Intake

INTAKE

After stowing her coat in the break room, Emily found Woods outside the door to her office, holding a bottle of Yoo-hoo chocolate in her hands. At first glance, her supervisor’s face was stoic. A second pass proved otherwise.

Emily detected shards of unease in Woods’ expression, the pointy ends driving in, causing noticeable pain. And she wasn’t doing a good job of hiding it, either. Emily almost asked if she was okay, but snatched the words from the tip of her tongue and tucked them away as though she’d been caught red-handed with something humiliating.

What an awful revelation. Discovering someone you’re obliged to respect is human.

No matter how passive the mask someone wore, emotions lurked beneath the surface.

In some alternate reality, Emily suspected robots must be the ones delivering this line of work. Machines programmed to express dignity and empathy on cue, deflecting care’s heartbreak. Maybe the hospice workers of the future were coin-operated things, little profit contrivances—boy-oh-boy would the taxpayers of America love that. These corridors would ring with SERVICE REQUIRED alerts, a symphony of turning cogs, whilst beneath it all, beneath that surface, weeping went unheard. But this wasn’t the future. This wasn’t science fiction. They were only human after all—tender beings in slipping masks.

“Emily, I wanted to have a word with you before we go in.”

The door to Woods’ office was closed, but Emily could see a head capped with curly black hair through the window. “Mykel said it was a kid.”

“I’m afraid he’s right.”

“How old?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh, Jesus.” How could she not think of Lucette, who was only two years younger? There but for the grace of God, assuming He, or She, existed.

Emily had her doubts, as she figured any sane person would in this unforgiving world. Sure, she insisted her daughter recite prayers before bed, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was listening. Emily’s Catholicism had been drilled into her by her parents, two big-boned Southerners who took their religion ‘straight up’ right until the end when God repaid their devotion with a set of His and Her’s matching heart attacks. However, from an early age Emily harbored doubts. The Bible stories they told at Mass just didn’t make sense. How could two of every animal in the world fit on one boat, and where did they all go to the bathroom? How could someone be their own father, or their own son? Why would Jesus have to let himself be killed in order to forgive all people of their sins, couldn’t he just say “You’re forgiven” and be done with it? Why was Adam and Eve’s desire for knowledge something to be punished? And the standard answer she received when she posed these questions to her parents, “You just have to have faith”, seemed a convenient way of not having to give an answer. Once her parents were gone, she’d stopped going to church altogether, part of her belief sealed in those caskets. Despite this, Emily found herself passing on some of the traditions to her daughter and scouring the sky for answers among the satellites and shooting stars. Religion was a drug after all, one she hadn’t realized she was dependent on until she was almost free of it.

That didn’t mean she had to respect the dealer, though.

So Lucette carried the torch for the two of them. And if her ten-year-old reached an age when she either owned this belief or cast it aside, well, Emily would be the happy beneficiary of that judgment. She trusted her daughter that much.

Woods lowered her voice. “The boy’s understandably upset. He’s been crying since he got here.”

“Did his parents really drop him at the curb?”

“They brought him into the lobby and signed him in. They didn’t stick around.”

“I just don’t—how? I would never let my daughter go through something like this alone.”

“They’re scared. Even today, there’s a plethora of misinformation out there about infection.”

“Then you educate yourself. You don’t do this,” Emily said, perhaps a little too vehement. “He’s not trash.”

“That’s enough, Ms. Samuels.” Woods’ clipped tone cut through her escalating anger like a slap to the face.

“I’m sorry. I can’t get my head round folks abandoning their kids like that.”

“Our concern is for the child, not his parents. Look, I need you to pull yourself into line. I can’t have you in that room with me if you’re going to get emotional. What that boy needs right now is a calming, stabilizing influence. Understood?”

Emily took a deep breath, steadied herself. Nodded.

Woods scrutinized her. “I’m giving you a chance. You’re here to observe. Let me do all the talking. If I sense an outburst a-comin’ I’ll send you out of the room and out of a job. Do we understand each other?”

“Crystalline.”

“Good. The boy’s name is Robert Hopkins. The dignity we offer here begins with calling people by their preferred name. He’s a Robby. That’s your first lesson.”

“Got it.”

Woods opened the door and stepped into her office, Emily following along behind. “Here you go, Robby,” Woods said, holding the drink out to the boy.

He—

(Lucette)

—turned to face them. Coldness reached into Emily’s chest and clenched tight. No, it wasn’t her daughter. It had been little more than a momentary lapse, a slip of the mask.

She cleared her throat, and stoked heat to melt the ice inside.

There was innocence and beauty in the boy’s eyes. Stray tears clung to his cheeks, but the ferocity of the storm had abated. He sniffled twice, wiped his nose with a sleeve, and took the drink, mumbling gratitude.

He was skeletal; skin five shades whiter than it should be. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks, which, Emily guessed, was likely the case. With infection came fevers and nightmares people referred to as ‘the screamers’—terrible glimpses into the Hell that had claimed them. Or so they said. These dreams lingered with the infected throughout the incubation period, though there came a point when the screaming stopped. For family members, this silence was considered one of the most difficult parts of the changing. Their loved ones no longer considered the nightmares unwelcome.

Acquiescence to their fate.

Woods sat behind her desk and indicated that Emily should have a seat in the plastic chair; it was positioned against the far wall, which was covered in children’s drawings.

Ha, so I guess there’s a maternal bone in your body after all,Woods, she thought. Somewhere.

“Robby, this is Emily. She’ll be sitting in with us. Is that okay?”

He glanced at her, shrugged and nodded at the same time.

“Thank you, Robby. I like your sweater,” Emily said, searching for common ground.

“Thanks,” he replied, toying with the Tyrannosaur’s skull woven into the wool. “I want to be a paleontologist when I grow up.”

It was time to change the subject, and quick.

Woods opened a folder and plucked a pen out of a Mason jar crammed with writing utensils. She clicked the ballpoint and sat poised with pen over the paper. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions now, Robby. If you don’t understand anything, you let me know, and I’ll try to make it clearer. Don’t be afraid to admit if you don’t know all the answers. If you need to take a break at any time—”

“I’m good,” the boy said, opening the Yoo-hoo and downing half of it in one swallow. The infected craved sugar. Fats. And with time, marrow. “I’m sorry I cried.”

Despite being told to let Woods do all the talking, Emily leaned forward and said, “There’s no shame in that, Robby. We all have to let it out, don’t we Ms. Woods?”

“That’s right.”

Robby leveled a piercing stare at Emily. “I’ll be okay. I’m not a baby.”

Emily was taken aback by the tone of the boy’s voice—so firm and sure and adult. Then again, she had to remind himself that twelve was almost a teenager, and a teenager was almost a man. She found the notion disturbing in a way she didn’t understand at first, until she realized she was thinking of Lucette again, about how she wasn’t really a kid anymore, and before long she would be going out into the world on her own where Emily wouldn’t be able to protect her.

“Robby,” Woods said, “can you tell me how you acquired the infection?”

“Got bit.”

The scratching of the pen on the form. “One bite or multiple?”

“One was all it took.”

“And where is it located?”

“On my ankle.”

Emily glanced down at the boy’s feet and saw the print on his socks below the cuffs of his jeans. Batman insignias. She suppressed a sigh. Robby could have idolized Superman, Thor, or any one of a million heroes with strength to spare and imperviousness to bullets and bites. Only he’d settled on a mere mortal in crusader’s pajamas instead.

And mortals, as they all knew, could die. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

More scratching from the pen. “How did it happen?” Woods asked.

“I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be,” he replied.

Emily understood that comment for what it was, not a conclusion Robby had drawn for himself, but something he’d been told. As a parent, Emily recognized its desperate condescension a little too well.

“My folks let me go to a Halloween festival with some friends, but all the rides were for kids and the haunted house was a joke. Just guys in sheets and dummies rigged to jump out at you. Beyond lame. I tried to talk a couple of my friends into climbing the security fence to explore the woods behind the fairgrounds. They didn’t want to, they were scared. To be honest, so was I, only I wanted to prove something, you know? That I was brave, or something. They call me sissy at school.”

Something Robby said raised a red flag for Emily and, glancing at Woods, she could see that the other woman realized it too. Neither of them spoke, waiting for Robby to finish his story.

“I went deeper into the woods. It was like I was on a dare, like I was daring myself. It was dark, but I had a flashlight app on my phone and I was using it to see where I was going. I was just starting to think I should turn back when I heard a noise up ahead, a kind of moaning. I followed it to a ravine. The light from my phone didn’t reach that far, but I could just make out a figure down there, and it looked like it was pinned by a tree that’d fallen over. I shouldn’t have gone further. I know that. I thought it was someone hurt. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course we do,” Emily said.

“I figured I’d go help and maybe end up a hero, get my picture on all the news websites and everything. I called out, only whoever was down there didn’t answer. Well, I wasn’t a complete idiot; I decided I’d climb down about halfway so I could get a better look. Only I slipped and fell. Landed right next to him. He wasn’t pinned down after all. I know it sounds stupid, but I remember picking up my phone, which was on the ground next to me, and looking at the screen. It was cracked. I thought to myself, ‘Shit—Mom’s gonna have my guts for garters over that.’ Ha!

“I turned the light on him. He hadn’t fully turned yet, but I reckon he was close. He hardly had any hair left. His skin was white. Had the smile—that’s the worst. He was homeless, I guess. He was snappin’ his teeth and clawin’ at me. I screamed like a girl and tried to crawl back up the ravine, only I kept sliding back down. You know those dreams when you’re trying to get away from something bad, and everything’s in slow-motion and the ground goes all quicksandy on you? It was just like that.

“I thought I was okay. Only I wasn’t.” Robby cast his eyes downward. “The whole way home it didn’t really click what happened. I was too worried about my cracked phone. So stupid.” He looked up at them again. “You believe me, right?”

Emily and Woods exchanged a glance and with a lift of her chin, Woods gave Emily permission to ask the question that was on both their minds.

“Yes, Robby. But I just want to check one thing. You said this happened the night of the Halloween festival?”

The boy nodded.

The pen froze, no scratching, and Woods said, “So you’re saying you were bitten almost two months ago?”

Another silent nod.

Woods seemed at a loss for words, which Emily figured happened about as often as an honest politician got elected to public office—and yet they still did, each bringing with them additional infection-specific prohibition. To her credit, she recovered her composure. “I checked the Ministry’s infected registry website and didn’t see your name on it.”

“No, I don’t guess you did. You’ll put it up there now, right?”

“Yes, but that should’ve already happened. Everyone exposed to the infection is required to report their status within 48 hours so their names can be added. Since you’re a minor, it would have been your parents’ responsibility. Were they aware of this?”

Robby stared back at his interviewers. His eyes welled again.

“You hid it from them,” Emily said. A statement, not a question.

The silent nod that was becoming a trademark.

“When did they find out?” Woods asked.

“A week ago. I know it was wrong, that I should’ve told them right away, but I was scared. They thought I was sick or something, even wanted to take me to a doctor. Dad’s got the diabetes and they thought it might be that. They had me in a corner! I—I spilled my guts. They just glared at me, like they’d been told I was dead. I was wearing my dad’s old cap at the time. I dunno. I always loved it. It’s his from when he was a kid and lived in Maine. It’s got the words I’VE GOT MOXIE written across the front, you know, like the drink. When I told them about being attacked, Dad didn’t saying nothin’, he just crossed the room and ripped the hat right off my head. I wish he’d yelled at me instead, or hit me. You don’t know my folks, they hate bone eaters.”

Woods opened her mouth as if she were going to correct the boy’s use of the derogatory term, but thought better of it and kept her silence.

“You a bone eater, you’re as good as dead to them. They had a friend, I seen her in their old wedding photos, she got bit. They cut her out of their lives. Just like that. You’ve probably seen them outside this building holding signs and yelling nasty things at everybody that walked by. I even heard my father say once that he wished the Ministry would go back to getting rid of zombies like they did in the old days.”

Emily stiffened, cleared her throat. “But you’re their child.”

Robby looked at her, and while his eyes were still innocent and beautiful, they were also tainted with motes of cynicism. Betrayal. “I had a broken toy once. It didn’t work. We took it back to the shop and Dad threw it on the counter. ‘It’s defective,’ is what he said to the girl standing there. And that’s how I feel, too. They couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.

“I snuck out of bed last night and listened at their bedroom door. Mom was crying the whole time, I think she at least feels bad about it, but Dad said that as far as he’s concerned he no longer has a son. He hasn’t looked at me or talked directly to me since I told them.”

“I’m sorry,” Woods said, and Emily wasn’t surprised when the woman said no more. She wasn’t one to sugarcoat, a trait that some found abrasive, but which Emily was growing to admire.

Robby shrugged. “Like I said. Defective.”

Emily felt hairline cracks forming in her composure. The boy in the dinosaur sweater was displaying bravery and strength no kid his age should rightly have to. He had Moxie, all right. Moxie by the bucket load. But that didn’t change the fact that Robby Hopkins was of an age when his concerns should’ve been revolving around getting to the next level of some silly video game, or figuring out how to patch a busted bike tire, or maybe even facing the challenges of Japanese origami head on. And behind him all the way, there should be watchful parents who loved without condition, even in the worst circumstances.

Especially in the worst circumstances.

“Now I need you to really concentrate and be truthful,” Woods continued. “Can you think of anyone that you may have exposed? Maybe you got cut and your mother cleaned it up, anything like that?”

Shaking his head emphatically, Robby said, “No, I was careful.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive. I don’t want anyone else going through this.”

Woods began scribbling notes on the new form. Emily wanted to say something to the boy, offer some words of solace, a panacea for his pain, but none seemed adequate to the task.

“Of course, we’ll have to alert the authorities about the resurrected individual that bit you,” Woods said. “That’s a potential danger to others that has to be dealt with.”

“I tried to deal with it myself,” Robby said quietly. “I went back a week later with a baseball bat. Only the man was gone.”

Woods kept her gaze steady. “I see.” She opened a file drawer in her desk and rummaged around for a moment, coming up with another form. “In light of this new knowledge regarding how long you’ve been infected, I have a few additional questions to ask you. Do you know how the infection is spread? During the incubation period it’s through bites, body fluids, transfusions, sharing needles. After turning, bites alone.”

“Yes. They teach us that in school.” The boy sat upright and thumped his fists against his knees. “I’m not an idiot. And I thought you said you believed me!”

Woods spared a glance at Emily, who could feel another crack forming. She fought against it. “That’s not what this is about, Robby. It’s important we get all our facts straight. I know this is hard, but once it’s done, it’s done. We’re going to take wonderful care of you here.”

“Robby,” Woods began, “it’s important we see the bite wound. Can you show it to us?”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“In order to secure the government funding required to help you, we need to provide documentation to the board, a photograph of the contact-to-contact area.”

“I said no.”

Woods leaned back. “I’m so sorry, Robby. You don’t have a choice on the matter.”

The twelve-year-old glared back at his two interviewers. In requesting to see the wound, Emily could plainly see that they were at risk of re-opening it.

Emily and Woods jolted in their chairs, the legs screeching against the linoleum, as Robby leapt to his feet. The two women stood, calling to the boy to stop. He threw the door open, conjuring a draft that sent the children’s drawings on the walls into a flap like a pin board of not-quite-dead butterflies.

“Fuck you both!” he yelled, scuttling from sight.

Emily stepped into the hallway and saw Robby at the glass entrance/exit security door, which required either a swipe pass or a five-digit override code to open. His thin silhouette stood against the glare of the transparent barricade, as he tried to pry the sliding glass apart with his hands. When he realized this was getting him nowhere fast, he resorted to beating. The sound thundered through the corridor, drawing attention. Heads jack-in-a-boxed from their rooms to see what all the commotion was.

“Don’t do that, Robby,” Emily said, heart racing. Close. “It’s no help.”

Woods flanked her side, a cell phone in hand. “Layton,” she whispered into the receiver. “Meet me in corridor 1. Code T-4 underway. Be delicate.” She hung up.

Defeated and weak, Robby backed against the wall, slid to the floor. He buried his head in his hands.

“Can we have some privacy here, thank you?” Woods called to those lingering up the hallway. Those rubberneckers, staff and guests alike, withdrew into their rooms.

Emily crouched in front of their new intake, the chameleon who was by turns adult and then infantile. It was an alarming balancing act to witness, like watching someone dancing for their life on the head of a pin.

“Ms. Samuels,” Woods said, “let the boy be. Security’s on the way.”

Emily raised a hand to her supervisor. “It’s okay. Isn’t it, Robby?”

She faced the boy once more, shimmied over to join him. “I’m just going to plant myself right here. That fine by you?”

Robby nodded.

Now that she was close enough, Emily noted the musky smell of mold and dried sweat on the boy’s dinosaur sweater. Heat radiated from his skin in waves.

“I’m here with you,” she said. Soft. Words just for him, a gift he appeared to be responding to.

“This whole thing sucks so bad,” he said between sobs. “I’m not crying. I’m not.”

“I know. You’re a brave young man.”

Robby snorted, wiped his eyes. “But I am scared.”

“Are you kidding? Me too. I’m terrified all the time. For my daughter, for me. Terrified of this place.” In a very hushed tone. “Terrified of her,” Emily said, tilting her head in Woods’ direction.

Robby caved, even managed half a giggle. “Really?”

“Oh, laws yeah.” Emily gave him a small shove with her shoulder. He pushed back. “You’re not alone here, Robby. Nobody’s perfect. We’re all, well, we’re all sick in different ways. We’re all defective.”

“I—I guess so.”

“Well, I know so.”

They watched Layton, the facilities’ mid-week security guard, come clip-clopping down the corridor. His girth was considerable, which only made the baton clipped to his belt appear novelty sized. He wheezed for breath at Woods’ side, awaiting instruction. Just as Emily had done to her, she raised her hand to him. “Wait a moment.”

Robby locked eyes with Emily for the first time since bursting out of the office. “I’m sorry I swore.”

“It’s okay. I’ve dropped more than my share of F-bombs. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, I did. I lied in there.”

“I know. I’ve got a daughter ‘bout your age. I can tell white fibs a mile off.”

“It’s not white, though. It’s black. Black through and through.”

“You can tell me, Robby. I know some things are hard to say out loud, trust me. Speakin’ a truth, though, it’s healing sometimes.”

Robby faced the door again, touched the glass paneling with a shaking hand. When he dropped his arm there was a perfectly formed sweat print left behind. It faded, swallowed up and devoured by the merciless hospice chill.

Emily and Robby watched Woods and Layton exchanging gestures. After a beat of misinterpreted body language, the routine wrapped up and they both about-turned and headed toward her office. The door creaked shut and clicked into place.

“It’s just you and me now, Robby,” Emily said. “You and me versus the world.”

“Thank you.”

In her desperation to offer additional comfort—to really let him know how much she cared, and she did—Emily made a decision. She took her right hand and placed it on his left knee, a simple, measured act of consolation. The moment her fingers lit on his jeans the boy jerked away. It was as though Emily’s touch were nothing less than electric.

And with that, she knew.

Be they white or black, the veils of his lie were now drawn back for her to see. That he didn’t get up and run again was, in some ways, a privilege—testament to this fragile chameleon’s trust in her. Or maybe it was simply that the truth was too exhausting. Either way, he was here and so was she, but wedged between them was honesty, ugly and pure. They were never going to find a bite mark because the child hadn’t been bitten. He’d been raped.

Again, that default line danced through her head: There but for the grace of God.

“Oh, Robby.”

“Tell me something,” he said. Firm. He understood that she understood. “Be straight with me.”

“Anything,” Emily replied. “Anything at all.”

Robby glared at her. Those motes of cynicism and betrayal in his eyes that she’d noted earlier coalesced into tears and dripped down his cheeks, flawless diamonds of hurt. “The infection, I’ve heard it usually takes a year before it kills you and turns you. Is that right?”

Emily took a moment before answering. “It’s 8 to 15 months for the infection to run its course, typically. The longest anyone has ever survived with the infection is 3 and a half years, but there are people on record who’ve died from it in as quickly as 3 months.”

“And it always kills you, right?”

“Yeah, honey. There’s no cure.”

The boy inhaled, let out a shaky breath. “I hear it’s painful.”

“Here at the hospice, we’ll keep you as comfortable as possible, that I promise you.”

“And when the time comes, when I die and come back—”

(a mosaic of red splatters on a bright blue mailbox)

“—someone will put me down?”

(a scream cut short)

Emily blinked. She was hollow. “It’s not like that. Our guests can choose to have a loved one present if they desire.”

“Guest? I’m not a guest here. Will you promise never to call me that?”

Yes. Yes, she believed she could do that for the boy who was always a Robby and never a Robert, and gladly told him so. Beneath all the diplomacy and corporate lingo, he was right.

Guests could leave anytime they wished.

A shadow fell over them. They looked up. Emily beamed. “Robby,” she began, “this is Mama Metcalf. She’s my friend and she’ll be your friend too if you like.”

“Hello, Robby,” came that familiar dulcet voice.

“Mama Metcalf is a volunteer here. She’ll show you to your room. Would that be okay?”

“I guess so.”

“Come on, young’un,” Mama Metcalf said, holding out her hand. “Between you and me, yours is the nicest room in the place.”

A brief smile flicked the corners of Robby’s lips, and he took Mama Metcalf’s hand and allowed her to help him up. They walked the corridor together, rounded the corner, Robby sparing a quick look back in Emily’s direction before vanishing.

Emily felt further cracks on cracks. The walls encroached in on her.

“Christ almighty—”

The door to Woods’ office opened and the stern-faced supervisor stepped out, with their security guard following soon after. Layton waddled away, his unused baton still sheathed by his side—as useless as Lancelot without a stone to strike.

Woods waited until they were alone before turning to Emily and saying, “You did well.”

“I feel absolutely empty.”

“I know. It’s never easy. Kids are the worst.”

“Robby was raped.”

Woods closed her eyes. “I suspected that might be the case. It’s—it’s not the first time I’ve come across this. But we still have a job to do.”

“What’s going to happen when we report that Robby was infected two months ago and kept it a secret?”

“We’re not reporting it,” Woods said firmly. “As far as we’re concerned, he only just acquired the infection.”

“But we’re required by law—”

“I know what the laws are, Ms. Samuels, but I also know that the current administration’s tolerance for infected individuals is as thin as chiffon lace. If we report this, it will open a whole can of worms that’ll cause a lot of problems. The Ministry will want to show they aren’t soft on infected issues, and they’ll see this as an opportunity to make an example of this situation. They won’t care how he contracted the infection.”

Emily folded her arms across her chest. “Well, maybe his parents should be made an example of.”

“Only his parents wouldn’t be the example. They aren’t the ones that hid the infection.”

“You don’t mean—he’s just a kid, a kid who has been through some serious trauma.”

“If you’re so sure that would matter to them, then by all means, make the call.”

Emily said nothing, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Woods was right. Those people standing outside protesting—a group that Robby’s own parents sometimes belonged to—wouldn’t even view him as a person anymore.

“Okay,” Woods said, “Take twenty minutes to decompress. By then, Robby should be settled. I want you to record his vitals, talk with him a bit. Get written consent to make a referral to a social worker and a doctor. Considering how he contracted the infection he’ll need both.”

Emily shuddered.

Robby must have been terrified down there in that dark ravine, the jingle-jangle of the Halloween fair obscuring his pleas for help. And yes, as brave as he could be, there must have been screams. Emily could only hope it hadn’t lasted long. That the boy hadn’t also been bitten was a marvel in and of itself. She could almost see the smiler when she blinked, the soiled clothes torn and ill fitting, its white rictus getting closer in staccato leaps.

Dead leaves crunching. A scramble. All that desperation, the hunger. And then afterwards, Robby’s long and lonely walk home, the Moxie cap no doubt askew, as his friends continued to play, satisfied with artificial scares and candy-sick stomachs.

“And don’t forget to put all of this in your notes,” Woods said, snapping Emily from one ugly reality back to another.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Woods gave her a polite ‘now-on-your-way’ nod and made for the door to her office. Her fingers hovered over the handle. “You have a way with kids, Ms. Samuels,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a fine mother.”

“Thank you.” Emily made to leave, paused. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.” Woods turned around.

“All those forms are on the computer, why were you filling them out by hand?”

“Just a psychological thing. People view the computer as something cold and impersonal. But pen and paper, that’s something more intimate. Even if people aren’t aware of it on a conscious level, it puts them more at ease, makes them feel they’re being listened to.”

Emily tilted her head in response, thinking there was a lot she could learn from this woman, and in turn, hoped that lesson went both ways.