The sentence didn’t sound like something an eight-year-old would say.
It sounded like someone who had rehearsed fear far too many times.
My legs felt weak, but I couldn’t collapse. Not in front of him.
Matthew kept crying, clutching his backpack to his chest, shaking all over. I had the 911 operator on the line asking for my address, repeating that a unit was on the way. I could barely answer her. I felt the blood ringing in my ears, as if my body wanted to run and punch walls and break something, anything, just to let out what was happening inside me.
But I couldn’t afford that luxury.
Not tonight.
Not when my son was watching me to figure out, with a single glance, if the world was still a place where adults could protect him.
I crouched down in front of him, slowly, at his eye level.
“Matthew, listen to me closely,” I said, and even I didn’t know where I was finding that firm voice. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. I already called for help. No one is taking you back to anyone tonight. Okay?”
He looked at me with a shattered face.
As if he wanted to believe me, but still couldn’t.
Then something happened that will stay with me for the rest of my life: he let go of the backpack.
Just that.
He let it drop to the floor.
And I understood that he had spent hours, or days, or months, holding himself together with all the strength he had. As if that backpack was the only thing keeping him in one piece.
I hugged him.
Carefully, without squeezing too hard.
Matthew melted into my arms.
He didn’t cry the way kids cry when they bump their heads or have a toy taken away. He cried the way people cry when they run out of places to hide.
When the paramedics and the police arrived, I had already put a blanket over him and a pillow behind his back so he could lean without sitting down. A young female officer knelt in front of him and spoke with a calmness that I appreciated more than words can say. The paramedics checked him right there, and one of them looked at me with that serious face they use when they don’t want to scare you, but don’t want to lie to you either.
“We need to take him to the hospital,” he said.
I nodded.
I didn’t even text Sarah.
I didn’t ask the universe for permission for anything.
I got in the ambulance with Matthew and held his hand the whole way. Every time I let go for a second so they could check him, he fumbled to find my hand again. He didn’t speak much. He just glanced at me sideways, as if making sure I was still there.
In the ER, they took us back fast. Too fast.
And that scared me more.
They took us to a separate area where a doctor with a soft voice and tired eyes came in. She introduced herself with her first and last name, told Matthew exactly what she was going to do before touching him, asked his permission to examine him, and treated him with a gentleness that almost made me cry right then and there.
They asked me to step out for a moment.
“We need to ask him some questions alone,” the officer explained.
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to be with him through everything. But the child psychologist who had just arrived spoke to me plainly:
“Sometimes they talk more when they don’t feel like they have to protect their dad, too.”
That hit me like a knife.
Because it was true.
Matthew had spent years watching me fight with lawyers, with judges, with ridiculous custody agreements that claimed “healthy co-parenting,” even though I already suspected something wasn’t right at Sarah’s house. I never had proof. Only signs. Bruises explained away too late. Mood swings. Borrowed phrases. “Mom says if I tell you, you’ll get mad and won’t love me anymore.” “Mom says you overreact.” “Mom says you ruin everything.”
I reported yelling.
Neglect.
Hits that seemed like accidents.
They always gave me the same answer: parental conflict, alienation, lack of evidence, the minor does not indicate risk.
The minor does not indicate risk. I wanted to rip those words out of the dictionary.
I waited outside, sitting in a plastic chair, my hands clasped together to keep from running off and doing something crazy. At three in the morning, the psychologist came out. She had a notepad in her hand and a clean sadness on her face.
“Your son said something very important,” she told me.
I don’t know how I managed to stand up.
“Tell me.”
She took a second.
“He stated that the pain started ‘again’ after his mom’s boyfriend came into his room. He said his mom asked him not to tell because ‘they would take everyone away’ and because ‘if he talked, no one would believe him.’”
The floor vanished.
I heard my own breathing shatter, but I wasn’t really there anymore, not completely. I only saw the white wall in front of me and the gray spots forming where my eyes refused to focus. The psychologist kept talking. That they had activated protocol. That the hospital had already notified Child Protective Services and the Special Victims Unit. That I needed to watch my reactions around Matthew. That he was going to need time. Therapy. Stability. Routine. Safety.
Safety.
What a small word for everything they had just ripped away from us.
When they let me in, Matthew was lying on his side, wearing a hospital gown, his eyes swollen. As soon as he saw me, he reached out his hand.
I grabbed it.
“Are you mad?” he asked in a tiny voice.
I felt something inside me break for the second time that night.
“Not at you, son. Never at you.”
“Mom said you were going to get furious and that it would all be my fault.”
I sat down slowly next to the bed.
“Matthew, look at me. None of this is your fault. Not for a single second. You did the bravest thing in the world by speaking up. Do you hear me?”
He nodded, but doubt still clung to his face.
“What if Mom cries?”
That question finished me.
Because he was still a little boy. A broken one, scared to death, yes, but still a little boy worried about whether the grown-ups could handle the consequences of what he said.
I stroked his hair.
“Then Mom will have to cry however much she has to cry. But you are not going to carry that.”
He squeezed my hand tightly.
“I didn’t want to go back,” he whispered. “At night I stayed awake because when I fell asleep it was worse.”
I had to lower my head for a second. Just one. So he wouldn’t see my face. To keep being a wall and not a ruin.
The next few hours were a parade of forms, interviews, and names of people I never wanted to meet. A social worker. A detective. Another psychologist. A court-appointed lawyer who, for the first time in years, didn’t sound like she was processing paperwork, but like she actually understood there was a child at the center of it all.
At dawn, I was informed that, as an immediate protective measure, Matthew would not leave the hospital without a temporary emergency custody order in my favor. They were going to locate Sarah. They were going to summon her. They were going to investigate her boyfriend.
Going to. The whole system was full of “going to.”
I just had my son in a bed with the look of someone who had aged overnight.
At seven in the morning, my mom called.
I hadn’t told her anything yet. I just called her in the middle of the night to say I wouldn’t be dropping Matthew off like I sometimes did when I had to work early.
“Son, what happened?” she asked as soon as I answered.
I couldn’t keep it in anymore.
I told her in fragments, then fully, then breathless.
There was a long silence.
Then I heard her voice break.
“I’m on my way.”
My mom and I haven’t always agreed on anything. She often wanted me to “not make waves,” to just accept poorly arranged custody schedules to avoid fighting, to put up with Sarah “for the boy’s sake.” But when she got to the hospital and saw Matthew asleep, pale, hooked up to a tiny IV like the whole world had failed him, she covered her mouth with her hand and said something I’d never heard her say:
“Forgive me for not believing you sooner.”
I didn’t know I needed to hear that until I heard it.
She hugged me. Hard. Like when I was a kid.
And that hug held me together for another hour.
Sarah showed up at noon, hair pulled back, wearing dark sunglasses and that expression of an offended victim she knew how to put on so well. She came without her boyfriend. As soon as I saw her enter the hallway, my whole body lurched forward. I don’t know what look I had on my face, but the police officer with me stepped between us.
“Sir, step back with me.”
Sarah didn’t even ask about Matthew first.
First she asked:
“What did you tell them?”
That was enough for the officer to pull her aside immediately.
“Ma’am, from this moment on, any statement you make will be to the proper authorities.”
Sarah tried to look at me over the cop’s shoulder.
“You’re crazy. You’re traumatizing him even more. You always do this. You exaggerate everything. He probably fell and you’re making a circus out of it.”
I felt my jaw turn as hard as stone.
I didn’t answer for me.
I answered for him.
“We’re not going to help you cover it up anymore.”
Her face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
I saw it right there. That second where she realized Matthew had actually spoken. That this time she hadn’t been able to spin the story, or clean the scene, or teach him what to say.
She turned white.
Then she started crying.
But nothing moved inside me.
Not anymore.
In the afternoon, they formally informed her she couldn’t come near the child while the protective orders were processed. She screamed. She said I manipulated everything. That her boyfriend was incapable. That I was going to regret this.
Her boyfriend never showed up.
They tracked him down hours later.
And when I found out he had been detained for questioning, I didn’t feel relief. I felt exhaustion. An old, animal exhaustion, like someone who has spent years holding up a door so it wouldn’t collapse on someone else.
Matthew spent two nights under observation. I slept sitting next to him. Well, “slept” is a generous word. I nodded off, woke up, adjusted his blanket, offered him water, told him silly stories just so he knew I was still there. On the second night, he asked me to read him something. I didn’t have any books, so I grabbed the instruction manual for a hospital coffee maker and read it to him like it was the grand adventure of a lost astronaut.
For the first time since that 911 call, he smiled.
Just a little.
But he smiled.
“You’re making it up,” he said.
“Every great book starts out that way.”
“You don’t even know how to use that coffee maker.”
“And the coffee maker doesn’t know how to use me either.”
He let out a little giggle that hurt halfway through, and still, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
When they finally let us leave, we didn’t go straight home. My mom insisted we stay with her for a few days. I was going to say no, out of habit, pride, not wanting to intrude. But Matthew was the one who decided.
“Does Grandma have alphabet soup at her house?” he asked.
My mom wiped her tears, trying to hide them.
“Making it today.”
So we went with her.
And something changed there.
Not like in a movie.
Not perfectly.
Not quickly.
But it changed.
My mom brought out some new sheets she had been saving for years “for a special guest.” I set up a small room for Matthew with his dinosaurs, his blue lamp, and a pillow fort we built together so “the legal monsters wouldn’t know how to get in.” The psychologist taught us simple things I’d never thought of: don’t bombard him with questions, let him know before touching him, let him choose his clothes, his food, even which side of the bed he wanted. Give him small decisions to give back some of the control that had been ripped away from him.
The first few nights he had nightmares.
He would wake up sweating, calling for me softly, as if he were still afraid to make noise.
I went to him.
I always went.
Sometimes he didn’t want to talk. He just made a little space for me to sit next to him. Other times he asked what no child should ever have to ask.
“Am I a weird kid now?”
“No.”
“Is nobody going to love me anymore?”
“Never less. Never.”
“What if they find out at school?”
“Then they’ll learn to respect someone who was brave.”
One Sunday morning, while my mom was making pancakes and the house smelled like syrup and soap, Matthew went out to the backyard with a ball. He stared at it for a good while, as if calculating whether his own body still belonged to him. Then he looked at me.
“Can we play, but without throwing it hard?”
My legs almost buckled from emotion.
“Whatever you say, Captain.”
We played for ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then half an hour.
He didn’t run like before.
He didn’t laugh like before.
But he asked for another round.
And I realized that hope doesn’t come in like a storm.
It comes in like this.
Slowly.
With a boy who wants to kick a ball again.
Weeks later, at the custody hearing, Matthew didn’t have to be present. The DA had enough to uphold the restraining order and press charges. Sarah cried again in front of the judge. She said she had been manipulated too, that she didn’t see it, that she was afraid, that the man controlled her. Maybe a part of that was true. Maybe not. It was no longer my job to decide which part of her disaster was guilt, cowardice, or habit.
The only thing I did know was this: when the judge confirmed that Matthew would stay with me, and that any future visitation would depend on strict evaluations and my son’s express desire, I finally felt the air return fully to my lungs.
I walked out of the courthouse and there were my mom and Matthew, sitting on a bench, sharing some crackers. Matthew looked up.
“Is it done?”
I crouched down in front of him.
“Done for now.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Is ‘for now’ good or bad?”
I smiled.
“It’s good. It means we won this piece, and the rest we are going to win together.”
He thought for a moment. Then he nodded, as if he understood more than he should.
That night we had alphabet soup for dinner again. My mom put soft music on in the kitchen. Matthew put his spoon down and said something I’ll keep with me for as long as I live:
“I thought you weren’t going to believe me.”
I felt the whole world packed into that sentence.
I got up, went over to him, and knelt by his side.
“Forgive me for any second I ever made you feel that way.”
He touched my face with his little hand.
“But you did call.”
I couldn’t speak.
I just nodded.
Then he leaned in and hugged me like he used to. Hard. Without fear of hurting himself. With all his weight on me, as if he could finally rest.
I closed my eyes and held him.
Outside, the hearings, the psych evaluations, the files, and the long war were just beginning. Sarah asked to see Matthew via video call “just to explain.” The psychologist said not yet. His school prepared to welcome him back discreetly. My boss gave me permission to work from home for a few weeks. My mom was already looking to move closer to us “just in case.”
Life, that traitor, moved on.
But that night, when I went to tuck him in, I found him sleeping on his side, hugging the backpack he had dropped that very first time.
Only now, he wasn’t clutching it.
He was letting it rest.
And underneath it, peeking out of the zipper, I saw a folded piece of paper.
I pulled it out carefully.
It was a drawing.
Him and me, holding hands. My mom behind us with a giant spoon and a ridiculous superhero cape. And at the top, in crooked letters, he had written:
“Here I can tell.”
I stood looking at it in the dim light, my throat tight and my heart shattered… but in a good way, the kind of shattered that lets the light in.
I put it back where it was.
Then I tucked him in tight, turned off the lamp, and stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him breathe.
I didn’t know how long it would take him to heal.
I didn’t know how many more times I would shake when the phone rang or a legal notice arrived.
I didn’t know if someday he would want to see his mom again, or what we would do when that moment came.
I only knew one thing.
This time, no one was ever going to force him to lie again.
Part 3:
…that no one was ever going to force him to lie again. Not him. Not me.
I should say that in that moment, I felt peace.
I didn’t.
I felt fear.
A different one than in the ambulance, different than at the hospital, different than hearing my son say with that overly old voice that he didn’t want to go back to where he was. This was something else. A colder fear. A dirtier one. The fear of when you finally manage to pull someone out of the fire… and you realize the fire wasn’t left behind. It only changed direction.
Matthew was asleep, hugging his backpack. My mom was snoring softly in the next room. The house smelled like arnica cream, reheated soup, and that laundry detergent she’s used her whole life. I couldn’t sleep a wink.
I sat on the bed with my phone in my hand. I had messages from the lawyer, the psychologist, my boss, and a cousin who barely spoke to us but had already found out about “something serious.” I also had twelve missed calls from Sarah.
I didn’t listen to the voicemails.
But I did see the texts.
“I need to talk to you.” “This isn’t what it looks like.” “Matthew is confused.” “You’re taking advantage.” The last one came at 11:47 PM.
“You don’t know what you just did.”
I stared at it for too long.
Not because of her.
Because of him.
Because the message didn’t sound like Sarah. It sounded like someone dictating. Someone measuring every word so it sounded like a threat without completely seeming like one. Someone used to moving like that: under the radar, but making it clear they are still close.
I blocked the number. Then I unlocked the screen again and took a screenshot. I didn’t know what for yet. I just knew that, ever since the 911 call, my instinct was screaming something new at me: don’t delete anything.
I put the phone away and forced myself to lie down. I didn’t sleep. At times I would close my eyes and see Matthew’s face in the ER. At times I heard the psychologist’s voice: “again.” At times I imagined Sarah arriving at the hospital and asking first what we had said, not how her son was. And at times a thought worse than all the others appeared: that I had seen signs before. That maybe they were always there. That maybe my punishment was going to be learning to live with that guilt.
At half-past four in the morning, I heard a tiny noise.
Very faint.
Like fabric dragging.
I got up automatically and went to Matthew’s room. He was sitting on the bed, awake, his eyes wide open in the dark.
“What’s wrong, son?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just pointed at the window.
The curtain was barely moving. Nothing weird. A little bit of breeze. The empty street outside. The yellow streetlamp cutting the front yard in two.
I stepped closer.
Then I saw it.
Not through the window.
On the glass.
A reflection.
Someone was standing right by the front gate.
I couldn’t make out the face, just a still silhouette on the other side of the fence, too motionless to be a coincidence at that hour. I felt my throat close up. I yanked the curtain open, and the figure moved. It darted to the side, fast, disappearing into the shadows where the light didn’t reach.
Matthew was already shaking again.
“Don’t open it,” he said.
That phrase chilled me much more than the shadow.
I went for my phone, dialed the patrol car they had assigned as our contact, and peeked out from the kitchen without turning on the lights. There was no one by the gate anymore. But parked on the sidewalk across the street was a gray car I didn’t recognize. Engine off. Tinted windows. No front license plate.
The officer answered with a sleepy voice that turned alert as soon as I said my name. She told me not to go out, to lock up tight, and wait. My mom appeared behind me in a robe, her face pale.
“What’s going on?”
I motioned for her to lower her voice.
“There was someone outside.”
Her first instinct was to go to Matthew’s room. Mine too. We found him hugging his knees, staring at the door as if he knew exactly how easy a lock was for certain adults.
“I already called the cops,” I told him. “No one is coming in.”
He looked at me with an intensity I had never seen before. As if he were evaluating me. As if a part of him still needed to decide if this promise was going to be broken too.
“Was it him?” he asked.
I didn’t dare lie to him.
“I don’t know.”
The patrol car arrived seven minutes later, but it felt like an entire night. When they shone their lights on the curb, the gray car was gone.
The cops checked the street, asked a neighbor on the corner who swore he hadn’t seen anything, and recommended I “keep a low profile.” That phrase made me want to laugh in all their faces. My son had just reported something that had destroyed half his childhood, and the suggestion was to keep a low profile. As if the danger was a noise we made, and not the thing that had hunted us down.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy for that anymore.
But at dawn, I went straight to buy a security camera for the front porch.
That day, Matthew barely spoke. He stayed glued to my side while I installed the device with the help of the next-door neighbor, a retired man who never gets involved in anything, but who this time climbed the ladder without asking many questions and just said: “Don’t leave him alone.” I appreciated it more than I can explain.
My mom made calls. To a cousin. To a close friend. To a nephew who “knows someone at the DA’s office.” I let her do her thing. Something in her had straightened up since the hospital, as if she finally understood that a lifetime of prudence was useless when the monster was already inside the house.
In the afternoon, the psychologist, Emily, came over. She didn’t wear a lab coat or have a visible notepad. She arrived with Play-Doh, paper, and a puzzle in a grocery bag, like any regular aunt.
Matthew didn’t want to see her at first, but she didn’t push. She sat on the dining room floor and put together a corner of the puzzle by herself, talking to me about simple things: schedules, food, sleep, how to act if he asked about his mom, what to do if he got mad at me for calling the police, how to support him without invading his space.
“Sometimes fear comes out disguised as a tantrum,” she told me.
Matthew ended up coming closer out of curiosity. He hardly spoke. But he sat six feet away. Then three. Then he put a piece in. By the time Emily left, they had already put together half the blue border of the sky.
“She’s annoying,” he declared.
“Yeah,” I said. “But I think deep down, not so much.”
He thought about it a bit.
“Maybe.”
That night, while my mom was watching a soap opera without absorbing a thing because the volume was on low and her head was somewhere else, I went out to the driveway to take out the trash. The air smelled of dampness and old cooking oil from the diner on the corner. I was heading back when I felt something under my shoe.
An envelope.
White. No name.
It was wedged just inside the gate, as if someone had slipped it in from the outside.
I picked it up and my heart raced.
Inside was a single page torn from a school notebook. Block letters, thick, written with a black marker:
“KIDS SOMETIMES IMAGINE THINGS OUT OF FEAR. DON’T RUIN YOUR EX’S LIFE OVER A WHIM.” Below, another line.
“NEXT TIME THEY’RE GOING TO RETURN HIM TO YOU WORSE.”
I didn’t feel my blood boil. I felt something cleaner.
Absolute cold.
I put the page away without saying anything, went inside, double-locked the door, and went to the bathroom to vomit in silence.
When I came out, Matthew was in the hallway looking at me.
“Does something hurt?”
I wiped my face the best I could.
“No. The coffee just didn’t sit right with me.”
He didn’t believe me. But he didn’t push it, either. He was already learning to read me too well, and that hurt.
I flashed him the most normal smile I could improvise.
“Will you help me check if the porch camera sees well at night?”
That caught his interest. We went to my phone, and I showed him the black-and-white image of the street. He took it on as a mission. He adjusted the brightness, zoomed in, said it looked like a video game. For fifteen minutes, he was just a kid playing at guarding his fortress.
Meanwhile, I thought.
And I made a decision.
The next day, I didn’t wait for them to call me. I went to the DA’s office myself.
I arrived with the letter, the screenshots, the exact time the patrol car came, and the camera footage. Because yes: in the early hours, it had recorded a man approaching the gate and slipping the envelope in. You couldn’t see his full face, but you could see a jacket with reflective stripes and a slight limp in his left leg.
The detective who assisted me initially had a bureaucratic look on her face. The same one I’ve seen so many times. But that expression changed when she read the full threat and then the name of the guy who lived with Sarah.
“What does he do for a living?” she asked me.
“I’m not sure. Private security, I think. Sometimes a driver. Sometimes he ‘fixed things’ for a State Senator, according to him.”
The detective looked up.
“Do you have the Senator’s name?”
I didn’t have it. Or not completely. Just a last name I had once heard in a phone argument while Matthew was doing homework in my living room.
I told her.
And something happened.
Nothing spectacular. Just a slightly longer silence. A call she made from her desk, speaking softly. A colleague who came in, read the name, looked at me, and left without a word.
When I returned home that afternoon, I carried the uncomfortable certainty that this wasn’t going to stop with my ex’s violent boyfriend. There were more people involved. People used to covering for each other.
I didn’t tell my mom everything. I told her enough so she wouldn’t look at me like I was crazy when I asked her not to open the door for anyone, even if they claimed to be “from the court,” “from the school,” or “from the church.” She nodded without arguing, which was extremely rare for her.
Matthew spent the rest of the day better. He drew. He ate half a plate of rice. He laughed when my mom burned a pancake and said a swear word she swore she hadn’t said. For a few hours, things almost seemed normal.
Until the doorbell rang.
The three of us froze.
It wasn’t even a long ring. Just a short, polite one.
I pulled up the camera feed on my phone.
There was a woman outside.
Gray tailored suit. Folder in hand. Hair pulled back. Very proper.
“Yes?” I asked through the intercom.
She looked up right at the camera.
“Good afternoon. I’m from Family Services. I have an urgent notification regarding the case of the minor Matthew Carter.”
My mom grimaced in alarm. Matthew was already standing behind me.
“Leave it in the mailbox,” I said.
The woman smiled faintly.
“I would prefer to deliver it personally, sir. It’s important. It could change the temporary orders.”
I felt Matthew press himself against my back.
“Leave it in the mailbox,” I repeated.
Her smile faded a bit.
“Sir, it’s not in your best interest to refuse an update from the court. Don’t say later that you weren’t warned.”
She bent down as if looking for a place to slip the paper in.
Then she looked up and said something that paralyzed me:
“Besides, Ms. Sarah has already explained that the child tends to make things up when he wants to punish her.”
Matthew let out a tiny whimper behind me. Not crying. Pure terror.
I didn’t care about sounding polite anymore.
“Get the hell away from my house or I’m calling the cops.”
The woman held my gaze through the camera. Then she tucked the folder under her arm.
“The cops don’t always arrive on time, Mr. Carter.”
And she left.
I played the recording back. I zoomed in. I took a picture of her face. Of the license plate on the white car she got into at the end of the street.
When I turned around, Matthew was pale.
“I know her,” he said.
I crouched down immediately.
“From where?”
He swallowed hard.
“I saw her once with Mom. In the parking lot of the man’s building.”
“What man?”
Matthew looked at me like someone who instantly regrets having said too much.
“The one who gave money to him.”
The air in the room shifted.
My mom felt it too. She looked at us both and crossed herself without realizing it.
“What man, sweetie?” she asked with all the gentleness in the world.
Matthew lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper.
“The one who said one day that if I opened my mouth, my dad would lose his job and then he wouldn’t be able to buy me my light-up sneakers anymore.”
I stood completely still.
Not because of the threat.
Because of the detail.
The light-up sneakers.
There was only one season where Matthew talked about those sneakers every day. That was over a year ago. Much earlier than I had imagined. Way, way earlier.
I sat on the floor because my legs stopped holding me up.
My son looked at me, scared.
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said quickly, grabbing his hands again. “No, no, no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing.”
But I was no longer thinking just about Sarah. Or her boyfriend.
Now there was a “man.”
One with money. One who met with them. One who sent women with fake folders and knew how to use the court system as a threat. One who had been close to my son for far longer than I had even suspected.
Matthew started to shake.
I hugged him right there, on the hallway floor, while my mom closed all the windows even though it was still daytime. Outside, a delivery truck drove by, a dog barked, a neighbor put on music—life went on with that same unbearable vulgarity as always.
And I realized something I wish I had never realized.
The night my son came to me begging not to let him go back to his mom, he hadn’t escaped from just a single house.
He had escaped from a network.
And we were barely seeing the edge of it.
