Authors: Liza Palmer
“Patient name?” the woman behind the information desk asks.
“Davis,” I answer.
“What would he or she be here for?” the woman asks, her Halloween pin blinking
Boo . . . Boo . . . Boo
over and over again. Jesus. Halloween isn’t for another month, lady.
“He would be here for a gunshot wound,” Sam says from just behind me, a plastic convenience-store bag in his hand as well.
Annnd
back to reality.
“Hey,” I say, trying not to stare.
“Hey,” he says back.
“What did you . . . ,” I ask, pointing to his plastic bag and wanting to move things along. Don’t dwell. Don’t linger on the fact that we woke up in the same bed—my bed—this morning. That I made coffee like my life depended on it as Sam politely bolted. Sam opens up the plastic bag to reveal a
Playboy
magazine, a handful of Slim Jims and a six-pack of Cactus Cooler. I can’t help but smile. Now those are the purchases of someone who really knows Grady.
“Grady Davis. Gunshot wound,” the woman reads, flipping through a stack of papers. It hits me that I’ve only been to hospitals for the births of friends’ babies. I’ve never . . . Grady is here for a gunshot wound. Grady was shot. By Jamie Dunham. Jamie Dunham. Who Sam killed.
Yesterday
. Wow.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says. The woman takes a map of the hospital off the top of a stack and, using a yellow highlighter, draws us a path to find Grady’s room. Sam and I thank the woman and walk to the elevators. Sam pushes the call button.
“I can’t believe it’s almost October,” I say, unable to deal with the quiet. I’d gotten so used to his face. So used to him.
“I know,” Sam says as the elevator dings open.
“This year is flying by.”
“Are you trying to make small talk?” Sam asks, a smile breaking across his face.
“Am I?” I ask as the elevator dings open on another floor. A couple of doctors get on. We all smile politely.
“You’re trying to make calendar-related small talk,” Sam says. One of the doctors looks back at us.
“So what if I am?” I say, blushing.
“Why don’t you just say that this elevator is a tight squeeze?” Sam says, his eyes crinkling. We laugh. And then . . . it fades. I clear my throat and step just a bit away from him. Is there ever going to be enough distance?
The elevator dings open on our floor and Sam motions for me to step out first. The doctors give us a quick smile and then are back to business. Sam and I search for Grady’s room number. This way and that. Back through . . . no, wait . . . over here. The squeak of our shoes on the sterile floor, my vase bobbing with my every step, Sam’s plastic grocery bags crinkling and swaying with his long strides.
“Here, here it is,” I say. The door is closed. I wait, then ask, “Do we?” Sam knocks lightly on the door, feeling the same trepidation I do. Lisa flings open the door.
“What are you guys doing with that pussy-ass knock!?” Lisa yells, opening the door wide. She takes my vase immediately, setting it down on Grady’s bedside table. And she pulls me in. Close. Tight. Her shoulders convulsing one second and then tighter. I hug back. I pull her in.
“You saved me,” I whisper in her ear.
“That madman almost took everything I had,” Lisa says, pulling away from me, taking my face in her hands.
“Thank you,” I say, tears streaming down my face. Again. Again with the tears.
“We need to thank him,” Lisa says, her eyes welling up with tears as she looks at Sam. Sam’s smile is meant to reassure Lisa.
Lisa continues as she lunges into Sam. “You . . . you did what I shoulda done. Grady . . . he hit my Grady. You finished what I started is what you did. Thank god for you. We owe you. I owe you.” Lisa is clutching at Sam. I can see bits and pieces of her monologue getting through to him. He softens as she whispers Grady’s name, but I see him tense at the mention of god. Sam hugs Lisa back and just keeps saying “You’re welcome, ma’am . . . you’re welcome, ma’am . . . ,” over and over again. They finally break apart. Sam settles back in next to me. He takes a long, deep breath and continues to listen to Lisa rant. This hospital room is too tiny. We’re practically standing on top of each other. Great.
Lisa continues. “I wasn’t going to let him do it. With all the blood on you and Earley, I didn’t know for sure whether he had . . . had . . . and then when he got Grady . . .” She steps aside and I finally allow myself to take in our fallen hero. Lisa wipes at her eyes, her mouth contorted in a twist of emotion. Grady and . . . Jamie’s handiwork. Grady’s entire right shoulder is bandaged and in a tight sling.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Grady says with a wide smile, his other hand held high.
“How you doin’, son?” Sam says, stepping in and shaking Grady’s free hand. His accent is thick and casual and yet, Sam is tentative and overly gentle. He doesn’t know what to do, how to handle this version of Grady. I can see Sam start and stop, so used to barreling into his old friend knowing he could take whatever Sam dished out.
“That was a close one . . . I . . . uh . . . I’m glad you were there, Earley. For . . . for all of us,” Grady says, patting and clapping Sam on his shoulders. They’re awkward in their greetings, in their happiness, in their concern and mostly in their gratitude. Lisa has yet to let go of me; her arm is tight around my waist. She’s watching Grady. Beaming. Tears pooling in her eyes, her head tilted in awe. I see her breathe . . . exhale. Calm herself. She nods. He’s fine. He’s alive and fine. We’re all okay.
Sam turns away from Grady and for a brief second I see a haunted look flash across his face. He wasn’t ready to be affected that much; he was caught off guard by Grady’s appreciation. Sam walks over to Lisa and gives her another hug. They’re speaking to each other . . . each so glad the other’s okay, thank-yous . . . we all made it. We’re all fine. I look from Grady to Sam and Lisa. Smiling. And then I hear Lisa speak in Sam’s ear. Quiet. Barely a whisper.
Thanks for saving us
. Lisa claps him on the back and the tears stream down her face as he repeats
you’re welcome
over and over again. I look away from Sam and Lisa and over at Grady. He’s smiling and happy . . . or as happy as someone could be with a newly acquired gunshot wound. Maybe it’s the drugs. Sam and Lisa finally break apart. Sam grabs his grocery bags and brings them over to Grady.
“I brought you the necessities, G,” Sam says, putting the bag on Grady’s bed.
“Awww, man—Cactus Cooler! This is . . . and some Slim Jims. Earley, you shouldn’t have,” Grady says, holding up the
Playboy
magazine. Lisa laughs. A barking laugh that seems to split something open, burst it into the room: joy. Life. Goodness.
“Knock-knock,” Jill says, creaking open Grady’s door. Martin is standing behind her with a pink box filled with doughnuts and a to-go decanter of coffee with all the fixings. Jill carries nothing. And with their entrance, it all starts again.
“Heeeey,” I say, pulling Jill in for a tight hug. Images flash. Jill sobbing and reaching out to me. The sound of her screaming. And now she’s here and she’s fine. She’s laughing and crying and wearing a ridiculous harvest-orange shift dress with matching grosgrain ribbon.
“See? See how good I’m being?” Jill whispers in my ear. I smile and wrap my arms tighter around her as Martin makes the rounds. Clapping hands on shoulders, uncomfortable spikes of emotion as he realizes he was worried, he was . . . waiting to exhale, as all of us were. He gives Sam a hearty handshake and an even more heartfelt thanks. Sam is uncomfortable but polite in his reply.
“I thought I lost you. I thought . . . I can’t . . . I’m never setting you up on another blind date, I swear,” Jill says, her voice crumbling into laughter and then eroding into tears.
“Empty promises,” I say in her ear.
“I’m going to need those details
stat
,” Jill says, and pushes me back to take a look at me. She tilts her head and just lets the tears fall. She lays her hand on my cheek and tells me that she’s glad I’m okay. All the blood, she keeps saying. I know. I know about “all the blood.”
“Get your skinny ass over here,” Lisa says, pulling Jill over. Hugging. Crying. Muttering and sobbing. Martin walks over and just . . . envelops me. No words, just . . . a need to hold on. To make sure. To reacquaint with the living.
As Lisa and Jill hug and sob, Jill motions to Grady, saying she’s sorry and sorry and sorry. Lisa keeps telling her everything is fine, we’re all fine . . . we all made it. See? See? She keeps saying. Jill is nodding, her face buried in the crook of Lisa’s neck. Lisa and Jill break from each other. Jill walks over to Sam and through childlike sobbing we all kind of make out that she was worried and that he was so strong and such a . . . hero, and then it’s just dolphin-speak from then on in. Sam, despite not being able to understand a single word Jill is saying, keeps telling her he appreciates that, ma’am, it’s fine, darlin’ . . . you’re welcome, you’re welcome. . .
And then we’re all just standing there. The six of us. The living. The survivors. The heroes and the saved. Sam walks back over and settles in next to me. Jill is watching us like a hawk. It’s killllling her.
“So, the shoulder?” Martin asks Grady finally.
“Yeah, no bone damage, which is a miracle, and it just has to be immobilized for a long-ass time,” Grady says.
“And how long do you have to stay in the hospital?” Jill asks.
“Around ten days depending on how well I heal,” Grady says, handing Lisa one of the Slim Jims. She tears it open and passes it back to him. He takes a giant bite. Bliss. Lisa cracks open a Cactus Cooler, holding it at the ready.
“Anyone . . . anyone hear anything?” Martin asks, looking around the room.
“Nothing,” I say.
“No,” Jill says.
“Nope,” Lisa says.
“The EMT said that both Jamie and Emma died at the scene,” Grady says, taking another bite of the Slim Jim. Sam shifts his weight.
“And do we know
why
this happened?” Martin asks.
“The detective was asking me if I knew anything about domestic abuse,” I say.
“Domestic abuse?” Lisa asks.
“I know. I said I didn’t.”
“Domestic abuse,” Lisa says again.
“That would explain a lot,” I say.
“The Harry Sprague thing,” Jill says, pointing at me.
“I know,” I say, not wanting to talk about that angle right now, because I secretly think I got Emma killed.
“Would have never known,” Jill says.
“So, I say we plan an Out of the Hospital barbecue,” Martin says, clapping his hands together. Sam and Grady wince.
“Oh, honey,” Jill says, lacing her arm through his.
“I think . . . I think we might have something else to celebrate,” Lisa says, walking over to Grady. They look at each other. Grady smiles and smiles. Lisa smooths his muss of black hair out of his face and flips his hospital gown collar right-side up.
“This morning I asked Lisa to marry me,” Grady says, his voice crackling and excited.
“
What?!
” we all say in unison. Or maybe it’s just Jill. Jill claps her hands together and rushes Lisa, hugging her and congratulating her.
“The key here is to ask whether or not she said yes,” Sam says, giving Grady a wink.
“I said yes!” Lisa says.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s just the best news . . . it’s . . . it’s lovely,” I say, hugging her again.
“I just . . . something about yesterday, you know? Made shit real,” Grady says, as the romantic he is. We’re all nodding. Indeed. We quiet down. Watching the new couple. The new fiancés.
“When I saw him go down—” Lisa’s voice catches and she can’t finish. Grady pulls her in close. Comforting her. Telling her it’s okay. I let my head drop to my chest and close my eyes. I hear Jill sniffling.
“Come on, now,” Sam whispers to me. I look up at him. Calm yourself. Calm yourself.
“Life’s too short, you know?” Grady says, finishing Lisa’s sentence as she tries to regain herself.
“Do you guys know when . . . or where?” Jill blurts, getting down to business.
“My folks are coming into town. I called ’em last night and they were worried. That’s kinda when I got the idea. I get out of here in ten days and I don’t want to waste any more time,” Grady says, gazing at Lisa. She just exhales and tries to smile. Tears.
“Man oh man,” Lisa says, slamming her fist in frustration. “I can’t stop crying.” She rolls her eyes and pulls a tissue from the box on Grady’s bedside table.
“Wait, so you’re saying you want to get married in like . . .” Jill trails off, getting her facts straight.
“Right around Halloween,” Lisa says.
“Something like that,” Grady says, looking at Lisa. She nods in agreement.
“
We could do it at our house!
” Jill yelps, clapping her hands and giving the tiniest of leaps. Martin looks at her. Pointedly.
“You could barbecue,” Sam adds.
“Oh man, that’d be perfect, Earley. My daddy would love to do that,” Grady says, looking at his old friend. I look up at Sam. He’s finally smiling again.
“A backyard barbecue is exactly . . . that’s exactly what I want,” Lisa says.
“Are you telling me that I get to plan a backyard barbecue wedding?” Jill asks, her voice barely contained.
“Well, it is my wedding, but—”
“
So you
ARE
telling me that I get to plan a backyard barbecue wedding!
” Jill yells.
“Yes, sweetie, I believe that’s what we’re telling you,” Lisa says, looking from Jill to Grady.
Chapter 13
The Girl Who Cried Epiphany
I
head back to my apartment later that night after picking up something at the grocery store for dinner. A little remembrance-night dinner of macaroni and cheese with little bits of bacon and three different kinds of cheeses. I also bought the makings for chocolate chip cookies. Comfort food much?
I pull into my parking lot and wait for the gate to close behind me. The gate slowly creaks across the pavement and rolls its way across the threshold of the driveway.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack
. In the quiet of my car, I replay the conversations Emma and I had about her marriage and wonder . . . was it
all
a lie? If it was, that’s pathological.
No. Maybe. Not pathological. Just sad. Tragic, really.
The gate finally creaks closed behind me and I ease into my parking space. The only light that remains is my car’s automatic headlamps on the wall. The darkness surrounds me as they slowly dim. My heart races. All of a sudden I can’t get out of my car and into my apartment building fast enough. I’m positive something is nipping at my heels. I grab my purse and the grocery bags and run up the stairs and into my apartment. I fling open the front door and slam it behind me. I immediately feel ridiculous and happy no one was there to witness what just happened. What
did
just happen? There was nothing lurking in the darkness of my garage. Nothing was “after me.” What’s happening to me? I lean down and hold on to the arm of the sofa, trying to steady myself, catch my breath and get my heart rate down from around a billion beats a second. I take a deep breath, gather my bags and continue into the kitchen. Dinner. Think about dinner.
THE DREAM GOES LIKE
this: I’m searching this dusty campsite for the group. They’re leaving. They’re leaving and I’m about to get left behind. The rickety staircases and old dirt roads are confusing. My suitcase is heavy and I question why I brought it.
Crack. Crack
. It’s coming. It’s coming. Drag the suitcase faster. Run. Catch up. Get them.
Crack
. But they’re behind me. I’m not . . . I’m not running to something, I’m running from something.
Crack. Crack
. My hand is curled around the suitcase’s handle. Slippery. Sticky. Let go. I bring up my hands.
Crack. Crack
. Blood. Everywhere.
“No!” I jolt awake.
My bedroom. My bed. No Sam. I haven’t heard from him since last night. No explanation for what happened or why he left. I get it, though. After such a trauma, we just wanted to feel something good. Feel alive. Whatever newfound flirtation was developing between us took a tragic Icarus-like turn and now lies in pieces among its melted wax wings. We just didn’t know each other well enough to handle that level of intimacy that quickly. We flamed out.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
Flamed out.
So why do I feel abandoned? My hero finally found me in that too-high tower, rescued me from its cold walls, set me down among free men and bolted.
Freedom, with all its possibilities, just feels cold and lonely. I want to go back to my tower. I need those walls. I need the protection.
The walls were always my true plus-one.
TEACHERS GATHER THEIR CLASSES
and stream out of the auditorium the next morning after the acting headmistress, Pamela Jackson, finishes with the assembly. Jill and I stand in the back, arms crossed, a slightly glazed look in our eyes. Trying to explain to a school filled with kids what happened on Wednesday is like . . . well, trying to make sense of it myself. Pamela talked about bullying and solving problems with violence. She also talked about how this was something that happened but that it’s not going to happen again. She wanted to make sure the kids felt safe. Her voice was calm and soothing and . . . the more I traverse this minefield, the more I realize how wrong I was about people. Emma. Pamela. Even me.
Everyone who wasn’t there on Wednesday is maintaining an odd, encircling—yet conspicuously detached—orbit around those of us who were. No one wants to ask what happened, so the rumors are swirling. A few teachers are talking about it, a few teachers are trading on it, and then there’s us. Shared glances and knowing smiles. The teachers’ lounge is boarded up, remnants of police tape here and there. When we arrived this morning, Pamela Jackson redirected all of us to an annex just off the main school for our gathering and coffee needs. There were bagels, coffee and fresh flowers. She’d thought of everything. It still felt . . . cold. Very few gathered, even fewer ate. People did pour themselves coffee—I mean, let’s not get crazy. Jill mentions that Markham’s board of directors and Headmistress Jackson approached Martin about rebuilding the old teachers’ lounge along with the ongoing school expansion. He agreed to it right away. I remember I haven’t even told Jill that I got the promotion. It was probably the last piece of business Emma handled. Once on the balcony—makeshift, but it’ll do—Jill lasers in.
“Spill,” she says, sipping her tea.
“I’m tired,” I say.
Jill is quiet. Fine.
“He drove me home. We ordered pizza. We took a bath together then had sex. It was mind-blowing and I actually can’t talk about it without . . . then he left the next morning and I have yet to hear from him.” My voice is robotic and detached.
Jill is quiet. Quiet. Her eyes are wild. This is worse than I thought.
For the first time in her life Jill Fleming is speechless.
“I knew I’d find you two up here.” Lisa. She looks exhausted. Lisa sits and takes a long inhale of her coffee. No cigarette.
“How’s Grady?” I ask. Jill is still stunned. Lisa takes notice. She’s wary.
“He’s doing better every day,” Lisa says.
“
I don’t understand one thing you just said!
” Jill yells, her finger one inch from my face, her tea spilling out of her tasteful toile-patterned mug.
“Did I miss something?” Lisa asks, a smirk cracking across her depleted face. Jill slams down her mug, mumbling to herself as she paces around the tiny balcony.
“Go ahead, Frannie. Just say it again. Maybe I’ll get it this time!” Jill says, gesticulating wildly.
“Sam drove me home after . . . well, after the . . . whatever. We ordered pizza. We took a bath together then had sex. It was mind-blowing and I actually can’t talk about it without . . . and then he left the next morning and I have yet to hear from him,” I say again. Wow. It hurts just as much the second time.
“
Bullshit!
” Jill yells.
“You okay?” Lisa asks, reaching across and taking my hand.
“I’m as far from okay as a person can get, I think,” I say, my voice quiet. Jill flops down in the nearest chair. Lisa looks from her to me. We share the tiniest of smiles. Jill is gobsmacked.
“Aren’t we all,” Lisa says.
“Seriously,” I say.
“How do you . . .
How do you?!
” Jill stammers.
“It makes sense. You know it does. It’s the whole Icarus thing,” I say.
“Frannie, I need you to speak normally. I can’t wade through all of your theories and ‘epiphanies’ and analogies that don’t make any sense. I don’t know how you’re using Icarus, sweetie. You turn mythologies into just single words and I need you to just . . . can you just speak normally? For once?” Jill asks, her voice imploring.
“No! I can’t!” I snap. Tears. Rolling down my cheeks. I close my eyes and continue. “It helps, okay?! It helps to talk about things like Icarus so I don’t have to . . . so I can compartmentalize Sam leaving, making it into something that’s poetic instead of the saddest thing in the entire world. I’ve never . . . I’ve never been like that with someone, do you get that?! I didn’t know sex like that was possible. I really didn’t. And I hate that I’m making it sound like it was just the sex or whatever. It wasn’t. I didn’t know I could be like that! That a man could be like that! That I could be like that with anyone, much less a man! It was just . . . god, it was beyond anything . . . beyond anything I’d ever dreamed. And now he’s gone? How terrible am I?” I sob. Lisa squeezes my hand tighter.
“You’re not terrible!” Jill says, kneeling down in front of me.
“Well, he’s not terrible! You know he’s not! So, what made him leave?” I cry.
Silence permeates the little balcony. We’re all thinking it. And I feel like a whiny teenager who doesn’t know how selfish she sounds.
I continue. “I know. I can’t know what he’s going through right now.”
“No,” Lisa and Jill say in unison.
“I am so trifling,” I say, taking a tissue from Lisa.
“You’re not trifling. Jesus, who would blame you for wanting to think about what happened with Sam instead of . . . I went so far as to get engaged,” Lisa says, laughing.
“Yeah, can we talk about
that
for a minute?” Jill asks, shifting in her chair so she’s facing Lisa.
“It was the easiest decision in the world. All of those years spent trying to become some other woman, when all I had to do was wait for the one man who was looking for me. And then to watch him . . . well, I was done wasting time,” Lisa says.
“Clearly we’re going to have to set up a schedule. Wedding planning,” Jill says, patting Lisa’s knee.
“Clearly,” Lisa says, giving me a quick wink.
“We’d better get going,” I say, noticing the time. Pamela Jackson believed today should feel just as routine as the ones before the shooting. We’re on a half-day anyway, due to the Fiesta Fund-raiser, so we’d better get a move on.
“Did you fudge-pack at all?” Jill asks as we open the door into the teachers’ lounge.
“Yes, I did. I made real fudge, Jill. And no matter how easy that recipe is, I’m vowing right here and now that I’m never making it again,” I say.
“Meet you back in the office. We’ll talk about about . . .” Jill raises and lowers her eyebrows. I nod. I know exactly what and who she’s talking about, sadly. Jill and Lisa head out as I pour another cup of much-needed coffee. The door pushes open. Ryan. I haven’t seen him since the shooting.
“Hey,” I say as he ambles toward the coffee. He looks up.
“Oh, hey . . . oh my god, Frannie,” he says, slamming his empty mug down on the counter and lunging into me with a hug. His black hair is combed and moderately kempt, and his Puma jacket is loosely zipped, exposing the collared shirt and tie just underneath.
“I know . . . I know . . . ,” I say, hugging him back. So comfortable with soothing him. We break from the hug and tears are streaming down his face.
We are quiet. There’s nothing to say.
“How are your students taking all this?” I ask, pouring coffee into my mug and turning my back to Ryan and the shampoo I can smell from here.
“As well as can be expected,” Ryan says, smoothing his tie.
“Is this fancy outfit here for the fund-raiser later?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Thought I’d dress up for the parents,” Ryan says.
“Kiss-ass,” I say, pouring in cream and sugar.
“What are you gonna do?” We’re happy to change the subject and never speak of Wednesday again.
“Make fun of you to your face and then behind your back.”
“Ha!”
We’re quiet.
Ryan continues. “It’s good seeing you.”
“You see me all the time, weirdo.”
“I mean . . . you know what I mean.”
“No, I actually don’t.”
“Talking to you. It’s good talking to you.”
“Do you mean sober?”
“Ah yes. A proud moment. You know I . . .” Ryan stops. His face pales. He looks away as he continues. “I talked to that guy for over an hour at that mixer. He . . . uh . . . he seemed like an okay dude.” Ryan walks over to the coffeemaker and pours himself a cup. I notice his hands are shaking. He sets down the mug with its now-spilling contents and balls his hands into fists. “They keep doing that. I can’t stop them from shaking.” He looks away. Embarrassed.
“I imagine we’re all suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress. Have you talked to Pamela?”
“Yeah. We’re talking again next week,” Ryan says.
“You should tell her about the shaking,” I say, briefly touching his hand.
“Right.” Ryan is smiling. The light blue eyes, the pinkish lips curling into a smirk.
“Well, godspeed, John Glenn,” I say, throwing the stir stick into the trash.
“I broke up with Jessica,” Ryan says, not looking at me.
“What?”
“I broke up with Jessica.”
“I have no response to that.”
“You’re quoting
Joe Versus the Volcano
?”
“Yes . . .
and
stating my feelings.”
“By quoting
Joe Versus the Volcano
?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“After what happened, I just . . . being with someone to . . . I just had to get out of there. I had to find you.”
I am quiet. A flash of what it would be like to be with Ryan again as the Real Me. Is that . . . is that even an option? If Sam was some sort of catalyst, is this the destination? To try again with Ryan as the Real Me? Maybe not think so much and just let shit ride?
“Why would you want to find me?” I ask loudly. Inappropriately loudly. Like I don’t understand volume or inside voices. Ryan steps just that much closer. The shampoo. The aftershave. The laundry detergent. It’s eau de Ryan. And it’s doing the same thing to me it always did.
The door creaks open. I jump back. I can’t have the Coven of Front-Office Hags thinking anything is happening between Ryan and me. Wait . . .
wait
. What
is
happening between Ryan and me? He broke up with Jessica and I have no one—thought I had someone for a minute, but . . . What about Sam? Is it over? Are we done?
“I have to go. I have to go,” I say, my hand on Ryan’s chest. Pushing him away. Or am I keeping myself away?
“Frannie,” Ryan says, his voice breathy. His hands are no longer shaking. He holds them up for me to see. Steady. “See? I need you, Frannie,” he says.
“Okay, good. Good talk,” I say. Nodding. Nodding. I can’t look at him as I race out of the teachers’ lounge. I hear Ryan calling after me but don’t turn around.