CHAPTER 25
ABI
Fast
The phone rouses me. The room is dark, as is the sky past the curtains, but I’m in my bed in the cabin that has become home to me. I recognize it instantly. It’s familiar. Comforting. A refuge.
Drowsily, I remember Sam driving me back here last night. He brought me in my car, which was still parked at his house from the day I ran home. What I recall most clearly is him looking over at me from the driver’s seat, love shining more brightly from his face than the lights from the dashboard. Even now it warms me.
The phone buzzes again, forcing me out of the fog of half sleep. This time it brings me fully awake.
Alarm vibrates at my nerve ends. The only calls received in the middle of the night are bad calls, and when I see Sam’s number staring back at me from the softly lit square of the screen, my stomach quivers with dread.
My chest is tight when I answer. “Sam?”
“I’m sorry to call so early, but can you come over?”
I sit up. “Of course. Is everything okay?”
Everything is not okay. I know this without the confirmation of his words. I feel it like that unsettling tension that permeates the air before a storm. It’s electric. Enough to raise the fine hairs on your arms. But not in a good way.
“It’s Sara.”
My heart drops. “Is she—”
I can’t push the word over my trembling tongue.
“No, but she’s…she’s unresponsive. I’ve called for an ambulance and talked to the physician on staff tonight at the ER.”
“What happened?
“I think she’s had a stroke. A massive one.”
His voice…it’s quiet and solemn and so empty that I feel my chin begin to quake. The man I love, the man I’ve loved since I was in high school, is losing his wife, his companion, the mother of his child. Someone he has loved for many years. He’s hurting and he’s only going to hurt worse when her time comes to an end.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to take it away.
I feel helpless and desperate and bitter, but none of that will help Sam. He needs me to be strong. And so I will be strong.
“What can I do, Sam?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and even when he does it’s not an answer at all. “I thought I was ready for this, but…” Sam’s voice breaks on the last causing a fist of icy fingers to constrict around my heart. “I’m not ready. There were still…there were still things I wanted to say, things I wanted to do for her. I thought we had a little more time. I thought…”
His voice trails off. The silence that follows is filled with his grief, filled with his regret. It’s like a tangible presence looming over my bed.
I close my burning eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”
It feels so weak, so cliché, but I can’t think of a single other thing to say to him. My soul bleeds with his. I know this pain. And I know this suffering. But I also know there’s nothing anyone can say or do—ever—to change or ease it. The death of a loved one is one of life’s great sufferings that must be endured. Survived.
“I should’ve done more.” His tone is bleak and full of remorse. “I should’ve spent more days at home. I should’ve taken more pictures. I should’ve told her I loved her in the middle of the night. I wanted that to be the last thing she heard. I loved her.” The last is said on a tortured whisper and tears prickle in my eyes.
“She knew, Sam. She knew. She told me so.”
“I hope so. Oh, God, I hope so.” I know he’s trying to hold it together, trying to hold in the sobs and the despair. I want to tell him to let it out, but that isn’t Sam. This is. This is how he deals. This is how he grieves. This is what shows, even when his insides are being torn to shreds.
I get out of bed and reach for a pair of jeans, dragging them up my legs as I wait. When the silence on the other end of the line stretches on, I feel compelled to ask about his child, the other person whose world is being irrevocably altered in the wee hours of the morning. “Noelle?”
I hear a soft sniff before, “She’s sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her.”
I get that, and I think it’s the best choice. She shouldn’t have to see what comes next—an ambulance showing up to wheel her unconscious mother from the house on a stretcher before the sun has even had a chance to rise.
“Okay. Sam, I’m coming. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, Abs.”
“Always.”
I hang up and hurry to the bathroom where I swish some mouthwash as I run a brush through my hair. My mind flounders in disbelief.
I’ve heard dozens of stories about sick people having a sort of precognition about when they’re going to die. Maybe it’s nature’s early warning system, or maybe God’s way of giving everyone a chance to make peace with life and with death. My father died unexpectedly. My daughter died unexpectedly. Momma is…well, in a way she died unexpectedly, too, so I’ve never really experienced this kind of thing firsthand.
Sara is my first.
I remember in nursing school, during our hospice rotation, we were told of a “golden day,” a day when the patient might do exceptionally well, seem to rebound in fact, as though they’re making a rapid recovery. Only that’s not what a golden day is. A golden day is like a last breath. It’s like the body’s way of giving one last courageous push before it gives up. Patients tend to take a turn for the worse after the golden day. Some even die.
Yesterday was Sara’s golden day.
I feel it in my bones.
It was her last hurrah, her time to make peace and share laughs and say goodbyes. I wonder if that’s what she did last night. When they went upstairs together, I wonder if she said all the things she wanted and needed to say to her husband and child. I hope so. Not just for Sara’s sake, but for Sam’s and Noelle’s, too.
I know Sara knew she wouldn’t be around long. She said as much on more than one occasion. Maybe she really was just waiting for Sam to find someone. And if that’s the case, I suppose I’m responsible, in an indirect way, for sending her to her grave.
Another life I’ve taken.
Bile gurgles at the back of my throat, threatening to spew up and out, but I swallow and swallow and swallow until the urge to vomit passes. By sheer force of will, I push those thoughts from my mind so I can better focus on the task at hand. Noelle needs me. Well, she will when she wakes up. Sam will need me, too. He’ll need to know someone is taking care of things while he’s at the hospital. He’ll need to know that his daughter and his home are being cared for so that he can concentrate on spending time with his wife, and even helping her recover if that’s possible at this point. I can provide that help for him. It’s all I can do, but I’m going to do it to the best of my ability. I can fall to pieces later. After.
Because there’s always an after.
I might even argue that it’s the hardest part.
When I pull in, the ambulance is in the driveway and the front door is ajar. I park in the grass so as not to obstruct the exit of the paramedics.
My pulse pounds as I walk inside and up the stairs. It’s surprisingly quiet, all things considered. Eerily quiet. Deathly quiet.
My palms begin to sweat when my foot hits the second floor landing and I turn left. Noelle’s door is closed and I can barely hear low voices coming from inside the master bedroom. I pause, uncertain of what I should do now. I’m hesitant to interrupt what’s going on in Sam and Sara’s room, but I don’t want to risk waking Noelle either. More than either of those considerations, however, comes the desire to at least see Sam—his face, his eyes, the set of his mouth. To see how he’s doing. And to let him see me, to let him see that he isn’t alone. Hopefully he can draw some amount of comfort from knowing that I’m here and that I’ll take care of things so he doesn’t have to worry.
I pad silently down the hall to the open door. I stop just outside it. The paramedics are securing a limp and unconscious Sara to the gurney, lines and leads trailing away from her still form. Sam is standing a few feet from them, looking on. His skin is pale, his lips drawn. His eyes are trained on his wife.
I wait. I wait for Sam to notice me. As if sensing my presence in the room, his head lifts and his gaze meets mine. When it does, I feel the blood drain away from my face. My eyelids burn and my fingers tremble. I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Sam’s eyes tell the story. The loss in them is staggering and they hold a hollowness that I know won’t disappear for a long, long time.
Sara may not be gone yet, but the mourning has already begun.
Hot tears spill down my face when Sam returns his stare to his wife. From the corner of my eye, I see the paramedics bend to collapse the gurney. It snaps into place, the quick clacking sound enough to make me jump. I move further into the room and to one side as they approach the door. The two men nod at me as they pass and then they are gone. And Sara with them.
I don’t turn as Sam makes his way to me. I don’t think I can bear to see his agony up close and personal.
I feel him stop behind me and I whirl to take him in my arms, wishing with all my might I could take this pain from him. Take it for him. I’m no stranger to it. This kind of anguish is what I deserve. But not Sam. He doesn’t deserve this.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” His shoulder muffles my whisper where my mouth is pressed to it. He says nothing, just buries his face in the curve of my neck.
Finally, he mumbles, “Thank you.” When he pulls away, he cups my cheeks in his broad palms and stares down at me as though willing me to believe his words. “I mean it. Thank you. For everything.” Gratitude is there in the now dark, dark gray of his irises.
With his thumbs, he swipes tears from the corners of my eyes. I reach up to wind my fingers around his wrists, hoping to convey with my touch what I can’t find the words to say. As if he hears me loud and clear, Sam closes his eyes and leans his forehead against mine, exhaling in one long, labored breath.
“Tell Noelle I took Sara to the doctor and that I’ll be home a little later.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I feel Sam’s lips brush my eyebrow and then he’s walking away, down the steps, out of sight. Less than a minute and I hear the muted rattle of the garage door followed by the throaty rumble of his truck as he pulls out and barrels down the road.
I turn and stare into the empty bedroom. That’s when the tears come. All I see is where Sara should be, but isn’t. A gaping hole, and I’ve only known her a couple of months. It’s this, this emptiness, that will kill Sam.
I slide to the floor and I cry. I shed tears for Sam and Sara and Noelle. For my child and my father and my mother. For what was and what should’ve been. For what will never be and what can never be again.
I’m still sitting in the same place when Noelle’s voice sounds from behind me nearly two hours later. She gives me a sleepy smile at first, but then her eyes flick to the unoccupied bed beyond me. Her expression turns wary. “Where’s Daddy?”
Noelle’s question speaks volumes. Sam has taken care of her for so long, and Sara has been sick for so long, that Noelle’s biggest attachment seems to be to Sam rather than Sara. That’s as relieving as it is heartbreaking. Sara was cheated out of the close relationship with her daughter that she should’ve had. But, for Noelle’s sake, I can’t be too sad about it. She will feel the loss of her mother, no question, but it won’t be as poignant as the loss of her father would be. For that, I’m grateful.
I stand up, my smile neutral. “He took your mom to the doctor. He said to tell you he’d be back later.”
Her brow pleats into a deeper frown. “Is she coming back?”
My insides freeze with panic. I’m not prepared to answer these kinds of questions. I don’t know what Sam wants her to know or how he’d want to tell her.
The problem is: Sam isn’t here. I am.
She stands in the doorway, watching me. She shows no signs of moving until she gets an answer. The fact that she would even ask that question speaks to the intuitive nature of this little girl.
I rack my brain for the best response. I end up going with the vague truth. “I’m not sure. She might have to stay for a while.”
And, honestly, I’m not sure. I have no idea if and when Sara will be home.
“But Daddy’s coming back?”
The worry in her eyes is clear, and it’s heartrending. I want to take her in my arms and shield her from every hurt in the world, from all the anguish that’s coming her way sooner than she knows. But I can’t. No one can. No one can save us from life. Only living it, only moving on through it, even if you have to do it limping, can ease the pain.
I crawl the short distance to her and stop, sitting back on my haunches so I stay at eye level. “He is. I promise. How about we go get some breakfast? I’ll even let you pick what you want to eat. Then we can watch Dory.” Anyone who has any experience with kids knows this is a mistake, but it’s just this once. Just for today. I’d give her the moon if she asked for it today.
With the resiliency found only in children, Noelle brightens. Her eyes widen and her lips curve up into a joyous smile. “I can have anything?”
I comically narrow my eyes on her. “Within reason.”
With a squeal of glee, she throws her arms around my neck and basically climbs into my arms. “Let’s go, let’s go,” she urges as though I’m a pony she’s trying to prod along.
I stand, shifting her weight to one hip. The hallway—and the stairs at the end of it—stretches out in front of me like an insurmountable obstacle. Sweat breaks out across my upper lip and fear gnaws at my gut. I have to think quickly.
I bend to set Noelle on her feet. “I have a bad leg. How about I go down the steps first and you keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t fall and break your house.” I say the last with a wink and a grin, to which she responds with a giggle.
“If you do, we’ll tell Daddy there was loud thunder and it breaked the house.”
I nod conspiratorially, fully enjoying her imagination. “Sounds good. Now, let’s get you fed.”
I take her by the hand and we descend the staircase, Noelle one step behind me where I know she’s safe. In the kitchen, she tries to weasel as much leeway out of her breakfast privilege as she can. She points to everything from chocolate chip cookies to miniature Kit Kats, from Skittles to cheese puffs. I wrinkle my nose over the cheese puffs.
“For breakfast? You’d be orange all day. I can’t let you be orange all day. Your daddy would kill me.”
She titters adorably and finally points to the cereal. “That?”
“Good choice. I think that’s a little more reasonable, don’t you?”
She nods enthusiastically, blond curls dancing around her head as she does. As I go for the milk, she rounds the island and scurries up onto the first bar stool, coming to her knees and leaning way over onto the granite to watch me.
“Know what my momma used to tell me when I was your age?” Without even thinking, I reach into the cabinet for a bowl and fill it with cereal.
“What?”
“‘Butt in the chair, missy. Butt in the chair.’”
Noelle frowns. “Why did she call you Missy?”
“It’s like how you call me ‘Miss Abi’, only she called me missy. Like ‘little missy’.”
“Can I call you missy?”
“I like Abi better. Don’t you?”
Again, she nods, her smile never fading. “I like Abi, too.”
“Did you know it means ‘joy’?”
“What does joy mean?”
“It means happy.”
“Your name means happy?”
“It does. I bet your name means something, too. I’ll look it up while you eat your breakfast. Deal?”
More nodding as she leans back to make way for her bowl. I hold it aloft for a few seconds, repeating, “Butt in the chair, missy.”
She sits correctly in her seat and digs into her cereal the minute I set it down. I take out my phone and open the browser so I can type in Noelle.
I gasp and Noelle looks at me with wide eyes. “Guess what your name means?”
“What? Tell me, tell me.”
“It means ‘Christmas’.”
She gasps, too, half chewed cereal visible in her mouth. “My name means Christmas?”
“Yes.”
Her expression puckers into one of confusion. “Why would Daddy name me Christmas?”
“I bet your mommy and daddy were so happy when they saw you that they felt like it was Christmas. You know how excited you get at Christmas?”
At that her enthusiasm returns. “I love Christmas!”
“I bet your parents love you even more than Christmas.”
Noelle is quiet for a few seconds as she chews, then she gives me a disbelieving smirk. “Nobody can love me more than Christmas.”
“Your mom and dad can. Mommas and daddies love their babies more than ten Christmases.”
“Do you love your babies more than Christmas?”
Reflexively, my throat constricts. “I did, but my baby is…she’s gone.”
Noelle, mature far beyond her years, slides green orbs full of sympathy up to me. “She’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she go?”
“To heaven.” The words are low and hoarse and thick as tar.
“Heaven is where good boys and girls go.”
“Yes, it is. And she was a good girl. If I’m a good girl, I’ll get to see her again one day.”
“But you won’t see her for a while?”
“No. Not for a while.”
“Will you be sad?”
“Yes, I’ll be sad. I miss her.”
Noelle taps the back of her spoon on the surface of the milk in her bowl, staring down into it as though it contains something much more interesting than food. “My mommy will go to heaven, won’t she?”
My heart! “Yes. She absolutely will.”
“And I’ll get to see her again, too, won’t I?”
She doesn’t look up as she asks these questions, just stares down into her reflection in the bowl.
“Yes.”
“But not for a while.”
“No.”
She doesn’t say anything else for a full minute, and I hold my tongue, giving her time to work through her thoughts. Finally, she glances over at me again. “She can’t watch movies with me from heaven, can she?”
“No, but you can tell her all about them when you see her again.”
“Can she see me from heaven?”
I tell her what probably every parent, guardian, friend, or counselor tells a child in this situation. “Yes, she can see you. She will always be watching out for you.”
“But I won’t be able to see her?”
“Not with these eyes,” I tell her, reaching over to brush my finger over the corner of one eye. “But you’ll be able to see her with these.” I press my palm to her chest, much like my mother did to mine the last time I saw her, and much like she did when my father died. I hear myself repeating the words she said to me all those years ago. “Part of her lives in here and if you close your eyes, you will always be able to see her. You can see her smile and hear her laugh, and she will tell you how much she loves you. She will never leave you in here.”
Noelle puts her hand over mine and we sit like that for several seconds, until the bleep of my phone interrupts us.
Sam: Can you bring Noelle to the hospital?
Me: Of course. Let me get her ready.
Sam: You can get the car seat out of Sara’s car. It’s in the garage.
Me: Okay.
Sam: Text when you get here.
Me: Okay.
Sam: Thank you.
Me: You’re welcome.
I want to ask questions. I have so many. But I don’t. Sam would’ve told me if there was something he wanted me to know. Maybe he just plans to explain at the hospital.
“How about we go see your mom and dad after you eat?”
“But what about Dory?”
“We can watch her when we get back. Maybe we can even bring back some ice cream.”
I’ve always believed that to be the universal bribe. What kid doesn’t like ice cream?
“Ice creammmm,” she yells, pumping her bent free arm excitedly like she’s doing the Funky Chicken.
“Finish your breakfast and then we’ll go pick out something pretty to wear.”
“Something blue, like my dolly’s dress?”
“We’ll see what we can find.”
Satisfied with that, she turns her attention back to her cereal, eating most of what I poured for her. The moment she’s done, she shimmies down off the stool and takes off toward the stairs, sparing a quick command back in my direction. “Come on.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve got Noelle’s hand and we are making our way to the elevators in the hospital. I texted from the parking lot and Sam said to come to the fourth floor and he’d meet us in the common area. Before I can punch the button, Noelle does so, and when the doors open, she practically pulls me inside, asking to which floor we’re going. I tell her the fourth and she reaches up and unerringly presses the button with the big number four on it.
I can’t help smiling. She’s a very smart little girl.
A few seconds later, the doors swoosh open again and the first thing I see is Sam. He looks battle worn and exhausted from whatever has happened in the last few hours.
Concern for him courses through me.
“There’s my little bee,” he says, bending to swing Noelle into his arms. He kisses her cheek and crushes her to him like he never wants to let her go. I’m sure her presence brings him more comfort than I could ever imagine. “I missed you this morning.”
“Miss Abi made me cereal and told me my name means ‘Christmas’.”
“She did?” His smile almost reaches his eyes. Almost.
“Uh-huh. And she let me wear a blue dress.”
“I see that. You look very pretty.”
“Thank you.” She’s so prim and gracious and mature when she says it, I can’t help smiling.
“You’re welcome.”
Sam sends a tired wink at me from over the top of her head.
“Is that her?” The loud voice echoes in the otherwise empty common area, drawing all gazes in the direction of a short older woman standing at the mouth of the hallway, staring at us. “Is that the other woman?”
She’s looking accusingly at Sam. But she’s pointing at me.
Sam’s voice is strained when he answers. “Jeannine, this isn’t the—”
“It is, isn’t it? This is the woman you’ve moved in to replace my daughter before she’s even gone. What kind of common tramp would even consider such a thing?” Her tone drips with venom and I’m taken aback. She adds maliciously, “Not that you deserve any better. You were never good enough for my daughter.”
Sam hands his daughter back to me. His jaw is clenched tight as he bites out his response. “Abi is a friend of mine and a friend of Sara’s. Now, if you’d like to see your granddaughter, I suggest you drop this right now or Abi will be taking her back to the house.”
The woman’s face turns even redder, which I wouldn’t have believed possible a minute ago. It’s almost purple in her rage. But, wisely, she says nothing. She keeps her mouth clamped in a thin, straight, shut line. However, the tall, steely-haired man at her side, who has until now remained silent, speaks up.
“It won’t be mentioned again, Sam. I promise.” The man casts a warning glare down at the woman. I can only assume she is his wife, and that they are Sara’s parents. I can see the fiery darts of fury her eyes are throwing at him, but he ignores them and looks to me instead. “Please forgive my wife… Abi, did you say? She’s upset. It’s been a difficult morning.”
“No need to apologize. I’m sorry if my presence has caused trouble. I didn’t…”
I trail off. I don’t want to open up this awful can of worms again. It’s clear that they’re upset with me as the other woman, even though Sara is the one who set up the whole thing. I would’ve thought she’d tell her parents her wishes and that they’d go along with them, but apparently it didn’t happen that way.
No one says anything for a few seconds, and then the woman turns her attention to Noelle. “Good morning, precious,” she croons, starting forward. Noelle leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “Come give Mimi some sugar.”
She opens her arms, motioning to Noelle with a bend of her manicured fingers. When Noelle doesn’t budge, the woman, Jeannine, shifts her sharp blue stare to me. If she could hurt me, if she could cut me through and through with nothing more than a look, my intestines would be strewn across the polished tile floor. She would eviscerate me right here on the spot.
“Noelle, why don’t you let Mimi take you down to the cafeteria? I bet she’d buy you a Kit Kat.”
Instantly, Noelle leans toward her grandmother. They’re both all smiles as Jeannine takes her and pushes past me to hit the button for the elevator. After several tense seconds, the doors open and she steps inside. Before they close again, Sara’s mother looks at me, murder in her eyes, and hisses, “I hope I never see you again.”
As though choreographed for maximum effect, the doors close at that precise moment, punctuating her declaration like a flaming exclamation point. Stunned silence is left in the wake of her hatred.
Before either Sam or his father-in-law can fumble through another humiliating apology, I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder and, without explanation, head for the glowing red exit sign that indicates the stairwell. I’m through the door and down one flight of steps before I hear someone trailing me.
It’s Sam. I know it is. But I don’t want to talk to him right now. I just want to run.
I need to run.
“Abi, wait.” His plea bounces off the walls, the rich baritone thundering around me.
I move faster.
“Abi, please.”
I reach the landing on the last flight before he catches me. He doesn’t ask me to stop again. He doesn’t say anything, in fact. He simply takes me by the arms and stops me. When he spins me around to face him, I look away. Facing him is something I can’t bring myself to do right now.
I look left.
He leans left.
I look right.
He leans right.
I look down at my feet.
He bends to try to see my eyes. When he can’t, he grabs my chin and forcibly raises my gaze to his. That’s when I lose it.
I hold my breath, the air in my chest like Napalm, burning, burning, burning its way through my ribs. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him, and so he can’t see me, see what I’m thinking, see what I’m feeling. See how I’m hurting.
“I’m so sorry, Abi. Jesus, I would never have asked you to bring Noelle if I thought she’d do that.”
“Did you know she objected to what Sara wanted?”
He hesitates, which tells me all I need to know.
“Sam, how could you do that to her, today of all days?”
“I didn’t do anything to her. I met you at the elevator. She wasn’t even supposed to see you.”
“Did you think she’d assume that Noelle flew here on a broomstick all by her lonesome?”
“No, of course not. I just didn’t think…”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Abi, I’m sorry. I swear to God I would never hurt you on purpose.”
I open my eyes. The regret is there, gleaming in his, and it provides a much-needed slap to my perspective. Sam’s wife is in the hospital. Unresponsive. He wanted his mother-in-law to see her grandchild, to draw some comfort from her and probably give comfort to Noelle as well. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and that’s totally understandable. How selfish of me to expect him to be clear-headed on a day like today.
I exhale and let my eyes drift shut again, this time in remorse. “No, I’m sorry, Sam. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I…I had no reason to lash out at you. I just…God, I’m sorry. She just took me by surprise.”
When I crack my lids, Sam is watching me, his expression still troubled. “Tell me you believe that I would never do something like that on purpose. Or even allow something like that. Tell me you know me better than that.”
“I do, Sam. I do. I shouldn’t have even insinuated otherwise. This is a tough day. I should’ve been more understanding. I’m the one in the wrong.”
“No, you didn’t deserve this, Abi.”
“Maybe I did. This isn’t exactly a sane situation, Sam.”
“No, it’s not, but we’re all doing the best we can.”
“I know. Don’t worry about me. Really. I’m fine. Go spend some time with your family. I need to go home and shower anyway.” I add a smile to put his mind at ease, but I can tell it doesn’t work.
“I’d be lost without you right now, you know that, don’t you?”
My smile turns wry. “No, you’d be fine, Sam. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. You’ve been holding everything together by yourself all this time. You’d be fine with or without me.”
His brows draw together into a frown. “I hate that you think so.”
“I don’t think so. I know so.”
“Abi, I—”
I feel tears threaten, so I cut him off with as bright a smile as I can manage. “Enough of this. I’ve got to shower and you need to get back upstairs. Call if you need me, okay?”
I pull away and start down the last set of steps, the door to freedom already visible to my searching eyes. From behind me, I hear soft words that are every bit as piercing and do every bit as much damage as the hateful ones spoken to me only moments ago.
“I’ve always needed you, Abi. I never stopped.”
My feet falter for a fraction of a second, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop and I don’t look back. Something tells me that if I do, I’ll be lost.