The screaming inside Galen’s head had stopped. He was ready to step outside the awful responsibility of being, ready to accept his inheritance.
The gift of genetics. Depression flowed in his blood.
The plan was memorized. He knew it by heart.
No more failure, no more.
Trepidation fluttered. Pain, there would be pain, but death was the anesthesia. And at the end—salvation. And Papa waiting? Not that it mattered if he wasn’t. Thoughts had no consequences. Only one thought still mattered: tomorrow didn’t exist.
Galen unzipped his old camping duffel, pulled out the scalpel taken from his mother’s supplies, touched the edge. Yes, it was sharp enough. He placed it on the side of the bath, then dug back inside the bag and found the two gray towels. Mom kept these for the dogs; they could be tossed afterward. He flattened the towels alongside the tub. A preventative measure. Less cleanup.
The bathwater rose slowly. Lousy water pressure, as always.
Mom would forgive him. She had tried to understand, but depression was his nemesis. No amount of parenting could change that fact. Eventually Dad would forgive her. Liam would have to manage his anger before he could find forgiveness. Anger was the prism through which Liam saw the world—his first emotion and Galen’s last.
He swept his hand through the water. The temperature was perfect. Hot enough to dilate the blood vessels and make it easier for the tainted blood to pump out. Not so hot that he couldn’t relax. Relax—he breathed—he must relax. Forget the pain of slicing into his flesh, of cutting deep to find the artery.
Warmth traveled up his fingers, into his chest. Reached his heart. The future and the past no longer existed. Life had gone full circle, back to the womb. The end had become the beginning.
Cut with weakest hand first.
No crying out.
Physical pain has purpose.
Water will stop the blood from coagulating so keep arms in the bath.
A lot to hold in his mind.
He stood and dried his hands, and pulled a Ziploc of pills from his jean pocket: his benzodiazepine, some leftover Lunesta and his mother’s Tylenol. A cocktail of oblivion.
If he chickened out of cutting, he would leave the world drunk and stoned. Pills—the worst kind of déjà vu for Mom. He held up the plastic bag and counted. Then he counted again. Order was vital. He placed the Ziploc by the scalpel.
Returning to the duffel, he tugged out the bottle of vodka he’d picked up while buying dog food. He unscrewed the top and swigged. The taste exploded in his throat like a star going supernova. Swallowed, licked his lips, took another gulp—enough to help numb the pain, not enough to make him sloppy.
A.A., something else he’d bombed.
He lined up the bottle next to the pills and the scalpel, and started removing clothing. Folded his T-shirt—refolded, didn’t fold evenly—then his jeans, then his boxers. Yes, that would do: a neat stack on top of the toilet seat. Would Mom keep his clothes or donate them to the thrift store? She never gave up on anything that held the possibility of being recycled.
Sorry I wasn’t strong enough, Mom.
He slid into the bath and sank under the warm water. Holding his breath, he opened his eyes and stared up at the white ceiling—a mosaic through the ripples. Then he imagined his depression-ridden blood seeping out of his veins and hauled himself up through the surface like a sea monster waking from hibernation.
It was time to begin the process of ending his life.
* * *
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed with her iPod, Hannah unplugged the world by plugging in her Chrissie Hynde mix. “Hymn to Her” started playing, and the dogs went crazy.
She tugged out her earbuds and jumped. Will was weaving around in the threshold of her bedroom, barefoot and looking unhinged. Or rather terrified.
“Did something happen to Jacob?” She leaped off her bed and tripped over Daisy.
“No.” Will panted. “Where’s Galen?”
“Working on his poem, he asked for peace and quiet, he...”
Will shook his head vigorously, and Hannah shuddered. Someone just walked over your grave, her mother would say.
“Shut the dogs in my room,” Hannah said.
She sprang up the stairs, two at a time, calling Galen’s name. Blood hammered in her throat. The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed.
Hannah rattled it. Locked. “Galen?” She pounded with her fist. “Open this door.”
“Go a-wwway.”
He was drunk! Thank God, he was just drunk! Flunking out of A.A. was a setback but not insurmountable. She would put him under house arrest—twenty-four-hour surveillance, sleep on his beanbag as she’d done when he was a boy crippled by night terrors. “Sweetheart, I know you’re drinking. You need to let me in so I can help.”
No response. Keep him talking. “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m having. A. Bath.” Galen’s voice grew quieter.
“You haven’t had a bath since you were a kindergartener, sweetheart.”
Will appeared and moved her aside. “What did you say, dude?”
Galen swore and then there was a thud as something hit the bathroom floor.
“We have to get inside, Hannah,” Will said. “Now.”
A frenzy of splashing came from the bathroom—the sounds of desperation. Was Galen trying to drown himself? She looked at the locked door separating her from her son.
“Break it down,” she said to Will, and stepped back.
Will threw his shoulder against the door. He aimed a kick, then another one. Strong, methodical kicks delivered with calm, well-harnessed force.
The door buckled and Will jettisoned himself into the bathroom. Hannah followed and stumbled over a bottle of Grey Goose lying on the ceramic tile floor. Galen had taken the time to buy the good stuff?
He was frantically searching for something in the bathwater.
The pink bathwater.
Hannah screamed, but Galen ignored her. He grabbed a Ziploc of pills from the side of the bath, opened it and shoved a handful into his mouth as if he were eating a fistful of Skittles. Blood from the three-inch gouge that ran down his forearm to his wrist smeared over his face. For an instant, he looked like a vampire.
There was nothing halfhearted about the slash.
Galen reached for the vodka, even though the bottle was nearly empty, but Will was faster and sober. He kicked the bottle backward, snatched the plastic bag from Galen and threw it into the hallway. Pills scattered.
Galen slumped into the water and slurped like a wild beast drinking from a stream. Then he tossed back his head and swallowed. Hannah tasted vomit and breathed hard.
She grabbed Galen’s right arm, but her fingers slipped through the blood. A spatter hit her across the chest.
Clean cut, fresh wound. Blood hasn’t had time to coagulate.
“Go. Away.” Galen’s words were heavy.
She lunged for his left forearm, held on and flipped it over. Not even a scratch. They’d interrupted him, but one severed radial artery could still prove fatal. He could exsanguinate, bleed to death. She must raise his arm.
Galen teetered to standing, sloshing water over her.
Please God, please Dad, help me, please help me.
Will sprung at Galen, half catching, half restraining him. Galen moaned, clearly from pain, but Hannah wanted screams. She wanted a battle cry that shouted, I will fight to live.
“It’s over, buddy.” Will’s voice was almost melodic. There was no judgment, no anger, no horror. “I’m going to help you get out of the bath.”
Galen went limp in Will’s arms.
Will tugged his iPhone out of his back pocket and handed it to her. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t send her son back to the psych ward. She’d promised....
“Tourniquet.” She wiped blood down her leg and took the phone. Her son had slit his wrist and she was worrying about cleaning off her fingers before using Will’s phone?
“On it,” Will replied. He unbuckled his belt with one hand and whipped it out through the belt loops.
Belt, good. She wouldn’t have thought of that.
Will wrapped his belt around and around Galen’s bicep. He pulled tight, and the blood flow slowed to a trickle.
“Please. Don’t.” Galen rested his head on Will’s shoulder and stared at the phone in her right hand. “Can’t go back.” He closed his eyes.
Hannah started hitting bumps on the side of the phone. All that Apple technology yet nothing said on. A round button, at the bottom of the screen. She pushed, and the screen lit up with the face of a giggling brown-haired boy. Will’s son, unlike hers, was full of life. Slide to unlock, the screen said. She did.
“You. Promised.” Galen’s voice faded; his arm had begun to turn purple.
Hannah turned her back on her son and hit 9-1-1 on the keypad. Galen was an adult, but he had relinquished the ability to look after himself. As his mother, she was claiming that right. She was picking up what he had tossed away. One day, he would forgive her. And if he didn’t? She would know that she had saved his life.
Hannah’s right hand began to convulse.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” The woman sounded nice. Was she a mother, too?
More splashing. Hannah glanced over her shoulder as Will hauled her naked son out of the bath. Galen had a superficial wound on his calf. Had he cut himself while fumbling in the water for the blade? Will took a step back and lost his footing in a spill of fresh blood. He and Galen landed in a heap.
She needed to find the pills, give them to the EMS as evidence. How much blood had he lost? Enough to bleed out? How many pills had he swallowed? Enough to prove fatal? How much vodka had he drunk? Enough to poison himself?
“Hello?” the operator said.
“My son tried to kill himself,” Hannah said. The words came from someone else—another mother talking about another son.
Will yanked off his T-shirt and held it over Galen’s wound. Will’s torso was muscular, toned; Galen’s was skeletal. She could count his ribs. Two bare-chested men huddled on a once-white bathmat. An embrace in blood spatters.
She answered the operator’s questions, but her eyes moved up to Will’s face and stayed there. He stared back until she finished the call.
“Why?” she said to Galen. “Why did you do it?”
“Why did you stop me?”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect your life.”
“You succeeded.” Galen sniffed. “Panicked. Dropped the scalpel.”
“Scalpel?”
“Yours. How about that?”
Hannah stared into murky bathwater and there, on the floor of the tub, was a familiar, shiny object. “No,” she whispered, then swallowed. “I need the number for your therapist. Right now, Galen.”
“Don’t have one.”
“You lied?”
“Lot of that going around.”
“But I trusted you.”
“Yeah. Well. Trusted you, too.” Galen began to shiver. “Cold.”
Hannah yanked one of the white bath sheets from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and, squatting down, wrapped the towel around Galen and Will. Will gave her hand a quick squeeze. She leaned forward to touch Galen, but he retreated into Will.
“Stay. Away.”
Had she saved her son’s life but lost him, anyway?
There was a large puddle on the floor—a soup of water, vodka and blood that needed cleaning up before it leaked through to the kitchen ceiling. And why was there a neatly folded stack of clothes on the commode? Galen would never fold his clothes.
Galen crumpled and Hannah gasped. Will eased him to the floor, keeping the slashed right arm raised above his head.
“I need you to go down to the kitchen and find a wooden spoon,” Will said. “Something I can use as a dowel to tighten the tourniquet.”
She didn’t move. The bathroom was quiet, but outside the open window the night was alive with the sounds of crickets and frogs. The owl hooted four times.
“Now, Hannah. You understand?”
She nodded.
“Then I want you to wait on the porch for the first responders. One of us needs to tell them where to come,” Will said. “Okay?”
Okay? Her breath came in short, angry bursts.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
“How do you know, Will?” All her medical knowledge, and she was seeking advice from a novelist. “How do you know?”
“I think we found him in time. I’m going to position him on his side, in case he vomits.”
Right, good.
She tried to move but her body refused. This wasn’t meant to happen, not to her baby. She had pictured death as an old friend, welcomed it with peace, built her career around that belief. But there was nothing peaceful about the scene in the bathroom. Hell, they were in hell.
“Go now.” Will’s voice was stronger.
His face was unreadable. Had he done this before, with his mother—held her through some uncontrollable fit of madness? Because this, surely, was madness.
“Keep talking to him.” Hannah swiped the back of her hand under her nose. “Tell him to fight. Tell him I love him.”
She ran down the stairs, Will’s phone still in her hand. Call Inigo, she must call Inigo. Have him meet her at the hospital. Call Poppy, have her call Liam. Someone had to call Liam. Find out which hospital. Could they deny her entry if Galen refused to see her? She had no legal rights; Galen was over twenty-one. Would she ever hug her son again? Would he ever choose to hug her?
She raced into the kitchen and tugged open the large drawer next to the oven. A wooden spoon, she needed a wooden spoon. Tongs, spatulas and pasta servers clattered to the floor as she discarded them. No spoon.
“Fuck!” she screamed, and dumped out the contents of the drawer. “Fuck!”
The cat shot from the window seat with an indignant meow.
She stood still and stared at the mess. Game over. She was exhausted, exhausted from the effort of tiptoeing through Galen’s life, exhausted from breathing through the tension that pressed on her chest day after day, exhausted from worrying about her own mental state as well as her son’s. She was exhausted, and she needed help.
She punched numbers into the keypad.
“Well, well, well.” Poppy answered straightaway. “And why is Will Shepard calling me at nine o’clock at night? Want company in the outside shower?”
“I need—” Hannah sobbed “—help.”
“Han? Are those sirens in the background?”
“Galen tried to...tried to... I have to call Inigo—”
“No. I’ll deal with Inigo. Be there in five.”
“Thank you,” Hannah whispered, but Poppy had hung up.
The sirens were getting closer. Hannah ran back into the hallway and out through the front door. The night heaved with humidity, and heat lightning flashed over Miss Prissy’s pasture.
Red lights appeared and disappeared and then the first vehicle pulled in front of her house. It belonged to the volunteer fire department.
* * *
Wailin’. Someone were wailin’. Jacob sat up and looked around. This weren’t his shack and it weren’t Hawk’s Ridge. Not too sure where he was.... Didn’t do to panic when he woke. If he took a few minutes, he could figure out where he was just fine. No moonlight comin’ through them big windows. Crack of light under the door, though. Lights left on at night was such a waste, but Willie insisted.
Been havin’ another of them bad dreams about Freddie. So bad it must’ve woke him up, despite that pill Willie made him take. The boy tried to slip him an extra one, but weren’t no way he were takin’ two. Spat the second one out when Willie weren’t lookin’. Didn’t need more drugs scramblin’ his busted brain.
That dream catcher weren’t workin’ too good. Had to push back them bad thoughts hisself. Couldn’t tell Willie about the nightmares. Imagine how upset the boy would be. Freddie were the only reason his Willie smiled these days.
Colored lights flashed. Outside, all manner of noise—doors slammin’, people talkin’ real loud, but the cottage were quiet as a cemetery. He should know. Spent half his life alone with dead people. Death were his business. He should go check on Will, make sure that boy weren’t frettin’ on the porch again. Always been a creature of the night, his son, but when nighttime hit these days, Will grew more restless than a caged owl with clipped wings. Worryin’ about his daddy, no doubt. And missin’ Freddie, him being so far away.
Took a while to get out of bed and into the hall. Goddamn useless body.
“Willie,” he called down the stairs. Nothing. Must be Fourth of July with all them flashes of colored lights. Didn’t smell no gunpowder, though. Didn’t hear no bangs.
He walked down the stairs real slow. Used the rail. Didn’t want to fall and give Will more to worry about. His Will sure acted like a man with a lot to worry about.
Jacob shuffled across the main room to the door. The lights were brighter downstairs. And red. Red flashin’ lights. He tried to yell, Will! but the word caught in his throat. With each pulse of red light, he saw Angeline, his dear, sweet Angeline. Angeline on the floor, arm flung out, reachin’ for him. She weren’t breathin’.
Where was his dear, sweet Angeline? He must get to her. She needed him.
He opened the door, but his legs wouldn’t work. Willie were there! Didn’t have a shirt on. Vehicles. Lots of emergency vehicles. Rescue vehicles. Thank you, Jesus. Come for his Angeline, his dear sweet Angeline. But they needed to come in, they needed to help her. She were on the floor, not breathin’.
“Will!” He held up his hand. “Willie! Your mama needs help. She’s inside.”
What were takin’ him so long? His mama needed help now!
“Willie!”
“Dad!” Will looked exhausted. Didn’t get enough sleep, his boy. Up all hours workin’ on some story, no doubt. Been that way since he could hold a pencil.
Why was they both outside? And him in his pajamas, too.
“Everything’s fine. Stay there, Dad. I’m coming.” Will tapped the medic on the arm, then jogged across the yard. Such a good runner, his Will. Ran with the grace and speed of a wild stallion, but where was his shoes?
“Your mama okay, son?”
Will gave him a funny look. Did he say somethin’ wrong? He turned his head from the flashin’ lights. Too bright. And sirens now. He couldn’t smell fire, but there were a fire truck. And Willie, he had red paint on him. What were that boy up to now? Such a wild one, his son.
He grabbed Will’s arm. “Where’s the fire, son?”
“It’s okay, no fire.”
“You’re wet, son. You need to come inside, get some dry clothes and a bowl of soup. Why you half-naked?”
“Galen had an accident, and I gave him my T-shirt. But he’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
Willie didn’t look fine. He were all pale. He shouldn’t be half-naked with ladies around, neither.
“Who’s Galen?”
“Hannah’s son.” Will hesitated. “Hey You’s son.”
“Ah. Crazy One.”
Willie looked real upset. “You can’t call him that.”
“Hey You does. She chose that nickname. Where’s Hey You?”
Will nodded at the ambulance.
“Crazy One gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I think that’s up to him.”
A painted car screeched up to the cottage, and, well, he never. There were Poppy, the brightest comet blazin’ across the sky. She were frownin’, though, and dressed real funny. In pajamas? ’Course, young women wore the strangest clothes nowadays.
* * *
Grabbing her phone, Poppy flung open the driver’s door and flew at Will. She gagged, covered her mouth, tried not to barf. Blood, he had blood smeared on his abs and sprayed on his jeans. Like a pinup for the Spartan army.
“Galen?” she whispered through her fingers.
“Unconscious but alive. Only had time to slit one wrist.”
Her heart raced like a runaway truck on a mountain pass. Until she died, Han would have to live with the knowledge that one of her sons had planned his own death. “Han?” She swallowed. “Where’s Hannah?”
“Went in the ambulance with Galen.”
Will eased her aside. He leaned into the Civic, turned off the engine and handed her the keys. Thunder rumbled in the distance. If she knew how, she would pray.
Since the beginning of the summer, when Galen had confessed there was nothing to live for, she should have known this day would come. She should have known to break confidence and tell Hannah. She just should have known. Instead, she’d made a catastrophic error that had nearly cost Galen his life. And yet, she could make amends, tug on her big-girl boots, step up for Hannah.
“I need to call Inigo.” Poppy waved her cell around. “Which hospital?”
Will massaged his forehead. “UNC.”
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he said.
Poppy didn’t believe him. Not for one blink.
“Poppy!” Jacob shuffled over, smiling. “Bit late for a paintin’ lesson, ain’t it?”
Will moved quickly to grasp his dad’s elbow. “Come on, old man, let’s get you inside.”
“Don’t let your mama hear you callin’ me old.”
“No, sir.” Will gave a tired smile, glanced her way. “Come with us, Poppy. You and I have to talk.”
She trailed behind Will. Speaking quietly, he helped Jacob inside and upstairs. She couldn’t make out words, just the tone—gentle, supportive. Such patience Will had—with his dad, with Miss Prissy. Yes, she’d seen him cooing at her horse when he thought no one was watching. Galen did the same thing. Her dear, sweet Galen.
Focus, girl, focus.
She threw her keys into one of the armchairs, blinked back a stray tear, dialed Inigo’s home phone. Matt picked up. A devoted ex-student of Inigo’s, Matt was a sweet guy who adored Galen and Liam, and could be a total man-bitch on the subject of Hannah.
“Matt? It’s Poppy. Can you talk privately?”
“Sure thing, babe. What’s up?”
“You need to get Inigo to the UNC E.R. Galen’s fine, but he tried to kill himself.”
A shriek and a thump as something fell. “W-what happened?”
“Slit wrist—only one. Hannah got to him before he...did the other one.”
“But we thought he was doing better. Hannah told us—”
“No. You’re not going there, Matt. None of us are playing the blame game. You hear me?”
Matt blew into the phone.
“You hear me?” Oh, yeah, she could do righteous indignation. She was ending this shit before it began. “Galen had us all fooled, and Inigo should understand that better than anyone.” She paused. Matt said nothing. “You need to tell Inigo that Galen’s okay, but his condition is likely serious. You also need to give Inigo this message from me: if he goes after Hannah, I’ll castrate him with a hoof pick. Capisce, babe?”
She hung up and started to shake. She needed to get to the hospital before Inigo. Protect Han all the way.
“I swear, Inigo, if you...” she muttered.
Hurry up, Will, hurry up.
In her mind, Poppy saw the tousled-headed toddler waddling around with a book saying, “Read to me, Poppeeee. Puh-leeze.” Apart from an unhealthy bank account and a string of disastrous love affairs caused by her for-shit taste in men, she’d led an enchanted life. No family crises, no death except for grandparents when she was too young to care. But Galen...
On the coffee table, a bottle of Wild Turkey with a glass. She poured a shot, tossed it back and poured a second. Two wouldn’t impair her driving. Not really.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
She spun around like a kid caught stealing five dollars from her mother’s purse, which, admittedly, she’d only done once, but she’d never forgotten the look on her mama’s face. Will had that look now. She hadn’t realized before how serious he was, how responsible. Kinda like Hannah.
Oh, he’d put on a sweatshirt. Changed his jeans, too.
Poppy tipped back her drink and swallowed. “Talk to me so I can get out of here.”
Will threw himself into an armchair. “She was awesome. Totally awesome.”
Curious start. “What happened?”
“Slit one wrist, dropped the scalpel in the bath before he could do the second. Took vodka and pills, too, but we have no idea how many or what.”
Something about the way he said we got under her skin.
“Clearly he planned it.” Will pulled forward and collapsed around the waist. His arms hung between his knees.
“How do you know?”
“Writers trade in details. The details tell me it was well orchestrated.”
Poppy eased herself down onto the arm of his chair.
“Yesterday, when we went climbing, Galen was too calm for a first-timer,” Will said. “He listened, followed my instructions, but he had no fear, and that made me nervous. A guy only has one reason to not be afraid on a cliff face—he doesn’t care. I should have paid more attention.”
“Me, too.” Poppy sagged. “The rock climbing didn’t feel right. Galen hates sports. For twenty-two years he’s been Mr. Cautious, choosing to live through words, not risk.” She stared at the world map, at all the colored stars she’d stuck on, at all the colored lines she’d drawn to show Freddie’s route. Poor Will. He must want to hug his own kid so bad right now.
“You know, when Galen was Freddie’s age, I lived in an apartment complex with a pool. Galen swam like a shark, but nothing I said could coax him into the deep end.” Poppy hesitated. “On some level, I knew he was suicidal months ago. Should’ve told Han. Didn’t.”
Will glanced up. Pillow talk she could do, but the way he looked at her felt way too honest. And they were sitting way too close.
“Please don’t share that fact with Hannah,” Will said. “She’s going to need you like she’s never needed you before.”
How could she have been such a dimwit? How could she have missed the obvious? Will didn’t act like a cornered animal around her because he’d seen her shake her booty. It was because he’d seen the wrong woman naked. Even someone with her track record in commitment—two words, married men—could see Will was a keeper, a stud-muffin with a heart. And she’d thought—well, fantasized—that maybe, maybe if she moved in with Jacob, Will would visit more and more frequently until he realized...
“Can I could fix you something?” Poppy jumped up. “A hot toddy? A hot chocolate?”
“I’m worried about Hannah.”
Right. They were going to forge ahead, have the conversation.
“I’ll call you from the hospital.” Poppy kept her voice bright.
“What if I went and you stayed here, with my dad.”
“Hannah’s my best friend, Galen’s my godson. I have to go.”
“But can you drive?” He nodded at her glass. “I can’t let you go if you’ve been drinking.”
Normally she would rip into a guy for a comment like that, but from Will it was sweet. Why did he have to be sweet? Bastards were more of her territory. “I’m a big girl, really. I know my limits.”
“Man, she was incredible tonight. So strong.”
“That’s Han. Shit together all the way, but don’t be fooled. Inside she’s a mess. Galen wrote a poem about it once.”
“I know. She doesn’t look after herself.” He gave a shadow of a smile. “Galen calls her a people pleaser with shitty boundaries.”
Poppy screwed the top onto the bottle of Wild Turkey. Damn it to hell and back. He didn’t just have the hots for her best friend, he’d gone and fallen in love, hadn’t he? Well, he’d better be there for Hannah every step; he’d better treat her like the best woman in the world, because she was. And after that shit Inigo, Han deserved...she deserved someone like Will. “On second thought—” Poppy turned. “I don’t think I’m safe to drive. Would you go in my place?”
Will leaped up.
“But you’ve got to promise you’ll take care of her and promise you’ll deal with Inigo. He’s beyond a prima donna. Class A drama queen. I don’t want him dicking her around, making things worse. Promise?”
“Promise.” Will gave her a dry kiss on the cheek. “You can sleep in my room.”
Lie in sheets that had touched his body? Nuh-uh. “Nah. I don’t sleep much. Prefer the sofa and movies-on-demand. Don’t worry about a thing. And I won’t drink, I swear. But text me when you get there. Let me...let me know my baby’s okay.”
“Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“De nada. Go!” She flicked him away and walked into the powder room to cry alone.