaw flex, like my thoughts were just delivered through osmosis or something, and he finds them offensive. “If you don’t want to do the drawing, you don’t have to. It’s not that big of a deal. We can find someone else.”
“No, I want to do this one. I just can’t picture myself being stuck in an office talking to people about what their brand means and trying to somehow capture that with such minimal space and details. It takes me at least an eight-by-ten sheet of paper and sometimes several hours to show a single expression. It would be like you guys going from doing what you do to joining the Tour de France. Sure, you’d still be on a bike, but what you love about the entire sport would be absent.”
King’s eyes relax as they slowly shift between mine, making the desire to look away grow alarmingly fast with each second that he continues. “What were you thinking when you were looking at the pictures we were editing for the ad campaign?”
Once again, King’s words tilt me off balance. While Parker skips right into the meat of a conversation, King never makes inconsequential conversation. Each question or statement seems to be purposeful, like there are a million intents behind each.
“What do you mean?” I try to recall seeing them, blocking out his presence and how he worked to avoid me while I was in there. The memory distracts me from the question at hand, making me shake my head slightly in an attempt to stop thinking about them.
“You didn’t like something about them.”
“No, no. They were great. Really.”
“But…”
“No buts. They were great.”
King’s eyes narrow again, brimming on accusation, but there’s too much confusion in his expression. “There was something. I saw the look on your face.”
“I’m sure it was just the shock of the stunts he was doing.”
“No, it wasn’t until the originals were up that your eyes focused like they do when you draw. But while you looked at them you had the expression you were making when you were shading here.” King’s finger hovers over his neck on my drawing, reawakening the frustration I felt while I was working on the simple structure. I kept picturing King’s face in several shades of light and never took the time to focus on any one, causing the shading to all be slightly awry. I hadn’t minded it until I got to his neck, and then the shadows seemed to make it appear too narrow, and then too wide, and then highlighting the errors on his face, making it seem less abstract and creative and more novice.
I press my lips together and think back to the pictures I stared at while in a reverse position to what I am in now with King. “Sometimes I think society depicts too much about what is beautiful. We remove details that are real and natural because we think they’re unforgiving and repulsive. We remove and alter stretch marks, cellulite, blemishes, an errant hair, all to make someone look like no one truly does. Perfect isn’t real. Some of the things that made Kash beautiful in those pictures were erased in an attempt to make him perfect. It made me focus on those spots because all I saw was what was missing. She created imperfections.” King’s eyebrows rise and the corners of his mouth tilt up. I pray he’s not baiting me and plans to use this to make Summer hate me again. Regardless, I continue, “By trying to make Kash perfect, she erased the indentations along his spine, and the scar along his side, and the sweat and dirt that was there because he was working his ass off. You didn’t see the tendons in his hands, or the expanded veins because of the adrenaline and tight grasp he had on the handlebars, or the focus and bliss that was written on his face with the way his brow was drawn, and his eyes were focused on something that you know only few can see.”
“You need to stop questioning yourself.”
I pull my head back with surprise. He doesn’t clarify my obvious confusion, or elaborate further; he simply looks at my drawing of him again and then steps into the kitchen.
I can feel a growl of frustration climb higher in my throat. I am so irritated by his brush-off that I want to throw my piece of charcoal at the back of his head.
“Ready to learn how to make an alfredo sauce?”
“I think my days of cooking are over,” I mutter, closing my notepad without dropping the particles of dust left behind by the charcoal into the trash. I know it will smear the picture, but I don’t care. I want to rip it out and shred it into teeny, tiny strips and then burn them. Simply distorting it means I’m being civil, an adult, though his eyes are laced with humor and accusing me of being anything but.
“Your problem is you stick to things you’re good at so you never know what it feels like to be uncomfortable.”
My spine feels like a rubber band being snapped. I glare at him, wishing to explode and tell him how uncomfortable I feel stepping through the door every single weekday and some weekends, knowing he might be on the opposite side. Or how uncomfortably I have slept all week because Kenzie continues to bring over her special “friends,” depriving me of not only my bed, but my easel, clothes, food, and solitude. Instead, I lift my hand and show the bright pink line that is a roadmap to my failed cooking attempts.
“You can’t stop just because you had one bad experience.”
I drop my chin, pursing my lips. The small smirk on his face tells me he knows I’m not referring to just this single incident.
“Think of cooking like art. The spices are your colors.”
I shake my head, baffled by his comparison. “They’re nothing alike.”
“Sure they are.”
“No. For me, art is … I don’t know, it just makes sense. I know without having to think about it how things go together.”
King’s lips turn up into an uneven grin that makes my eyes narrow into a glare. He laughs and moves to pull a pot and a couple of pans out. “You see the same things that everyone else sees, yet you see what makes them beautiful. Art’s instinctual to you, it comes easily. You’re going to have to learn how to cook.” My mind’s still stumbling over his last words about how I see things and what that means, if anything, as he continues. “So you’re really going to do the logo, huh?”
My head shakes as I wander farther into the kitchen, stopping when King smiles with triumph, making me briefly consider going back to the dining room table before I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the furthest counter from where he stands. “I’m painting a picture on one of the walls in the shop, but as I’ve told Kash, I don’t expect him to choose it as his logo.”
“Do you know what you’re going to draw yet?”
“Not a clue.”
His grin is benevolent, friendly even, as he moves to the fridge and pulls several ingredients out. “You should come to the match next week, watch it all happen and see if that inspires you. You said you can’t draw what you don’t know.” King shrugs as he drops a stick of butter beside the stove. “Time to get acquainted.”
The fact that he’s right makes my nose scrunch. Even when it’s an obvious situation like this, I’ve never been great at accepting dictation.
“Come over here and grab the middle knife on the far right of the block.”
An immature desire to remain rooted and voice my protest crosses my mind before I quietly sigh and move to do as he’s instructed.
The knife feels heavy and awkward in my hand as I wait for further direction and watch as he fills a large pot with water.
“Grab that red cutting board and the package of chicken,” King says, nodding to the counter beside the fridge. I feel him watch my movements, making each of them feel painfully pronounced and awkward.
“You’re going to cut the chicken into small pieces, and then we’ll put some spices on them and sauté them.”
“How big is small?” I ask, unwrapping the paper from around the chicken and drawing out three breasts. I hate the feel of raw meat; it alone could easily convert me to a vegetarian.
“Bite-sized.”
“For a horse or a toddler?”
“Since we don’t have either of those, I think you’ve found your answer.”
“Asshole-sized, perfect.”
“Don’t start a war you won’t be able to finish,” King warns, his movements stalling, ensuring me his sole focus is on me. The action isn’t a taunt, it’s a threat, and it burns a sudden level of frustration through me that only King can evoke.
I raise my chin as I turn my head to face him. Slowly, I release my grip on the knife so that it rests against the cutting board, removing my temptation to throw it at the back wall. “Go ahead.” My shoulders roll, my knees bend, and my hip leans against the counter. My entire body is showing how little I care about what he has to say next. It’s a lie, of course, but one that is crucial to maintain.
“What? Is Charlie going to kick my ass?”
Charleigh? How is Charleigh a part of this?
“I know all about Charlie. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell me you were dating someone. It’s not like I was going to hold what happened over your head or something. It’s not a big deal.”
This is one of those moments where I so wish I had the capability to read minds. Clearly King thinks Charleigh is a guy, but that’s all I’m certain of. Why he’s bringing up the possibility that I have a boyfriend and the idea that I would pose a boyfriend as a warning against him makes me question if he’s threatened. Jealous? Merely curious? I need an extra hour to sit down and sketch the expression on his face so that I can fully decipher what all he isn’t telling me.
“Is that why he never comes over? Because he knows … about me?” If hope isn’t tainting his words, I am completely insane, because I swear I hear traces of it. But his expression turns cold and stoic in an instant, shoving my thoughts of clarifying who Charleigh is to the deepest depths of my vocabulary.
“Why would I tell anyone? It’s not a big deal, right?” I ask. King’s words hadn’t stung upon first impact, but playing them back in my head once more, they feel like more than just a rejection; I feel used. They shouldn’t be causing this reaction. I’ve used these same words against him numerous times in the past; however, this time they leave a sour taste in my mouth that worsens now that I’ve repeated them back.
He squares his shoulders, the distaste obviously affecting him as well. To make certain my point is made, I shrug and raise my eyebrows before turning back to the chicken and carefully beginning to chop it. I never mention how much the feel of it bothers me, nor do I seek assurance that I’m doing it right. I simply do as he instructed, and once I finish, I place my knife in the sink carefully so as to not make a loud noise. If I dropped it, it would reveal I’m frustrated and still stewing over his words. I refuse to let that happen. After washing my hands three times, I dry off and head outside because I can’t be around him a second longer without demanding answers to questions I’m still trying to make sense of.
I SUGGEST to Mercedes that we hit the mall up the next day and then go to OMSI, the science museum, to prevent any chance of encountering King, with the promise this is the last time I’m going to avoid him. I’ll let him continue working at it, but I’m done expending the energy on him.
“I’M so proud of you! That was insane, Lo! I need to take a picture so you can draw yourself doing this!”
I risk looking over to Mercedes as my tire rounds over the lip of the smallest of the ramps. They rarely use this piece of equipment, seemingly making it a waste of space, which seems fairly bizarre since so little of the shop goes without purpose and extensive use.
“Are you ready to graduate to the next ramp?” Parker’s beside me, his eyes bright with excitement from finally convincing me to go on the ramp again.
“I think I need to master the small one first.”
“Master? You were like the Jedi out there! The kid is right, you looked awesome! I can’t believe you haven’t been on a bike in over ten years!”
“Believe it.” My muscles feel nearly buoyant as they accept Parker’s praise, feeding off his enthusiasm and confidence. Mercedes and I have been riding a few times a week since the shop opened in October, but I’ve still shied away from doing much of anything, generally blaming my always inappropriate shoes for doing much else. Still, I’ve pushed so far outside of my comfort zone.
“You don’t have to do it, Lo. We’d all understand if you’re afraid.” Summer’s voice sounds sincere, yet I still feel as though I have something to prove to her, sealing my fate.
“Okay, let’s try it.” My brain is going into overdrive, working to make sense of this suicide attempt while trying to effectively order my feet to stop pushing me forward. My pride is louder than my sense though, and I keep going.
“Woo hoo!” Mercedes calls from the side. I know I’ve heard Parker echo the same call at least three times since I agreed to go, but hers is the first that really penetrates the haze of fear and excitement I’m surrounded by.
“I won’t flip over the edge, right?”
“No, it’s just like the small one; the momentum will glide you right over the lip. Just remember: you don’t want to use your hand brakes. You’ll be fine. You want to ride it out, just like a rollercoaster, baby.” Parker’s hand settles on my shoulder, feeling much like a lead weight, causing my shoulder to sag.
The loud pounding of my heart distracts me as I push to the edge of the ramp. The only thing I notice is the heat and weight of Parker’s hand sliding away. With my first and last trip down the ramp, I just went. I didn’t take the time to consider what I was doing. This time, I look down and across the space, more amazed by the distance of the smallest ramp now that I’ve crossed it and can see it from this angle. I take a deep breath, feeling the pressure of my heart in each of my fingers as I rest them gingerly on the brake so they’re ready for when I get over the lip. My toes push off and the bike slides forward. The wheels spin so quickly I nearly lose my footing on the pedals. The speed builds fast. Too fast. My breathing is loud, but not as loud as my heart, and all of my muscles contract with fear, making my fingers squeeze reflexively. There’s a startling stop from the front tire, and then an instant lurch as the bike falls forward and sideways all at once. My right arm is tangled in the bike, but my left extends to stop me from leaving a stamp of my face on the bottom of the ramp. It hits with an alarming explosion of impact, and then my helmet cracks against the cement. The bike falls on top of me with a crushing blow. I don’t know how to move. I don’t know if I can move.
Voices register, followed by the slap of shoes on the cement.
“Lo, are you okay?” I recognize Mercedes’ cry over the others and slowly move in an attempt to straighten myself.
“Don’t move,” Parker instructs in a yell. “Your shoe is caught in the spindles.” A hand holds my foot, and the warmth of it soaks through my ballet flat. The comfort seems vast in contrast to the cold, hard cement, and the pain that is starting to radiate through my body.
The bike moves next, and my entire body seems to sigh with relief. “What hurts?” Summer is beside me, brushing hair out of my face. “How’s your arm?”
I slowly roll to my side, and the helmet clonks against the cement, straining my neck as I lie on my back. Parker reaches forward and makes quick work of releasing the clasp and gently settles my head back down.
“Shit!” Summer’s word comes out in a breath as she drops to her knees beside Parker. “Can you move it?”
Her attention is on my leg. I don’t want to try. It’s throbbing and aching so badly I want to curl on my side and cry until the branding-iron-like heat dissipates. But the embarrassment and weakness that would reveal would haunt me worse than the face dive I just did.
“Video’s up. They’re showing Slim’s newest—” The others turn as King’s words abruptly end. I take the brief reprieve to squeeze my eyes shut and let out a deep breath that trembles, serving little comfort as an expression of the pain I’m feeling. “What happened?” His words come out with an intensity that matches his strides as he swallows the gap between us, briefly regarding Summer before returning to me.
“She started to panic, and her wheel caught the edge of—”
The skin between King’s eyebrows crinkles as they draw together, and his eyes flash with anger as they narrow on me. “You tried to go down a ramp? You haven’t been on a bike for thirteen years!”
“She was holding her own. Totally killing it in fact. You would have been impressed. She’s got balls.”
Parker’s comment diverts King’s glare. “You guys watched her try to kill herself?” His eyes round back to mine and then drop and search over me. “Fuck. That’s gonna hurt.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head ever so slightly. “Mercedes, go get your dad. Tell him we need the insurance information for the hospital. Summer—”
“I’ll watch Mercedes.”
King nods and then watches Mercedes jog toward the doors of the shop.
“Don’t move,” King orders, stopping me as I raise my right hand to sit up. I ease back against the cool surface and release a quiet breath.
It’s only a few minutes before Kash and Mercedes return, but it feels much longer. No one has spoken. They’re standing around me either staring fixatedly on my ankle, or like me, completely avoiding it after looking in my general direction and wincing. King looks irate, his hands woven on his bent knee as the two approach where he’s kneeling beside me.
“What in the hell happened?” Kash asks.
The desire to sit up consumes me once more. Feeling weak is one thing; looking weak is another level of awful. I avoid looking at him as I have King since he came in, though I’m still feeling his attention, more poignant than the others’.
“Can you move your hands?” My eyebrows drop as I look to King.
“Yes.” That was the first question I had too, and therefore the first thing I checked. He doesn’t respond, drawing my attention from my torn jeans to Kash. His glare is harsher than King’s, making me realize Mercedes likely inherited the cunning look from him.
“Her ankle might be messed up. Her foot got caught in the spokes.” Parker’s face appears over King’s shoulder.
King doesn’t ask permission. His hands move to my legs and then slowly run down each one, applying the slightest of pressures before he reaches my ankles and the slight gap between the bottom of my skinny jeans and ballet flats. His fingers prod with increased pressure around my ankles, and then he focuses on my right foot. My shoe is gently removed, and his hands envelop my heel. “It’s already bruising.”
