Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chicago: October 9, 1918

Behind the hospital's emergency gate, I mutter to myself as I carefully scurry outside pressing my back flat against the wall in the dark alley. The Chicago Daily Herald reads, "City Health Commissioner declares Chicago a 'closed' city." He commands that everyone with the disease must remain inside their homes to isolate the infection and keep it from spreading. I laugh to myself from delirium. My father is gone, and my mother is in a packed, two-hundred-bed ward dying from this horrendous illness.

Nothing will contain this epidemic.

Rushing home, I sink into the darkness trying to keep myself from being seen by the authorities. The superintendent wants all schools open and students to continue with their classes so they can monitor any illness with the doctors and nurses available during the day. We dress in our outer clothing not to get a 'chill,' while the heaters soar and the windows remain open. Their reasoning is to keep the air circulating with fresh, cold air, but keep us warm enough as not to bring on any disease. If they find me, they will escort me home to 'stay' or drag me off to my high school.

TWO WEEKS AGO

Sitting at my school desk, I listen to the dribble. The teacher nervously recites her rehearsed speech, wringing her hands and walking back and forth, "Now, young men and women, we know the conditions are difficult, but we are here for the greater good of our city. Should a loved one fall to the fate of this dreaded illness, you must inform me, or one of the staff. We will send someone to your home to assess their health. Should you feel ill or show any of the symptoms, we must be apprised of your situation and provide you care."

When the bell rings, I walk out the door. I do not need these people to 'assess' my situation. I am more useful at home, caring for my parents.

As I quietly enter the house, I can hear my mother in the kitchen chopping something. I throw my books, coat, and hat into my room, and walk down the hallway. I peek into my parent's room and see my father lying in bed, breathing heavily under the covers. He looks bad with dark circles under his eyes, hollow cheeks, and his skin is ashen and drawn, his hair sticks to his forehead from the fever and, when I get closer, his chest rattles as he slowly breathes in and out.

There is a loud crash. I run into the kitchen, finding my mother a crying mess holding carrots, celery, and onions to her chest on the floor with her legs out in front of her. The soup pot is in the corner on its side.

I bend to help her, and she startles. "Edward, you scared me."

"I am sorry; I did not mean to frighten you. I heard the crash," I say and give her a hand to rise. I then retrieve the pot and place it on the countertop.

"I was cutting the vegetables for a soup, and my hands were wet. I did not get a good grip on the pot. That's why it fell."

I nod.

She puts the vegetables in the sink and continues to cry, covering her face with her hands. I grab one hand as she wraps the other around my waist. "I cannot make him better. No matter what I do he is weaker."

"He needs a doctor," I quietly say.

"Your father is against that. He says they do not know what they are doing with this illness," she moans. "He will not allow me to bring a doctor."

"And in the meantime, he lies in bed getting worse. He needs medical attention, Mother. He cannot remain in bed without a checkup, even I realize that. I can return to school and bring someone."

She cries, "Please, Edward, do not do that. Your father will be furious with you and me."

I angrily shout, "And what good will he be if he dies, Mother?"

"I can not go against his wishes," she sadly defends.

A week later, my father dies.

I shake my head and roughly cough.

I must return with my mother's pink sweater. She asks so little of me and shivers so. I did not want to leave her side, but Dr. Cullen consented to stay with her until my return.

The wind is harsh for early October, and I wrap my woolen scarf closer to my frigid face. Unfortunately, with clumsy, gloved hands, I knock my bowler from my head, feeling the sting of the freezing air burning the tips of my ears. As I bend, I raise my head to see flashing blue lights coming in my direction, and I slide back into the darkness. Once the cruiser passes, I quickly run across the street, make my way through the neighborhood, and up the four, white concrete steps onto my porch and catch my breath.

We have a modest, three-bedroom home. The front facade has a double 'A' frame roof, and three, diamond-pane, bay windows on the right side with a large picture window and two smaller pane windows on the left under the porch roof. The red brick is a bit worn, and the white wooden borders and columns are dull from age. Hastily, I remove a glove and shove the key into the lock. The door opens, and the warmth comforts as I enter the vestibule. I waste no time taking long strides down the narrow hallway to my parent's room.

My mother's sweater lies neatly across the foot of the four-post, mahogany bed. The shiny pearls around the neckline glitter from the light and stand out against the dark, navy bedspread. I smile and bring it to my nose to inhale her perfume, saying a prayer that she will survive this.

When I close my eyes, I still see my father lying helpless in the bed. For an educated man, he certainly would not bend to reason, stubborn to a fault. I am his son in so many ways.

I clear my throat, cough into my hand, and take my leave from the room.

Back into the shadows, I find my way to the ward. Dr. Cullen sits by my mother's side as she clings to his hand. When I approach them, I see her tears.

"Mother?" I softly say.

She tries to speak, but her coughing interrupts her. Barely a whisper, she struggles, "Edward."

Dr. Cullen stands and offers me the chair. I thank him, sit and take my mother's hand in mine. "I brought you your sweater." I place it on the blanket.

With her hands over her mouth, she coughs again, "I see, thank you." She stares at Dr. Cullen. His amber eyes sadly smile, and he excuses himself with the silent promise of his return. He stops a nurse, pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to her.

She walks toward us wearing protective gloves and a scarf around her mouth. She prepares a cup of water at my mother's bedside. She hands me a scarf. As she helps Mother take a sip, she explains, "It would be safer for you to place this over your nose and mouth, young man."

Thanking her, I accept the scarf and tie it at the back of my head. Her eyes smile, and she tends to the next patient making her rounds.

My mother quietly sleeps with a rattle to her breathing.

Dr. Cullen checks on her pulse and nods. "How are you feeling, Edward?"

I look around. "I am fine. The question is,how is my mother?"

"She is gravely ill, I'm afraid," he informs, then deeply sighs. "As your father did, she took too long to receive medical attention. Her breathing is labored, and she is very weak, Edward. I have tried to make her comfortable."

I nod my head in realization.

Someone calls his name, he walks away, and Mother slowly opens her eyes. She motions for me to come closer. I stand over her with my ear to her mouth, holding her cold hands.

She pleads, "Edward, allow Dr. Cullen to help you." She lightly squeezes my hand. "I love you, my son."

"I love you, too, Mother."

"You have to promise me, Edward." She is frantic.

"Anything. I will do anything you ask," I reassure. "Please, Mother, do not excite yourself."

"If the time should come, please, my son, allow Carlisle to be there for you. Don't question. Just do as he asks of you. Promise me."

"I promise."

I turn to look at her. "I do promise. Please, Mother, rest."

She smiles. "I love you, Edward.

Her hand goes limp in mine.

I look at her lifeless face.

I know she is gone.

I have to get out of here.

Pulling the scarf from my head, I throw it onto her bed and run. Dr. Cullen calls out for me, but I do not turn, and I continue to exit the building. My legs strain as I force myself home, heaving large gulps of air into my burning lungs and hysterically crying. I crash into the front door and lean my head on the window as I struggle with the key. Flinging the door open, I slam it shut, and stand in the archway of my music room.

I peel my coat from my tired body and allow it to drop to the floor, taking small steps to my piano. It's a beautiful instrument, standing upright with dark, mahogany wood. Dating back to the mid eighteen hundreds, it is quite ornate, with its Victorian heritage and style. As I sit on the bench, allowing my tears to pool in rivulets down my cheeks, I run my hands over the front three panels above the keys, and they stagger in the middle. It has a heart design with curved branches of wings. How apropos. I outline the design with my trembling fingers as I gaze at each loop and twist. I begin to scream from my pain and loss before collapsing onto the keys.

My cries echo throughout the empty house. Yes, empty.

I am alone.

October, 14, 1918

For five days, I roam from room to room. My nonexistent appetite forbids me nourishment, and I drink hot, bland tea trying to rid the flame from my throat and chest. My head pounds down my aching backbone, each joint twinges with every cough; my vision blurs from the dizziness and to stand is a struggle from my lack of sleep.

My only companion is my music. I play morning until night. Empty tea cups line in a spiral on the round, marble top table near the settee. I close my eyes and picture Mother and Father sitting on the red, velvet, tufted and buttoned fabric listening as I serenade them withChopin's, 'Spring Waltz' orBeethoven's, 'Ode to Joy'. I can almost hear their applauds of praise, and feel my father squeeze of my shoulder and Mother's kiss on my cheek.

Sadly, I will never see them again.

I'm seventeen years old. My dreams to join the army and serve my country are no longer my future. Or to study and follow in my father's footsteps as an attorney, or have a wife or father a child … I carefully chuckle … sadly smile … a virgin never to know the pleasure of a woman's touch.

I have yet to utter a word for fear I will not find another breath.

Am I to die alone?

There is a knock on the door. I look up, dragging myself to the hallway and staring down its length.

"Edward, please open the door," I hear.

Frozen in my stance, I waver and begin to fall.

With great speed, the door bursts open and Dr. Cullen saves me from the floor.

Sometime later, I open my eyes. I am now in my bedroom, and with the help of a dim light I can somewhat focus on Dr. Cullen's waiting face. He sits, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs.

"How do you feel?"

When I take a breath to speak, my chest feels lighter. I swallow. "A bit faint, but not like before."

"I have given you morphine to help with the pain," he quietly says.

"It is very hot in here, Dr. Cullen."

"You have a fever, Edward."

"I havethe fever."

We stare at one another, and he slowly nods.

"My mother spoke of you," I say without looking away from his face. "She told me you would help me."

"Yes, she asked me to spare your life."

"I-I don't understand."

I watch him carefully as he stands and paces behind the chair, stops and leans a hand onto the back, where his suit jacket hangs. He runs the other through his blonde hair and straightens his vest. "Your mother believed I was someone of difference."

I frown. "And are you?"

He paces, sighs, and looks at me. "Yes."

"And what is it about you that can save me?" I question.

"I can spare your existence, Edward. It will not be easy, and there will be pain, but you will be of this earth. You will have great strength, resist illness, and I will be there to help you to adjust," he softly answers.

"Again, I am at a disadvantage of not understanding," I barely say through a coughing fit.

Dr. Cullen blurs to my side with incredible speed. I feel the illness as it warps my vision, but I recall his swiftness in the hallway.

"Edward, I did give my word to your mother, but should you not want me to help you, then I will leave this as your decision," he seems to struggle with his words.

I state, "I am to assume this is a painful process."

"There will be three days when your body goes through these changes."

"And what are these … no, I would rather not know. I would function as you do?"

"In time; you will need to adjust to your new existence. I will not leave your side, should you choose," he again reassures me.

The morphine wears off as I feel my energy flow from me and rise into smoke overhead. I hold on to any last grip and stare at Dr. Cullen. "My mother had great faith in you, Dr. Cullen. I have but few breaths. Then, do it before it is too late."

He leans over me. "You will not be alone."

He tears into my neck with razor, sharp teeth, biting hard and deep into my skin through my jugular. I feel his labored breath as he holds my head and shoulders down with little effort, expelling a low growl. My eyes freeze open, and I stare at the ceiling. I feel the vapors seep back into my body.

At first, the bite pierces with a slight tingle and builds to a fiery burn, as though acid runs through my veins. I want to scream, but the exhaustion surrounds me, and I fade into my thoughts and then into dreams.

An echo of Dr. Cullen's voice surrounds me. "Edward, I have sealed your wound. You will be without a scar, but you will feel the burn. And I wish I could make this easier for you, but it will get worse before it lessens. Try to occupy your thoughts with pleasurable events from your past. Busy your mind as this passes. I am here. I willnot leave you."

Through clenched teeth, I violently shake and stutter, "W-what is going on with me?"

"My venom is flowing through your veins, Edward. It's slowly passing through your system killing off your bodily functions, killing off the disease, and changing your structure."

"Your venom? To w-what am I changing into, Dr. Cullen?" I breathe heavily and continue to shake.

"All I can say is that you will be immortal. I am your sire, your father. Please, concentrate, and take yourself away from the pain, Edward. Transcend your thoughts beyond the physical."

"But Dr. Cullen …"

"No, Carlisle or father. Please, do as I say."

I lick my lips and concentrate, and think of my mother's words. "If the time should come, please, my son, allow Carlisle to be there for you. Don't question. Just do as he asks of you. Promise me."

I close my eyes and drift, fade away thinking, 'I promise.'

I smile … my piano.

I sit on the edge of the bench barely able to reach the floor pedals. My teacher waving a wand to the metronome on the round end table, as I do the scales on the keys, over and over.

"You are performing quite well, Edward," she musically says.

I run my hands through my tousled hair and continue to play. "I like this, Miss Havenstall."

"You are a natural, young man."

She disappears.

A slight movement catches my eye. There is a young girl, about my tender age of six, sitting on the floor drawing on a booklet of paper with a large, black crayon. Cascades of her brown, wavy hair run down her back and sides, prohibiting any view of her face. She hums what I am playing with what I believe to be a hint of a small smile.

I stop, yet she continues the scales; her voice like a tinkling bell in perfect pitch. She lifts her head towards me, and I smile in recognition. Her large, brown eyes stare into my green. My forever dream girl, Isabella, is with me. She always comes to me in my hour of need. A companion I believe to be of time and space who happily invades my imaginings and thoughts.

I widely smile at her.

She protests, "Don't stop playing, Edward. I love it when we both do what we love … together."

"What are you drawing?" I begin to play.

She looks up at me in surprise. "You, I always draw you, my Edward." A huge smile brightens her beautiful, heart-shaped face. Her sparkling eyes crinkle with her laughter.

Smiling, I glance in her directions seeing my likeness and again surprised by her accuracy.

"Will you play my song, please, Edward?"

I smugly say, "Of course, my Isabella."

I tickle the ivories, and her sweet lullaby fills the room. Isabella's giggles follow along as she rises and dances circles around me with her hair flowing through the air and her skirt twirling around her legs.

She pleads, "Please, Edward, dance with me."

"Then, we will have no music."

"When I am with you, there is always music. I can always hear your piano playing in my head."

She begins to hum and we both circle around the room. She takes my hands, and we spin together. "That's not so bad."

I concede, "No, it is not."

Until we speed up and fall on the floor.

We laugh.

"I brought us cookies. Would you like some?" she asks.

"Did you make them?"

"Yes, with Mrs. Cope. She has many recipes."

We stay on the floor, she hands me the brown bag of cookies near her booklet, as she continues drawing.

I take a bite and hum in delight, "My favorite."

"There are five oatmeal raisin and five sugar." She sheepishly smiles, "There were twelve."

I laugh and extend the bag to her.

"No, I want you to have the rest. So, hurry and eat and, pleasssse, play some more," she shyly begs.

I shove two cookies into my full mouth and go back to the bench. I swallow hard and ask, "What do you want to hear?"

"What can you play?

I boldly boast, "Anything."

She nods, and I play Brahms Lullaby. Isabella makes up words,

"Lullaby sleep baby sleep lie down and grab your feet."

She giggles.

"Listen to Edward play, and I could do that all day."

She giggles and stands near me.

"What do you think?"

I turn to the portrait. "I think you could draw me in your sleep."

She agrees, "I think so, too."

October 15, 1918

The vision fades, and I feel cold.

"Edward, I've placed ice and cold compresses around and on you. Do you feel more comfortable?" Carlisle asks.

"I'm consumed in flames on the inside, Carlisle, and frozen as an ice sculpture on my skin, but thank you. How long has it been?" I shiver.

"A day has passed, my son. You have shown great strength and courage," he proudly informs. "Yet, you laughed and imitated piano movements with your fingers."

I strain, "I have done what you asked, Carlisle, Father. I have gone beyond the physical."

"Then, return, Edward. I am here. I will not leave you."

Melting into the heat and forgoing the frigid tremors, I stand in the center of Isabella's bedroom. Turning in a circle, I view her drawings of me all over her white walls; from pencil to crayons, charcoal and paint, front portraits, left and right profiles, close ups of my face and full body shots. I am in awe.

At ten-years old, she has command of her talent. The drawings are questionable, they could pass for photographs. There is something in my eyes that shows through to my soul. I look likable, confident, and very good-looking.

I turn to her and ask, "Do I really look like this?"

"To me, you do." she happily replies.

I continue to follow each drawing taking in her surroundings. Her room is pristine clean. Everything in its place.

Her bed has a canopy of white eyelet and lace to match her many pillows and bedspread.

An easel with a blank canvas sits on the shelf with her drawing utensils in a wooden box on the floor. It is in the corner near a staircase.

"Where does the staircase lead?"

"Since I am on the third floor, there is one more room, an observatory above me, the cupola. When I can't sleep at night, or I don't want to hear the shouting, I go up and watch the stars." She blushes. "Maybe, I'll take you up one day."

"I would like that."

"You would? You can see out the surrounding octagon of windows, and the moon over the lake, the tree tops or watch the neighbors." She looks devilish.

"And they don't see you?"

"On the contrary, they entertain with a purpose. I'm getting quite an education on human behavior. You know, no one is home. We could go … up." She points upward biting her bottom lip.

I follow Isabella as we climb the stairs. The view takes my breath away. I can see clearly on the other side of the lake. The water glitters from the noon sun. A neighbor prunes her roses, and another swims in his pool.

We lie on the floor looking up at the steepled ceiling. "I could stay like this forever."

I fall asleep, only to awaken in the backyard. I step into a garden like none I have ever seen in my years. Isabella's huge, white house is in the background, but I walk up a stone path to a curved, ivy trellis archway in the opposite direction. Once I pass through, there are rows of shrubs, possibly a labyrinth of tall hedges. Roses of many colors frame the perimeter, and I feel that the Queen of Hearts might come from out of nowhere yelling, "Off with his head!"

"Oh, stop dawdling, Edward, and come sit by me," a voice orders.

I smile when I see Isabella sitting on a red and white checkered blanket with a feast before me. She's older. Maybe sixteen or seventeen, wearing blue jeans and a pale-colored camisole. Her shoulders are bare, and I stare at her porcelain skin. I sigh and long to touch.

She waves her arms around and points. "Mrs. Cope and I have prepared you a grand lunch."

She reaches up and pulls me down to sit next to her.

"You're always trying to feed me."

She shrugs. "Mrs. Cope thinks you are too thin. 'He has become lanky; tall with very little meat on his bones,' she says. But Edward, I like the way you are."

I broadly smile. "I like the way you are, too."

She returns my smile and digs through the picnic basket.

"What, no drawing, today?"

"I always have my head buried in a sketch pad. My father told me to give myself a rest."

"They must be tired of looking at me," I say.

"On the contrary, everyone thinks you are most handsome." She blushes.

I shyly ask, "And what do you think?"

"You are the most beautiful subject I like to draw." She places a hand on my cheek. "Your strong jaw and high cheekbones." She pinches my chin. "And your almost-stubbly chin. Oh, and those emerald eyes." She bites her bottom lip. "I look forward to seeing you grow into a man."

I huff, "I am a man."

"Oh, a man in the making at seventeen," she kids and hands me a sandwich. "Eat up … man!"

I ignore her last comment. "Any more thoughts about art school?" I ask and take a bite of my food.

"There's plenty of time for that. I would love a loft where I can suffer in silence over my unappreciated art." She giggles. "Seriously, I would love my own gallery. What about you? Juilliard?"

I shake my head. "No, that is too far away. Besides, my music is a personal thing."

"But you are so very talented. You give the piano a soul."

I question, "Do you honestly feel that way?"

"Edward, I can see your face when you play. I watch all your expressions. It is as though you become the music or it comes from within you. When you play DeBussy's, 'Clair de lune,'I get chills."

She is so passionate as she speaks of my music. She touches me, my heart.

"And you painting, your version of Claude Monet's 'Water Lilies' is breathtaking to me."

She boldly laughs. "I painted you and me on the bridge … together."

"We make quite a pair, Isabella," I say staring into her eyes.

She holds my gaze. "Yes, we do."

I lean forward, cupping her chin in my hand, gently kissing her soft lips. She tastes of vanilla and sweetness. I could make a meal of her and never tire of her flavor.

We part.

Isabella blushes looking down. "That was nice."

"Yes, it was."

"You make me want to draw you."

"And you bring out my music."

She bites her lip, smiles and grabs my hand. "Come, let's explore the labyrinth."

I command, "And don't let go of my hand."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She runs us through the endless maze, weaving in and out, left and right clasping hands with a strong grip.

"Later, I want to run with you throughout the forest, Edward. There's a stream at the property's edge. The water is cool and very inviting."

I lean over with my hands on my thighs, heavily breathing. Isabella stands across from me, giggling.

"Let me catch my wind."

"It's exhilarating to run through the labyrinth."

"It is good that you know it so well," I huff.

"Or we crash into the bushes?" She smiles.

I smile looking up at her, "Something like that. Please, take my hand again, so I don't get lost." I extend it to her.

She holds my hand. "I would never lose you, Edward."

We slowly begin to weave through the maze.

"Tell me about your day of not drawing."

"Well, I awoke to the sun in my face. I had forgotten to close the draperies. Even though I love the warmth, I truly don't appreciate beams in my eyes." She exaggerates, widely opening her lids.

"Did you have another late night, Isabella?"

She sighs. "Yes,theywere arguing to all hours of the night. I couldn't sleep."

"I am truly sorry." I squeeze her hand.

"Well, not all of us have the perfect parents." She shrugs.

"Things are not always cut in stone."

"Yeah, just made of it," she makes light.

I wrap her in my arms.

"Wow, I fit under your chin," Isabella surprisingly observes.

Still holding her close, I speak into her hair, "I would say we are a perfect fit."

"Edward, you're my past, present, and future," she mumbles into my chest.

"Then, I will marry you someday ... if you will have me." I look into her eyes.

"It's more like if you'll have me," she chirps.

October 16, 1918

Once again, I open my eyes to my sire.

"I don't know where you are going and what you are thinking, but you certainly are having a remarkable time," Carlisle says standing over me. "It is the end of the second day. Soon your heart will begin to accelerate."

"Then, what?"

"Then, the process will be near completion."

"I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. It pounds like a jackhammer." I shiver.

"That is expected."

"Have you not slept, Carlisle?" I ask

"There is no sleep, Edward. Please, reserve your strength, now. You are transitioning."

I nod and close my eyes once again.

The time seems to waver in and out all through it, I hear loud sounds to soft whispers. I envision bold colors to faded hues, and strong scents to nothing.

I hear the flow of water and find myself sitting cross-legged on the edge of a stream watching Isabella wade into the brook.

"It's not that cold, Edward. Won't you take your shoes off and join me?

I stand to feel the grass between my toes. I lift a foot to show her. "See? No shoes."

"Good, now, come to me and stop procrastinating. This will heal you," she insists with her hands on her hips.

Again, I find myself staring at her soft skin. And there is plenty showing, as she wears very short shorts and a camisole. With me alone, she becomes very outrageous in her manner of dress or should I say non-dress.

"It is only a slight headache. I'm fine," I reassure.

I roll my pants to my knees and carefully walk to her. She takes a hand, and dips it into the cool water and places it on my forehead. "Doesn't that feel good?"

I close my eyes and savor her touch. "Yes, that does feel good."

She dips her hand again, and rubs the back of my neck, then scratches the nape. I roll my head back enjoying her nails. "Would you do that harder?"

She stands on a nearby rock to reach the top of my head.

"Did you know that where our soft spot was as an infant is our body's pain center?" she informs.

"No, I have not heard of that."

"I read it in one of my father's medical journals. I thought that to be interesting. Let me try something?" she asks

I trust her. "Okay."

"But first …" she smiles at me and pulls a pen from her back pocket quickly drawing a small swan on my wrist. "For good luck."

I look at the details. "How do you do that so quickly?"

"It's a gift." She laughs.

I carefully laugh.

She begins to rub the center of the top of my head. At first, it is sore and pulling, but then it balances out, and soon the pain is gone."

"I believe you just proved a theory."

No sooner the words flow from my mouth, pain surges throughout my limbs. I fall into the stream ,and Isabella quickly grabs my arm and guides me slowly to the the grass. I roll onto my back with my eyes shut.

"Edward, what's wrong? Please, talk to me. What happened?"

I hear her, but I cannot react.

My heart beats the same way a hummingbird's wings flutter … in a zigzag motion, fast and furious to a dull, slow skip. My lids open, but I cannot see. I try to hear, but there is no sound. I cannot move or speak.

October 17, 1918

In the distance, I faintly hear the echo of someone's voice.

"It's all right, Edward, you are past the transition."

He stayed …

I open my blood red eyes to Carlisle, taking in my surrounding with a clarity I have never known. Everything is magnified a million times; beautiful.

Carlisle is still a constant at my side, just as he promised.

Looking down, I can see a tiny swan drawn on my wrist. But, it was just a dream.

Wasn't it?

My only thought is that she does exist, that she is real.

For the first time since my transformation, I speak …

"I have to find my Isabella."