Tiredcore Emojis & Text

Copy & Paste Tiredcore Emojis & Symbols

ᵀʰᵉ į¶œŹ³įµƒįµįµ–Ė¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— ᵃˢ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "ᓬ˔˔ ᵐʸ įµįµ˜Ė¢į¶œĖ”įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ ᓵ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁿᵒᵗ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·!" ᔆʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵒʷ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ ⁿᵒʷ⸓ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ⁻ᓵ'ᵐ ᵗ⁻ᵗᵒ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ˔ᵉᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ ʸᵉ˔ᵖ‧ ᔆʰᵉ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵒᶠᵗ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ā±įµįµįµ‰įµˆā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė”Źøā€§ "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵒʳ?" "ᓵᵗ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā±āæā€™ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ ˔ⁱᵈ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źøā€§ "ᓰᵒⁿ'įµ— į¶ ā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁱᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᵃⁿʸ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø ˔ᵉᶠᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµā€§" ᔆʰᵉ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµįµ‰įµ— ˢᵒᵐᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ʸᵉᵗ‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ įµ€įµ˜į¶œįµā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱⁿ ⁿᵒʷ⸓ ʰⁱˢ į¶ ā±įµįµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė”įµƒĖ£įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ Ė”įµƒįµįµ–ā€§ ᶠᵃᶜⁱᵃ˔ į¶ įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ ˔ᵃˣ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ˔ᵉˢˢ įµ–įµƒā±āæā€§ "ᓬ˔˔ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ 'į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ' ˢʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰āæįµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵉʳ‧ š°šØš«š šœšØš®š§š­: šŸšŸ•šŸ“
GREAT CHIP vii (Autistic author) Karen's eyes searched their faces, picking up on the unspoken tension. "I see you two had a talk," she said gently, her gaze lingering on Plankton. "How are you feeling?" Plankton's antennae drooped slightly. "Tired," he admitted. "But better." Karen stepped closer to the bed, her hand reaching out to cover his own. "I'm here," she said softly. "Do you remember what happened in Chip's room before coming in here?" Plankton's antennae twitched nervously. "Bits and pieces," he admitted, his eye avoiding hers. "I know I had a...moment. And I... I was mad." Karen's hand squeezed his gently. "It's okay, sweetie," she said, her voice soothing. "You don't have to be ashamed. It's just your brain's way of coping." Plankton's eye searched hers, his antennae still. "But the things I said..." his voice trailing off. Karen's expression remained calm, understanding. "They were the seizure's words, not yours," she assured him. "We're just glad you're okay." Chip's gaze flitted between his parents, his heart aching for his dad. He knew he needed to be strong, to support his father through this. "Can we talk more about it tomorrow?" he suggested, his voice filled with hope. Plankton's antennae nodded wearily. "We can," he said, his voice a mix of relief and exhaustion. "But for now, I need to rest. It's bedtime, so.." Chip felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of his dad's struggle, but he also felt a spark of hope. Maybe tomorrow would bring a new understanding, a way to bridge the gap between them. The next morning, the sun streamed through the blinds of their small, cluttered bedroom, casting patterns on the floor. Chip stirred, his mind filled with the memories of the previous night's conversation. He checked on Plankton, who was still asleep, his antennae twitching slightly. He knew today would be a new day, a chance to start anew with his father. Carefully, Chip padded out to the kitchen, his thoughts racing with the promise of understanding. He found Karen at the counter, sipping her morning coffee, her eyes red-rimmed from the night's worry. "Mom," he began, his voice still thick with sleep. "Can we talk?" Karen turned, her eyes filled with the same exhaustion he saw in Plankton's. "Of course, honey," she said, placing her mug down gently. Chip took a deep breath, his words spilling out like water from a broken dam. "I want to understand Dad's condition," he said, his voice determined. "I don't want to make it worse for him." Karen's eyes searched his, seeing the sincerity in his gaze. "That's a big step, Chip," she said, her voice filled with pride. "But it's not going to be easy. It'll take patience and practice." Chip nodded, his expression resolute. "I'm ready," he said. "I just don't want Dad to be alone in this." Karen's face softened, her hand resting on his shoulder. "You're such a good son," she said, her voice warm with affection. "But remember, he might not always know how to ask for help. Sometimes, you'll have to read between the lines." Chip nodded, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "But what if I mess up?" he asked, his voice trembling. Karen's hand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You might," she said, her voice filled with experience. "But that's okay. Just keep trying, and we'll figure it out together." Her words echoed in Chip's head as he sat down at the kitchen table, his eyes never leaving his mother's. "But how do I know what to do?" Karen took a deep breath, her eyes filled with a quiet strength. "You'll learn," she said, her voice calm and reassuring. "It's about patience and observation. And most importantly, communication." Chip nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "Okay," he said. "I'll do my best." Karen's hand squeezed his shoulder gently. "You already are," she said, her smile warm. Chip felt a surge of determination. He was going to be there for his dad, no matter what it took. "What can I do now?" he asked, eager to start. Karen's eyes searched his, a hint of sadness in them. "Now, we wait," she said. "Let him sleep. When he wakes, be there, but don't overwhelm him." Chip nodded, his mind racing with questions and fears, feeling a mix of emotions: fear, love, and a newfound determination to be the best son he could be. As he waited for Plankton to wake up, he tried to remember the cues his dad had mentioned: twitching antennae, a sudden quietness, a look of overwhelm. He promised himself to be more aware, more attuned to his father's needs.
š–£š– š–±š–¤ š–³š–® š–”š–¤ š–£š–Øš–„š–„š–¤š–±š–¤š–­š–³ (š–”š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ) š—‰š—. 8 Karen rushed over, her face a mix of relief and concern. "Plankton, are you ok?" she asked, her voice filled with care. Plankton nodded, his antennae moving slowly as he took in his surroundings. He looked around, his eye darting to Chip. "H-How did we get here?" His voice was weak, his antennae still trembling slightly. "You fell off the swing," Chip said, trying to keep his voice steady. "But Mom and I caught you." He hoped the gentle explanation would ease his father's confusion. Plankton's antennae stilled for a moment, his eye focusing on Chip. He nodded, understanding dawning on his face. "Thank you...tired." Karen's eyes searched his face, reading his autistic cues. "Let's go home," she said gently, helping him to his feet. His legs were shaky, his balance precarious. With a nod, Plankton allowed her to guide him to the car, leaning heavily on her. Chip climbs into the back seat with Plankton. Karen pulled out of the park. "I'm proud of both of you," she said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Chip and Plankton. "You handled that so well." Plankton sat next to his son, still exhausted. Chip looked at his dad, his heart heavy with guilt. He reached for the plush bear he had brought from the house, placing it gently in Plankton's lap. "Here," he said softly. "It helps, right?" Plankton's antennae twitched, his gaze flickering to the toy. He took it, his fingers curling around the soft fabric, finding comfort in the familiar texture. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice a whisper of its usual strength. Chip watched as his father's eye grew heavy with sleep, his head nodding slightly as the car pulled away from the park. Plankton's antennae twitched as he fought the pull of slumber, his grip tightening around the plush bear. Plankton's antennae were twitching slower now, his eye half-closed. Karen knew her husband was trying to stay present, to show his strength. But the exhaustion was clear. "Home," Plankton murmured, his eyelid drooping. "Yes, we're taking the trip home," Karen affirmed, her eyes flicking back to the road. The car's gentle hum was soothing, the vibrations of the engine lulling Plankton closer to sleep. Chip noticed his father's antennae quivering with each bump in the road, his body slumping against the car seat. Karen glanced in the rearview mirror, her expression a mix of concern and love. Plankton's antennae stilled as sleep claimed him, his body leaning against Chip's shoulder. Chip felt the weight of his dad's head. Chip knew that he was tired, but he also knew his father didn't like to admit when he needed help, especially in public. But here they were. Plankton's antennae barely twitched, his snores soft but steady. Karen's eyes remained on the road, her gaze flitting to the rearview mirror to check on him. Chip watched his father's sleeping form. The car's air conditioner blew a soft breeze across his dad's sleeping form, his antennae fluttering with the occasional draft. "Mom," Chip whispers from the back seat, his eyes never leaving his father's sleeping form. "Can I stay with him when we get home?" "Of course, sweetheart," Karen responded, her voice calm and reassuring. "We'll all need some rest after today. Just make sure he's comfortable." As they arrived home, Plankton was still fast asleep, his antennae barely twitching. "What do we do now, Mom?" Chip asked, unbuckling his seatbelt. "We get him to bed," Karen said firmly, opening the car door. "You can help me." With care, Karen lifted Plankton out of the car, his body limp with sleep. Chip opened the house door, holding it wide as his mother carried his father inside, each step precise and calculated to avoid disturbing Plankton. The coolness of the air-conditioned house was a stark contrast to the warmth of the car, and Plankton's antennae twitched slightly at the change in temperature. Karen's grip was gentle but firm, her arms steady as she carried him to their bedroom. Karen laid Plankton down carefully, his body sinking into the softness of the bed. Plankton's antennae twitched once more before coming to rest against the pillow. His snores grew quieter, his body fully surrendering to sleep. Chip hovered at the foot of the bed, his heart heavy. "Can I stay with him?" he asked, his voice small in the quiet room. Karen looked at her son, the question in his eyes. She nodded, her heart aching for the burgeoning bond between them. "Yes, but don't disturb him," she instructed, her voice barely above a whisper. Chip climbed into the bed with his father, his movements careful not to wake his dad. He lay down next to Plankton. Plankton's antennae were still now, his snores even and deep. Chip studied his father's face, the way his antenna fluttered with every breath, his grip on the bear unwavering. He was so vulnerable in sleep, so different from the man who had been consumed by anger. Chip felt a mix of emotions—guilt for his carelessness, fear of what could have been, and a newfound love for his father that was both fierce and gentle. He lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of Plankton's soft snores.
ᓳᵒᵒᶠʸ ᓳᵒᵒᵇᵉʳˢ pt. 2 ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ʳᵒᵒᵐ‧ "ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ ᵐʸ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā» į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ʳᵉˢᵗ!" "ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ʷᵉ?" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ʰᵃᵈ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵘᶜʰ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ Ź°įµ˜įµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ᓵ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵐᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ ᵃᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᓵ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµƒįµˆā€§ ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵐᵃ˔˔ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ⁿᵒ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ ᓵ'ᵈ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ ᵃ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ?" "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ˢᵗᵒʳʸ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "į“¬įµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ–?" "į“¬įµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵖʳᵒᵐⁱˢᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³Ė¢ ʷᵒʳⁿ įµ’į¶ į¶  ʸᵉᵗ‧‧‧" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ᶠᵃ˔˔ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ ᓓᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧ ᓺᵉᵛᵉʳ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ᵐⁱ˔˔ⁱᵒⁿ Źøįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸ ᵒʳ įµˆįµ’ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–āø“ įµƒĖ¢įµā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæāø“ įµ‰įµ—į¶œā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ ʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·ā€§ "įµ‚įµƒā±įµ—āø“ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᓵ‧‧‧ įµ‚įµƒĖ¢āæ'įµ— ᓵ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³'Ė¢? ᓵ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᓵ Ė¢Ź°įµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā»į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ᶜᵃⁿ'įµ— ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ įµ‰Ė£įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė”Źø Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ ᓓᵉ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ʰᵉʳ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ʰⁱ! į““įµ’Ź· įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø?" "į““įµ’Ź· ᵃᵐ ᓵ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʰᵒᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁱⁿ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰᵒʷᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʰᵃᵈ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā»į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµƒįµ— įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµƒŹø Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€½" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵖʳᵉᵗᵗʸ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµįµ’ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" to be cont. Pt. 3
⟔ pls note the ai inflicts emotional damage (ᵕ—ᓗ—)
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į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø į“®ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ ᶜᓾᵁ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ @ALYJACI į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ ᵃˢ ᵖᵉᵗ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ įµƒŹ·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ” ᵗʰᵉ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źø ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ‡ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ!" @ALYJACI
ᓮᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ᶠᵒʳ ᓺᵉᵛᵉʳ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʳⁱᵖ įµ—įµ’ įµ€įµ‰Ė£įµƒĖ¢ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷʰᵒ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµ–ā±į¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᔆᵒ ⁿᵒʷ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ʰᵉʳˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ į“®įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵒˢᵗ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᶠᵒʳ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵃ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ įµā±Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµ– ⁱⁿ ʰᵉʳ Ź·ā±Ź³ā±āæįµ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿʸ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢ ᵒʳ ʰᵒᵖᵉ įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰įµ›ā±įµ›įµƒĖ”ā€§ į”†įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³Ė¢ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ⁱⁿ‧ "ᓵ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵇʸ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᶠ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵃ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ–ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµ’įµ‡Ė”ā±įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ!" Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰᵉʳ ᵇᵉˢᵗ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ” ˔ⁱᶠᵉ˔ᵉˢˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉⁿᵗⁱʳᵉ˔ʸ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ ⁿᵒʷ įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰āø“ ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·; ˢʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ ᵗᵒ‧‧" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ˢᵃʷ ʰᵒʷ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæā€§ "į““įµ’Ź· į¶œįµƒāæā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ—!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµƒāæįµŹ³ā±Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ 'ᵉᵐ‧ ᔆʰᵉ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³ā±Ė”Źø ᵃ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˢᵒ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ ᶠᵒʳ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ⁱⁿ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ⸓ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ— ⁿᵒ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵇʸ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ⸓ ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢įµ— į¶ ā±įµįµ˜Ź³įµ‰ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ ᵃⁿʸ ᵈᵃʸ⸓ ˔ᵉᵗ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ‰įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”ā€§ ᓬⁿᵈ ʸᵉᵗ ʰᵉ Ė”įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ ˢᵒᵐᵉ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—āø“ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ⁿᵒʷ⸓ ʰⁱˢ ʷⁱᶠᵉ'Ė¢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ᶠᵒʳ įµŹ³ā±įµ‰į¶ ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ ʷᵃʳᵐ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ ˢʰᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ‧ ᔆᵒ ⁿᵒʷ ˢʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź· įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ˢᵉᵗ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ⁿᵉʷ ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᵒⁿᵗ įµ–įµ’Ź³į¶œŹ° ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ ᓓᵉ ˢᵉᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ˜Ź³ā±įµƒĖ” ᶠᵒʳ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ ˢᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵇʸ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ˢʰᵉ'ᵈ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ įµįµ’įµ—ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ 'į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—' įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ ˢʰⁱᶠᵗ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵇʸ‧ ᓓᵉ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ ˢᵐᵃ˔˔ įµįµ‰įµįµ’Ź³ā±įµƒĖ” įµįµƒŹ³įµįµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ Ė¢įµƒāæįµˆŹøā€§ "ᓾᵒᵒʳ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱⁿ Ė”ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ˔˔ ʰⁱˢ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ "ᓓⁱ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ įµˆįµ‰į¶ įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±įµŹ° ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ė”įµ—ā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ⸓ įµā±įµˆā€§" "ᓵ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉʳ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵒᶠᶠ‧ ᓵ'ᵐ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷⁱ˔˔ įµ—įµ’ ˔ⁱˢᵗᵉⁿ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ˢᵉᵉ; Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ⁱᵗ ᵃ˔˔ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§" "į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø'Ė¢ ᵃ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ˢᵒ ⁿᵒʷ‧‧‧" "ᔆʰᵉ ⁱˢ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ʰᵒʷ įµˆŹ³įµƒā±āæā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ ⁱˢ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ‰įµƒĖ” ʷⁱᵗʰ įµŹ³ā±įµ‰į¶ ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§
į”†Ź°įµ˜įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ᓰᵒʷⁿ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʰᵃᵈ ⁿᵒ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢ ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢʰᵉ ˢʰᵒʳᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµ’įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ į¶ Ė”įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ˔ᵉˢˢ˔ʸ‧ ᵁˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰įµįµ–įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒĖ”įµįµ’Ė¢įµ— ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵈᵃʸ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ įµ˜āæāæįµ‰Ź³įµ›ā±āæįµ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒʷ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµŹ³ā±įµ‰įµ›ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ˔ᵒˢˢ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ⸓ ʰⁱˢ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—āæįµ‰Ź³ ⁱⁿ į¶œŹ³ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ ᓓᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ʰᵃᵈ ʰⁱˢ ᵖᵉᵗ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø ᔆᵖᵒᵗ‧‧ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµˆā±Ė¢Ė”ā±įµįµ‰įµˆ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµƒāæā±įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ ʳᵉˢᵗ ᵒʳ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµāø“ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃⁿʸ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ! "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵇᵉ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæā±āæįµ įµ‡ā±įµ ᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° ᵘˢ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ!" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ʰⁱˢ ᶠʳʸ į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ ˢᵉᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒŹ·Ė”ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ įµˆŹ·ā±āæįµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµˆįµˆŹ³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ʰᵉʳ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµƒ ⁿᵒʳ ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳⁱᵉˢ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°ā±āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ė”įµ— ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'˔˔ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ⸓ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ˢᵉᵉ ʰᵉʳ ᵒʳ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ!" "ᔆʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃⁿᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ ʰᵉʳ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ˔ᵒˢᵗ ʰᵉʳ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµƒįµįµ’ ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'ᵗ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ᵇᵉᵗ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ʰᵃʳᵈ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ įµˆā±įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ʳᵉˢᵗ ˢᵒ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ˔ᵉᵗ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ᵒᵛᵉʳ įµƒįµ— ᵐʸ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃʷᵃʸ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ'Ė¢ ᵒᶠᶠᵉʳ‧ "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᵗ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ ⁱᶠ ᓵ'ᵐ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ᵉᵐᵖᵗʸ ᵐᵒⁿⁱᵗᵒʳ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ ᔆᵒ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ᶠᵒ˔˔ᵒʷˢ ʰⁱˢ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ įµˆįµ‰įµ–Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ–ā±āæįµ‰įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "ᓳᵃʳʸ⸓ ʰᵉʸ; ᵈᵃᵈᵈʸ'Ė¢ ʰᵒᵐᵉ! ᓬⁿᵈ ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ ᵒᵛᵉʳ‧" ᓳᵃʳʸ įµ‡Ė”ā±āæįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§ ᓼʰ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱˢ ᵃ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵃ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ— ᵗᵒ‧‧" ᓳᵃʳʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵖᵒᵗ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ'˔˔ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ˢᵗᵉᵖ įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµā±įµˆāø“ ˢᵒ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ ᔆᵒʳʳʸ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃ˔˔ ʸᵉᵗ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— ʳᵉˢᵗ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᶠᵒʳ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ ᵇᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵐʸ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ ᓵ į¶ įµƒāæį¶œā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ įµˆįµ˜Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ˢᵒᵐᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµ’ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵇᵒᵗʰ‧ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āø“ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵘⁿ ʳⁱˢᵉ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵇ˔ᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ˢ˔ᵉᵖᵗ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓺᵒ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ‧‧" į”†įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ– ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ⁿᵒʷ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµŹ³ā±āæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓓᵉʸ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ! ᔆᵒ ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ᓵ'˔˔ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵉᵛᵉʳ ʷᵉ įµˆįµ’āø“ ᵇᵉ ⁱᵗ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵒʳ ⁱᶠ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶œŹ°ā±Ė”Ė”įµƒĖ£ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒʷ ᵃˢ ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæ ᵃ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ ᵃ˔˔ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµƒĖ¢įµ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ ᵃⁿʸ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ'˔˔ ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– ᵒⁿ į¶»'ˢ‧‧" "ᓬʰ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ ᶠʳᵉᵉ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵒᵗʰᵉʳ; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ‰āø“ įµ‡Ź³ā±Ė”Ė”ā±įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰āæā±įµ˜Ė¢! ᓺᵒʷ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢Źø Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ˔ⁱᵗᵗ˔ᵉ įµįµ˜Źø ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ˢʰᵉ 'įµƒį¶œį¶œā±įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµ’įµˆįµ‰įµˆ' ʸᵉᵗ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆ ʷᵃʳᵈ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ ᵃ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ā€§
šŸ’œšŸ’šāœØplankton x karenāœØšŸ’ššŸ’œ
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ᶠᵒʳ į““įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ€Ź³įµ˜įµ‰ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ā•° ✧ ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāˆ™ āˆ— — į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“› ⟨ 3 4 2 ⟩ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ˔˔ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ᵗʰᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵒⁿ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ⁱⁿᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵃ įµ—Ź°įµ˜įµˆ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "ᓼʷ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒʷ į¶œŹ³įµƒįµˆĖ”ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµāæįµ‰įµ‰ ᵃˢ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢Ė”ā±įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐʸ ᵖʳᵒᵗᵒᵗʸᵖᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔ ᵒⁿ ᵐ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ˔ⁱᶠᵗ ⁱᵗ įµ˜įµ– įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§" į“°įµ’ā±āæįµ ˢᵒ⸓ ˢʰᵉ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ "į“¼įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§" "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗⁱᵉ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˔ᵉᵗ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ‧" ᵀʰᵉⁱʳ ᵖᵉᵗ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø ᔆᵖᵒᵗ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵒᵛᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ ⁱⁿ ᵃ į¶œįµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆāø“ ᵃ˔˔ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė”įµ’āæįµāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜'˔˔ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ʳᵉˢᵗ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė”įµ‰įµ›įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµ ᵒⁿ ᵃ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ‧ "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ᵃ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵃⁿᵈʸ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶜᵃ˔˔ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė” ᵖᵒˢᵗᵖᵒⁿᵉ‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ė¢įµ–Ź³įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵇʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ įµā±įµ›ā±āæįµ ᵇᵉ˔˔ʸ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡Ė¢ ᵗᵒ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ˜įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæ ʷʰʸ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ’į¶œį¶œįµ˜Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ ʰᵒʷ ⁱˢ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁱⁿᵗᵐᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵉ˔ᵖˢ ᵃ ᵇⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒʷ; įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" "ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰āø“ įµ‡ā±įµ įµįµ˜Źøā€§ ᓵ'˔˔ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ʳᵉˢᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ‧ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵉˣᵗ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµˆŹ³ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ 'ᵉᵐ ᵇᵉ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒā±āæ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁱⁿᵗᵐᵉⁿᵗ ʷᵒʳⁿ įµ’į¶ į¶ āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᶜᵃⁿ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵒⁿ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʰᵉ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰Ė” įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ‧ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵐʸ‧‧‧" "į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ˢᵒ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ ᓓᵉ'Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ‧‧" ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ᵒⁿ ʰᵉʳ ʷᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±į¶ ā±į¶œā±įµƒĖ” ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ ᵗᵒ‧ ᓬ˔ˢᵒ ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ'Ė¢ ᶜ˔ᵃˢˢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ᵃ įµįµ‰įµ— ʷᵉ˔˔ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ ᓓᵃⁿⁿᵃ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵃⁱᵈ 'ᓵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ˢ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ' ˢʰᵉ ˢᵃʸˢ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ‧ ᓱᵛᵉⁿ ˢᵖᵒᵗ Ź°įµ˜įµˆįµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢ˔ᵉᵖᵗ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ "ᓸᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§"
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ᓳᵒᵒᶠʸ ᓳᵒᵒᵇᵉʳˢ pt. 1 ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ ᶠᵒʳ įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉʷ įµ‡įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ’į¶  įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢!" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ᵈᵃʸ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ʷᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³'Ė¢!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į““įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰?" ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµƒįµ‡ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į”†įµ˜Ź³įµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµįµ’įµ— ᵃ ᵗʳⁱᵖ˔ᵉ įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³ ᵇᵉʳʳʸ Ė¢įµ˜āæŹ³ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ʰᵃᵈ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė”įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ ᵇᵉ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė” ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒįµ— ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ— ˢᵒ ᵃˢ įµ—įµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵐᵘᶜʰ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆā±įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ ⁱⁿ⸓ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµƒŹ³āæā±āæįµā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ‰įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—!" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᶠᵒʳ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œįµ’āæįµˆĖ¢ā€§ "ᓹʸ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā»į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‰Ė£į¶œĖ”įµƒā±įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓺᵒ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᶠᵒʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³?" "ᓺᵒ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ–įµ— įµā±įµįµĖ”ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°ā€§ "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗᵒ‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ ᵐʸ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā»į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ įµ‡įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ’į¶  įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ?" "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʷᵉ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ ᶜᵃ˔˔ ⁱᵗ ᵃ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ʰᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā»į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜įµ–Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ ⁱᵗ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒā±įµŹ°įµ—!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʸˢ Ź·ā±įµ–ā±āæįµ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į”†įµ—įµƒŹø ˢᵗⁱ˔˔!" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ˢᵗⁱ˔˔!" "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ'ᵐ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµāø“ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø į¶ įµƒĖ”įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ "į”†įµ—įµƒŹø ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐᵉ ⁿᵒʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃˢ ᵐʸ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆāø“ ⁿᵒᵗ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµƒŹ³ ᶜʳᵃˢʰ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒᵗ įµƒį¶œįµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ʰⁱˢ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ” įµ‡įµ‰Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ź³āø“ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵃʸ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµˆįµ’į¶»ā±āæįµ ᵒᶠᶠ‧ "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ’ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§" "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ⸓ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ʷᵒʳʳʸ‧ ᔆᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ź·įµƒįµ›įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᶠʳᵒᵐ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ to be cont. Pt. 2
ᓳᵒᵒᶠʸ ᓳᵒᵒᵇᵉʳˢ pt. 3 ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–āø“ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµįµ’įµ— āæįµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āø“ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ įµā±įµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰įµƒįµ ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᓬ˔ᵒⁿᵉ‧" "ᓼʰ⸓ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ˜įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒį¶œįµ— ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµ— ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ; ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ įµįµ‰įµ— ⁱᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳʷⁱᵗʰ‧ ᓵ'ᵐ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ˢᵃʸ ⁱᵗ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰; ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ˢᵃʸ ⁱᵗ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ ⁱᶠ ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵗᵒ‧‧‧" "ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ! ᓺᵒʷ⸓ ᓵ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ; Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”Ė”Źø ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµˆįµ’ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵒʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢Ź°ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓷⁱᵈ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ ᓵ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ! ᓹᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ʰᵃᵈ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵒʷⁿ ᶠᵃⁱʳ Ė¢Ź°įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳⁱᵖ˔ᵉ įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³ ᵇᵉʳʳʸ Ė¢įµ˜āæŹ³ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ ᓬˢ ᵃ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ—āø“ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜! ᓺᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᶠᵒʳ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œįµ’āæįµˆĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʷᵒʳʳʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ! ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵇᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµƒĖ¢įµ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐʸ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ–ā€§ ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈ ᵗᵉ˔˔ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµƒįµ— įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰᵉʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ᓵ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁱⁿ‧‧‧" "ᔆʷᵉᵉᵗ āæįµ‰įµ–įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰āø“ ᓵ'ᵐ ᵃᶠʳᵃⁱᵈ įµ—įµ’ įµƒĖ¢įµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹøā€§ "ᓼʰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ– ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᓵ ʷᵒⁿ'įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔; ᵐʸ ˔ⁱᵖˢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒĖ”įµ‰įµˆ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓰᵒⁿ'įµ— Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ° įµƒįµ— ᵐᵉ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµŹ³įµ˜įµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ End finale
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įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʰᵉ’ˢ Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ā€¦ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ ˢᵠᵘᶤᵈʷᵃʳᵈ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ā€œį¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿʸ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė€ā€ ā€œĖ¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’įµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµā±āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ʸᵉᵗ‧ įµ‚įµƒā±įµ—āø“ ʷʰᵒ ᵉ˔ˢᵉ'Ė¢ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒā±įµŹ°įµ— ʰᵉʳᵉ‧ į“µā€™įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʰᵉʳᵉ‧ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔⸓ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰įµŽ įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’Ė€ā€ ā€œį¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— ˢᵗᵒᵖ Ź³įµƒįµįµ‡Ė”ā±āæįµ įµ’āæā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᵒᵖᵉⁿˢ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ ā€œį“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ᓵ’ᵛᵉ ᵃ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ˜įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ᵐᵉᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ė€ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔ į“¾ā±āæįµŹø įµƒā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ⁱˢ ᵐʸ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆāø“ ᔆᵒ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰įµŽā€ ā€œį“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ᓵ ᵃᵐ į¶œįµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒĖ¢ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Ź·įµ‰ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ ᶜᵃⁿ įµƒĖ¢įµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæā€¦ā€ ā€œįµ‚Ź°ŹøĖ€ ᓓᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ź°įµ‰ā€¦ā€ ā€œį‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ—āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ė¢įµ‰āæā±āæįµ ᵐʸ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ ˢᵒ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµ ⁱᵗ įµ’į¶ į¶ įµŽā€ ᓮᵒᵗʰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ įµƒį¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧ ā€œįµ‚įµ‰ā€™Ė”Ė” ˢᵉᵉ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį”†įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµƒā€§ā€ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ ā€œį““įµ˜āæįµŹ³ŹøĖ€ā€ ā€œį“³įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµˆā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³ā€¦ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµįµ’įµ— į¶ įµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ į”†įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źøāø“ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµā€§ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ‰įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµįµŽā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ‧ ā€œį“±Ź° įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷˀ ᓵ ʳⁱᵈ įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒāæįµƒĖ”Źøį¶»įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§ā€ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ ā€œįµ€Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ Źøįµ‰įµŽā€ į“®įµ˜įµ— ᔆᵒ ᵈⁱᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§ ā€œį“µā€™įµ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵃ ᵇⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ ᵐʸ ʲᵒᵇ ʷᵉ˔˔ įµ‡Źøįµ‰įµŽā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ Ė”ā±įµā±āæįµ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ Ė”ā±į¶œįµ— ᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ ˔ⁱᵉ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ ā±Ė£įµ‰įµˆ ʷᵃʳᵐ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ā€§ ā€œįµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ ᵘⁿᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ įµˆįµ’ā€§ "ᵂᵉ'ᵛᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ Ė”įµ’āæįµ ᵈᵃʸ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ʷᵉ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’įµā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰āæāæįµƒįµ‰ ˢᵐᵒᵒᵗʰ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæį¶œā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ į“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ ʷⁱ˔˔ ᵇᵉ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ‧‧‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ?" įµāæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµ’Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵇʸ ⁿᵒʷ‧ ᔆᵒ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ᵃⁿᵈ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜āæŹ³ā±Ė¢įµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæĖ¢įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµˆā±įµˆāæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᶠ ʷʰᵉⁿ Ź°įµ‰ā€™įµˆ įµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ˜įµā±āæįµā€§ ᓼʳ įµƒįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵃˢ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᶜᵃ˔˔ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰᵉʳ ʰᵉ Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæįµ— ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ ā€œį“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€¦ā€ ᔆʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ–Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œŹ³įµ’Ź·įµ‡įµƒŹ³āø“ ʰᵒʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’āæį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵃ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ ā€œįµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµŽ ᓓᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒᵗ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵖᵉˢᵗᵉʳ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ā±įµ—ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·; ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ⁱᵗ āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³Źø įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€¦ā€ ᓓᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ ᶠᵘ˔˔ʸ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ "Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø'Ė¢ ᵃ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ᵇᵉᵗ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§" į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵗʰᵉⁿ⸓ įµƒāæįµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ ā€œį“µ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ— ᵃˢ ᓵ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆā€§ ᓵ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā€¦ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧
ᓳᵉᵗ ᵁᵖ š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ š¦š¢š§. ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰᵉʳ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒʷ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ⁱⁿ į¶œŹ°įµƒā±Ź³ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ‡įµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰āø“ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ ᓵ'˔˔ ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵒʳ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᓵ ᶜᵃʳʳʸ Źøįµ’įµ˜?" į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ "į“³įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᓵ'ᵐ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źøā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗʰᵉⁿ‧ ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁱᶠ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵐʸˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵒʷ įµ–įµ˜įµ—Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź·ā±įµ–ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµƒįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ⁱˢ ⁱᵗ?" "ᵀⁱᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ᵘˢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ–!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§
https://www.ovulationcalculator.com/cramping-pain Mittelschmerz https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/mittelschmerz/symptoms-causes/syc-20375122
įµ‚įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ į“¾Ź³įµƒāæįµ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” ʰᵃˢⁿ'įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵘˢ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒʸˢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ!" ᵀʰᵉ ᓳᵃ˔ ᓾᵃ˔ˢ ʷᵉʳᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵈ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— ⁱⁿ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ!" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā€§ "į““įµ’Ź· įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢?" ᵀʰᵉʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒāæį¶œŹ°įµ’Ź³ Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧ "ᓹˢ‧ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ "ᓼʰ ʰᵉʸ ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ!" "į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ’įµ—!" "ᓓᵘʰ?" "į“¬įµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'ᵗ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈ įµ—įµ’ į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰! ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧‧‧" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ!" ᵀʰᵉʸ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓼʰ!" "ᓵ'˔˔ ᶜᵃ˔˔ ᓮʳᵃⁿ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµįµƒįµ—Ź° į¶œĖ”įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉʳ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵈⁱᵃ˔ ʰⁱˢ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᓰⁱᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠⁱⁿⁱˢʰ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ?" "ᓵ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵈ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” ˢᵃⁱᵈ Ź°įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµįµ’ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµ‡ā±įµįµįµ‰Ź³ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᶜᵃⁿ ʷᵉ Ė”įµ‰āæįµįµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᔆᵒ ᵗʰᵉʸ Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ ʷᵉ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ’į¶  Ź·ā±āæįµā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ? ᓵ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ ᵐʸ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʷᵉ'ᵈ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā±āæįµ ᓵ'ᵐ ᵃ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ ᵐᵃᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵒ įµ—Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµāø“ ˢᵒ ⁱᵗ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ‧‧‧" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ ʰᵉ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵃ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—?" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ˜įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶ į¶  į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "ᓵ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᓵ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ ˢᵒ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ᵇᵉᵗ ʰᵉ'ᵈ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᵗ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰⁱᵐ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ” ʷᵉ˔˔⸓ įµ‰Ė£į¶œįµ‰įµ–įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ᵃᶠʳᵃⁱᵈ įµ’į¶  ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵉˣᵖᵉʳⁱᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒā±āæ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§" "ᓓᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµāæā±Ė¢įµ‰ ᵃⁿʸ įµ’į¶  įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆāæ'įµ— ʷᵉ ˢᵉᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ?" ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ "į“¼āæį¶œįµ‰ ʷᵉ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ ⁱˢ⸓ ʷᵉ į¶œįµƒāæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ "ᓵ įµ–įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐʸ ˢᵉⁿˢᵒʳˢ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–ā» į”†įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᔆᵒ ˔ᵉᵗ'Ė¢ ˢᵉᵉ⸓ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’?" "ᵂᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ į¶œįµƒĖ”įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ ᵃ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµ ⁱⁿ!" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "ᵂᵉ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰ ᵒⁿ ᵃ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ'ᵈ ˢᵃʸ ⁿᵒᵒⁿ!" "ᓺᵒᵒⁿ ⁱᵗ ⁱˢ ᵗʰᵉⁿ!" "ᵂᵉ'˔˔ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµƒĖ”įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ ᵈᵃʸ!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ! Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢āø“ ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ; ᓵ'˔˔ įµˆįµ’ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ ᵀʰᵉʸ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ʰᵃⁿᵈˢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµā±įµˆįµˆĖ”įµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢ā±įµāæįµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµƒĖ¢įµĖ¢ā€§ ᔆᵒ ˢᵃⁿᵈʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµāø“ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė” ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁿᵒⁱˢᵉ‧ ᔆ˔ᵒʷ˔ʸ įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ⸓ ˢʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ᵒⁿ ʰᵉʳ ᵗᵒᵉˢ ˢᵒ ᵃˢ įµ—įµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø į¶œŹ³įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢⁿᵒʳᵉ⸓ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶ Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµįµĖ”įµ‰ā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ į¶ ā±Ė£ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵉᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·'Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā» Ė¢įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢ā€§ "ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— ᵃ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ ᵗʳᵉᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµįµƒŹ³įµƒįµįµ‰!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "ᓸᵉᵗ'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ— ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ ⁱⁿᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ– ᵗʰᵉᵐ!" "į““įµ’Ź· įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ʷᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ʰᵉʳᵉ?" "į“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ ʷᵉ Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’Ė”ā±įµˆįµƒŹø'Ė¢ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜ Ė¢įµ’āæįµĖ¢ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵐʸ ᵈᵃᵈ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµ! ᓵ ᵐᵃʸ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᓮʳᵃⁿ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” į¶œŹ°įµ˜į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ'Ė¢ ʰᵃˢ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱˢ ʲᵒ˔˔ʸ ˔ⁱᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ ᵒⁿ ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ⁱˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ‧‧‧" į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµ‰āø“ ʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµƒįµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵃʷ ᵖᵉᵒᵖ˔ᵉ ⁱⁿ Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ˜įµ–; ⁿᵒʷ⸓ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµā±į¶ įµ—Ė¢!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗˢ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ? ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉˢᵗ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ᵉᵛᵉʳ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæ ᵐᵉ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµ˜įµ— ⁱⁿ⸓ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳˢ Ė”įµƒįµ‡įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ 'įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ' Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źøā€§ "ᓵ‧‧‧" "į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”āø“ ʰᵒʷ'ᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ ⁿᵉʷ įµ›įµƒį¶œįµ˜įµ˜įµ?" "ᓼʰ⸓ ᓮʳᵃⁿ; Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰'Ė¢ ᵃ ᵐᵉˢˢ!" "ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ įµįµ–Ė¢ ˢʸˢᵗᵉᵐ!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ź·įµ‰Ė”į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ᓹˢ‧ ᓾᵘᶠᶠ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗʰᵉⁿ į¶ Ź³įµƒāæįµ—ā±į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ˢᵉᵗ ᵃˢ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ā€§ "ᓵᵗ ᶜᵃⁿ'įµ— ᵇᵉ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢; ᓵ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆāø“ ʷʰʸ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ᵃ˔˔ ᵐʸ ⁱⁿᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ– ʰⁱˢ‧‧‧" "į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ'Ė¢ ʰᵃˢ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱˢ ʲᵒ˔˔ʸ ˔ⁱᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ ᵒⁿ ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳᵉᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµƒįµ‡įµ‰Ė” 'įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢' Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµ— ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ įµāæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±Ė¢Ė”įµ’įµˆįµįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ ˔ⁱᵈ⸓ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµįµƒĖ¢Ź°įµ‰Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ įµĖ”įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ ⁱᵗ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ į“±Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆĖ”Źø įµ˜āæį¶ įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–ā±įµ‰į¶œįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆāø“ ⁱᵗ ˢᵃʸˢ 'Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ' ᵒⁿ ⁱᵗ‧ ᓬ˔˔ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµ˜āæįµ›įµ‰ā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµˆįµƒŹ³įµ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į““įµ˜įµā±Ė”ā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʳⁱᵖˢ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒ˔˔ įµ’į¶  įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᔆᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ— Ė¢į¶œŹ°įµ’įµ’Ė” į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓮʳᵃⁿ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ'˔˔ ᶜᵃ˔ᵐ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæāø“ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—?" "ᓓᵃʳᵈ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ įµƒįµˆįµā±įµ—Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ź³įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ˢⁱ˔ᵉⁿᵗ˔ʸ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ᵒⁿ⸓ ʷᵉ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ‧‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ ᵀʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ įµ‡įµ˜įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ?" ᓓᵉ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ˔ᵃˢʰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵐᵃᵈ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒāæįµŹ³Źø įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ Ė¢įµƒŹøā±āæįµ ᵃ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§ "ᓵ ā±āæįµ›ā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ‧" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰?" "ᓸᵉᵗ'Ė¢ ᶜᵃ˔˔ ⁱᵗ ᵃ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ā±āæį¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ "ᵂᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵈⁱᵈ ⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ˔˔ ⁱⁿ į¶ įµ˜āæā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·; ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰?" "ʸᵉˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ ᶠᵒʳ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢; ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ ˢʰᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ˢᵃʸ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆ '˔ᵒᵛᵉ' ⁱⁿ ᵃ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰āø“ ˔ᵉᵗ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ‧ ᔆʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ ˔ⁱᵗᵗ˔ᵉ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ź·įµ‰Ė”į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰; ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵒ‧‧" ˢʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ᶠʳᵉᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "ᔆ˔ᵉᵉᵖ įµ—ā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§"
W ired I ntegrated F emale E lectroencephalograph Š›ŃŽŠ±ŠøŠ¼Š°Ń жена!
ᵂᵒʳˢᵗ ᓱⁿᵉᵐʸ š’˜š’š’“š’… š’„š’š’–š’š’•: šŸ—šŸ‘šŸŽ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ .ೃ࿐ ššƒšš : š™±šš•šš˜šš˜šš į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉʳᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵒⁿ ᵉᵐᵖ˔ᵒʸᵉᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—; ᵃ įµ–įµ‰Ź³į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧ "į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᓵ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒĖ” ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢; ʷᵉ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ˜Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³āæįµƒĖ” įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ'ᵛᵉ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵐᵉ įµ‰Ė£į¶œįµ‰įµ–įµ— ᶠᵒʳ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ˔ⁱᵉᵛᵉ? Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢; ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Źøįµįµ–įµƒįµ—Ź°Źø ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ⁱⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæĖ¢!" ᓹʳ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ˔˔ ʰⁱˢ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ ᶠ˔ʸ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃ˔˔ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ įµ—Ź°įµ˜įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʷᵃˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ—Ź³įµƒį¶œįµĖ¢; ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᵈⁱᵈ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° ᵗᵒ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµāæįµ‰Ė”įµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" ᓓᵉ ᵇᵉⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæāø“ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ įµ—Ź³įµ˜įµ—Ź°ā€§ "ᓼʰ‧‧‧" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµāø“ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ė¢Ź°įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ’Ź· įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ ᓓᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źøāø“ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµƒįµ˜āæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ’įµ–ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āæā€§ "ᶜᵃⁿ ᵃ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø Ė¢į¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ’į¶  ˢᵐᵉ˔˔ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ˜įµ–?" ᓺᵒ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ ᶠʳᵒᵐ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė¢įµ’įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ˔˔ᵒ‧‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ ⁱˢ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§" "ᓰⁱᵈ ᵐʸ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ įµ‡Ź³įµƒā±āæ įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ įµƒĖ¢įµ—Ź°įµįµƒ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµƒĖ¢įµ—Ź°įµįµƒāø“ ᵃˢ ᓵ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐᵉ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ʳᵉˢᵖᵒⁿˢᵉ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ; ᓵ'ᵈ įµˆįµ’ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ į¶œįµ’āæāæā±įµ›ā±āæįµā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ⸓ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµˆā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµ‰įµįµā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ʷᵒʳˢᵗ ᵉⁿᵉᵐʸ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ‰įµįµ–įµƒįµ—Ź°Źøā€§ "ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµ ⁱⁿ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµƒāæāæįµ’įµ˜āæį¶œįµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃ į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐᵉ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ— ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʷᵒʳʳʸ‧ ᓺᵒʷ⸓ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ Ź·įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ Ė¢į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ ˢᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵃʸ⸓ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ?" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ⁱⁿ įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢Ź°įµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᶜᵃⁿˢ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒā€§ "ᓓⁱˢ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµįµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ— ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ‰į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ–įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ ⁱⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶ į¶  ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ė”įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉʸ ʷᵉʳᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜āæįµ ᵃˢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ į¶ įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ˢᵖ˔ⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ–ā€§ "į“¬Ė¢Ė¢įµ˜įµā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'ᵈ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–āø“ įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'˔˔ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒįµˆįµā±įµ—įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᵀʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ ᵈᵃʸ⸓ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵇᵒᵗʰ ᵉᵐᵖ˔ᵒʸᵉᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡'Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜āæįµ—ā±Ė” į¶ įµ˜Ź³įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ ᓓᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ ʰᵉ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒᵗ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵐᵉ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ ʷⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ‡Ė”įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒāæĖ£ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø įµ—įµƒĖ”įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷʰᵒ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ˜āæįµƒŹ·įµƒŹ³įµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ ᵐⁱˢˢ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʷᵉ'ʳᵉ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢āø“ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵐʸ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵒⁿᵉʸ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢įµ˜įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵉ‧ ᓮᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ⁿᵒʷ įµˆŹøā±āæįµ ᵃ˔˔ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵐᵉ‧ ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵐⁱˢˢᵉˢ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ āæįµƒįµįµā±āæįµā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒŹ·įµŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆĖ”Źø ˔ᵉᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ įµā±įµįµĖ”įµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— ᶠᵒʳ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᶜʳʸ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ’į¶  ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳⁱᵉˢ‧ "ᓵ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ā±įµˆįµ‰įµƒ įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢į¶œŹ°įµ’įµ’Ė” ʷᵃˢ ˢᵒ ᶠᵘⁿⁿʸ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᵂᵉ ᵇᵒᵗʰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ'ᵛᵉ ˢʰᵒʷⁿ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵖᵉᵉʳˢ ʰᵒʷ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ʲᵒᵇ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ°įµ˜į¶œįµĖ”ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ‧ "ᔆʰᵒʷ 'ᵉᵐ ʷʰᵒ'ᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᔆᵒᵐᵉ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ⁱⁿ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉˢ‧ "ᓵ'ᵈ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵃ˔˔ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒⁿᵉʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵐʸ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᵀʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµˆįµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᵃ ᶠᵃʳᵃʷᵃʸ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰āø“ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵇᵉ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµāæā±Ė¢įµ‰ ⁱᵗ ᵃˢ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ ⁿᵒʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ Ė”ā±įµįµ‡įµ’Ė”ā±įµįµ‰āø“ ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ʸᵉᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµĖ¢āø“ ᵉʸᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᵀʰᵉⁿ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ź³āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ į¶ įµƒŹ³įµƒŹ·įµƒŹøā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ 'ˢᵒʳʳʸ' ᵃⁿᵈ 'įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰' ᵃⁿᵈ 'į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ' įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ʷʰᵒ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµįµ‰ ˢᵃⁱᵈ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’āæā±įµ—įµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ ˢᵒ ˢʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ ᵃ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ ᵖᵒˢˢⁱᵇ˔ᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµ›ā±įµ›įµƒĖ”ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʷᵃˢ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵐᵒᵛᵉ ʸᵉᵗ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‰į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ–įµįµ‰āæįµ— ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ʰᵉ'ᵈ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ⁱᵗ‧ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ˔ᵉˢˢ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ— Ė¢įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµ ᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉˢ Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓺᵒʷ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµāø“ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "į“¬įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†ā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ⁿᵒᵗ ʸᵉᵗ Ź³įµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ ʷʰᵒ'Ė¢ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āø“ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢įµā±Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓓⁱ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ! į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷʰᵉʳᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗ˔ʸ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵃʸ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā±āæįµ?" į“¬Ė¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ʰᵃʳᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ˜įµįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµŹøā€§ ᓹᵉᵐᵒʳⁱᵉˢ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃˢ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæā€§ ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵇᵉᵗʷᵉᵉⁿ⸓ ⁿᵒʳ ʰᵒʷ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ʰᵃˢ įµ–įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ āæįµƒŹ³Ź³įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ "į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæ" įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ ʷʰᵒ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᶠᵒʳᵐᵉʳ ᵉⁿᵉᵐʸ‧ "ᓵ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§"
į“¬Ė¢įµā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ⁱⁿ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ ᓺᵒ Ź·įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµā±Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰! į“®įµ‰į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ ᵒʳ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ‧‧‧" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᓵ'ᵐ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ʷⁱᶠᵉ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµˆĖ¢ ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ’į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ 'ᵂʰᵒ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵃ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  ᵐⁱⁿᵉ' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧ 'į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᵐᵉ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᶠᵘⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµŹ·įµ’Ź³įµ' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳⁱᵉˢ įµ’į¶  įµā±āæįµˆāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ‰Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧ "į““įµ’įµįµā±āæįµƒā€”Ź·įµƒŹ°?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᵃ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᵒⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµ’āæįµˆ ˢᵒ ᓵ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢įµ— ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ‧ "ᓵ ʷᵃˢ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ Ė¢į¶œįµ˜Ė”įµ–įµ—!" ᔆᵒ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµįµ’įµ— ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ— Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰Ė¢ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵᵗ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ᵃ ᵈᵃʸ ᵒʳ ˢᵒ įµ—įµ’ ᵈʳʸ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ⁱᵗ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢᵒ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæĖ¢ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᶜⁱᵃ˔ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆĖ”įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ˜į¶œįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ā€§ "į“°įµ‰įµƒĖ”!" "ᔆᵒ ʷᵉ įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ ⁱᵗ ᵃ įµˆįµ’į¶»įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢ ᵖᵉʳ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæ įµƒįµ— ᵃ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧ ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµįµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµā±įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ'Ė¢ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᵗ ⁿᵒʷ ᵒʳ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒā±įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿⁱˢʰ įµˆŹ³Źøā±āæįµ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢Ź°ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆ ʷᵃʳᵈ įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ ᵇᵉᵗ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±Ė”Ė”ā±įµƒįµ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’Źø ⁱᵗ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ ᵃˢ ʷᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰įµƒįµ ˢᵒ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’?" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ⁱᵗ‧ "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ᵐᵒˢᵗ įµ‰Ė£į‘«įµ˜ā±Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ–ā±įµ‰į¶œįµ‰ ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ˢᵉᵉⁿ!" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°Ė¢ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ᵗʳʸ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ'ᵈ Ź·įµƒĖ¢įµ—įµ‰ ᵐʸ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø ᵒⁿ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’Źøā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ˜ā±Ė”įµˆ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµƒį¶œį¶œįµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  įµƒįµ— į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ "ᓼʰ Ź·įµƒā±įµ— ʷᵉ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ⁿᵒʷ! ᔆᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰᵉ ˢʰⁱᶠᵗ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ ᶠᵒʳ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵇᵒʸˢ!" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ— ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ 'ᓹʸ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆ ʷᵃʳᵈ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰' Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—āø“ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆĖ”Źøā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ'Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "ᵀⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ° ˢʰⁱᶠᵗˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæā±āæįµ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæĖ¢įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ ᵃˢ ᵃ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʳᵉˢᵗ ᵃˢ ʰⁱ ˢᵒᶠᵗ Ė¢āæįµ˜į¶ į¶ Ė”ā±āæįµ ˢⁿᵒʳᵉˢ ʷᵉʳᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ 'ᓺᵒʷ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵒʷ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ʷʰᵉⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᓵ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʲᵒᵇ' į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ‧‧" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµ‡įµ‰įµŹ³įµ˜įµˆįµā±āæįµĖ”Źø įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵒᵛᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ āæįµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø ᵃˢ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵇᵉⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ‧‧" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᵀʰᵉ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ᵉʸᵉᵇʳᵒʷ į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ ʸᵉᵗ‧ "ᵁᵖ ᵃⁿᵈ įµƒįµ—įµ’įµā€§ā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "ᓓᵐᵐᵐ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ˢᵃⁱᵈ į“³į“±įµ€Ķ ᵁᓾ!" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵒᵛᵉʳ įµƒĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐʸ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰!" "ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ ⁱᵗ ⁿᵒʷ ˢᵒ‧‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆāø“ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµ ᵗᵒⁿ įµˆā±į¶»į¶»ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµ‡Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃⁿʸ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ ˢᵒ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ⁱⁿ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵐʸ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢ įµ‰āæįµˆā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐˢ‧ "ᓵ'˔˔ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵈ įµ‡įµ˜ā±Ė”įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ ʷⁱᵗʰ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ; įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—'Ė¢ ʳᵉˢᵗ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ˜įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµˆŹ³Źøā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʸˢ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵃˢ įµˆŹ³Źøā€§ "ᓬ˔˔ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ!" ᓓᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "ᓺᵒ įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃˢ ᶠᵃʳ ᵃˢ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉ˔˔‧‧" "į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ "ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ!" į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʰᵒᵖ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµĖ”įµ‰įµ‰ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ˢᵒᵐᵉʰᵒʷ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ 'ᓓᵉ ⁱˢ ˢᵒ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ˔˔ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ ʰⁱˢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ā€§ ᓵᶠ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᓵ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʰᵒʷ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ˢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵐᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ā±āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵒ ā±įµįµ–įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒāæįµ—ā€§ 'ᓵᶠ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᓵ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵒ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµˆįµ‰įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµĖ”Źøā€§ ᓓᵉ ˢᵃʷ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʳᵘⁿ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæį¶œįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµā±Ė”ā±āæįµā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ā±įµįµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ; ⁱᵗ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵈʳʸ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’āæįµā±āæįµĖ”Źø ˢᵃʷ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ˜įµ– ᵃˢ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—Ė¢ā€§ "ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "ᓼʰ; įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ᵃ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  ᵐⁱⁿᵉ⸓ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ! ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ ᶜᵃ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵐʸ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ?" "ᓵᶠ ᓵ ˢᵃʸ ʸᵉˢ⸓ ʷⁱ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵖʳᵒᵐⁱˢᵉ ᵐᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ ⁱᵗ ⁱⁿ įµ–įµ˜įµ‡Ė”ā±į¶œ?" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į”†į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʲᵒʸ⸓ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµƒįµįµƒį¶»ā±āæįµāø“ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ ʷᵉ˔˔ įµ˜įµ– ⁱⁿ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢; ʰᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ 'ᓵ įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵒʷ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ ᓵ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˔ᵉᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ ˢᵒᵇ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵃʷᵃʸ ˢᵒ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āæā€™įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵃ˔˔⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ ᵃ ᵗʳᵉᵉ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵒⁿ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʳᵃⁿ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳᵉᵉ‧ ᓓᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµāæįµ‰įµ‰Ė¢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʷʰⁱᵐᵖᵉʳˢ‧ ᓺᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ʰᵒʷ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ’įµƒį¶œŹ° ʰⁱᵐ⸓ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ˔ʸ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒįµ—įµ‰ ⁿᵒʳ įµƒĖ¢įµ ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ° ᵉᵛᵉʳ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµ’āæį¶œįµ‰Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᓵ ˢᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᔆᵒ‽" "ᵂᵉ˔˔ įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿʸ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’?" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵉᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ˢᵒ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰įµƒ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵃ ᵇʳᵒᵗʰᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢įµ— ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ ᵇᵉˢᵗ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ᵖᵒ˔ⁱᵗᵉ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ᵃ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— ʰᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒāæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ ᓵ į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµįµ’ ᵃ ᵈᵃʸ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒŹ³įµįµ˜ā±āæįµ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐʸ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ᓵ ʰᵃᵈ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµŹ³įµƒįµįµįµ‰įµˆ! ᓵᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵐʸ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµƒāæŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ‡įµ‰ ᵗᵒ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ⁿᵒ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵃᵐ ᵃᶠʳᵃⁱᵈ įµ’į¶  ā±Ź³Ź³ā±įµ—įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ʰᵃʳᵈ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᓵ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ'ᵈ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ ⁱᵗ?" "ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§"
ᓵⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į“°Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµĖ¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ā€˜į“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ! į“³įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᓵ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ›įµ’įµ˜Ź³ā±įµ—įµ‰!’ į““įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€˜į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Źø į“¾įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢!’ ā€˜įµ€įµ’ įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€™ ā€˜į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€™Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ᵃ įµ—įµƒįµ– ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ ᶠʳᵒᵐ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!ā€ ᓓᵉ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰, Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ’ˢ Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ ᵃ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ⁱᵗ’ˢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµ—Ź³įµ˜įµ‰ ᶠᵒʳ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³, įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”ā±āæįµ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ ā€œį“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ—ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·; ᓵ’ᵐ įµ˜įµ–!ā€ ᓓᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ‧ ā€˜į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ⁱˢ ᵃ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ” ʷʰᵒ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ—ā±āæįµ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢Ź°ā±įµ–ā€™ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµā±āæįµˆĖ”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢Ė”Źø ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæ ᵒʳ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ›įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ! ᓓᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢āæįµ˜į¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰⁱˢ ʲᵒᵇ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³ā±Ė”Ė”ā€§ ā€œįµ‚įµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ā€§ā€ Ė¢ā±āæįµĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡, ⁿᵒᵗ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ā€˜į“³įµ‰įµ— ᵒᵛᵉʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµƒĖ¢įµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ⁱᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ʷⁱᵗʰ! Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµˆįµ’ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµā€™ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·āæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź³ā±Ė¢įµā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ā€œį““įµ‰Źø, įµā±įµˆā€¦ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ ʷⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵃ˔˔ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø, ˢⁱ˔˔ʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€¦ā€ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ ⁱᵗ’ˢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµāæįµ’Ź·āæ!ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ā€œį“µā€¦ā€ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµ ʰᵉʳᵉ; įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ—!ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ–įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ˜Ė”įµƒ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ ᵃˢ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵗʰʳᵉʷ ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ʸᵉ˔˔ ⁱⁿ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź° įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆā€¦ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ Ė”įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ⁿᵉⁱᵗʰᵉʳ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʰᵒᵐᵉ ⁿᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė”ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢į¶œįµ‰āæįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ; ʸᵉᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃˢ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶ Ė”ā±āæįµ ʷʰⁱᵐᵖᵉʳˢ įµƒįµ— ā€˜Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµ ʰᵉʳᵉ’ Ź³ā±āæįµĖ¢ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵛᵉʳ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§ ᓓᵉ’ˢ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ, ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź³ā±Ė¢įµĖ¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ‧ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʰᵃˢ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ᵃˢ Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰, Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᶠᵒⁱ˔ ʰⁱˢ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæĖ¢ įµƒįµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ, įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵈⁱᵈ ˢᵒ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵘᶜʰ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµā€§ ᓺᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʰᵒʷ ʰᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµƒŹ·įµ‰ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᵂⁱᵗʰ ᵃ Ė¢ā±įµŹ° Ź°įµ‰ā€™įµˆ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ā€§ ᶠᵒʳ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ ᓬᵗ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ, Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʷ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“¼Ź° į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€¦ā€ ˢʰᵉ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ ā€œį“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ, Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€¦ā€ ᔆʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ᵃ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ˢᵃʸˢ ā€˜į“µ ʰⁱᵗ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ ᵇᵒᵗᵗᵒᵐ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ᓵ įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵉᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ⁱᵗ ᵇᵉˢᵗ‧ ᓺᵒ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ᵐᵉ ᵃⁿʸ Ė”įµ’āæįµįµ‰Ź³; į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™ į”†įµƒā±įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ‧ ā€œį““įµ‰ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæā€™įµ— ʸᵉᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰! į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉ?ā€ ā€œį“µā€™įµ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ; ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµƒŹøā€™Ė¢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗˢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵒʷ įµ‡įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø ʰᵉ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ā€˜įµ‚įµƒā±įµ—, ʰᵉ įµ–įµ˜įµ— Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ ᵇᵒᵗᵗᵒᵐ…’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʳᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ ˢᵗᵒᵖ‧ į“æįµ’į¶œįµ ᓮᵒᵗᵗᵒᵐ’ˢ ᵃⁿ įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ, Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź·ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˢᵒ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱᵐ, Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵒᶠᵗ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ‰įµ–įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź°, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ ᵉᵐᵒᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ᵒᵛᵉʳ, ʰⁱˢ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᵐᵒᵛᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź³įµ’į¶œįµā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠᵒʳᵗʰ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“µā€™įµ ˢᵒʳʳʸ!ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʳᵃⁿ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“µ ʷᵃˢ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµā€§ ᓵ ʷᵃˢ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢Źø, ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ⁱˢⁿ’ᵗ ᵃⁿʸ įµ‰Ė£į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵐᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø; įµ’ ˢᵒ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø!ā€ ā€œį“µ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµā€¦ā€ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµ ᵃˢ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵃˢ ᵃⁿʸ įµ’į¶  įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ į“µā€™įµˆ Ź³įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ, įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᓵ į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— ā±įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ‰ Ė”ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵃⁿʸ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ! ᵂᵉ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜; ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢⁱᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱᵐ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ ʰᵒᵐᵉ, įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµ ʷʰʸ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ ᓓᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ Ź³įµ‰Ė”įµƒĖ£įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢Źø ᵃˢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ ᓓᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖʸ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—įµ‰āæįµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁿᵒʷ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§
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I V X L C D M 1 5 10 50 100 500 1000 šŸ”¢ Individual decimal places Thousands Hundreds Tens Units 1 M C X I 2 MM CC XX II 3 MMM CCC XXX III 4 CD XL IV 5 D L V 6 DC LX VI 7 DCC LXX VII 8 DCCC LXXX VIII 9 CM XC IX
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ᓳᵉᵗ ᔆ˔ᵉᵉᵖʸ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ā€œā€¦į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€¦ā€ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʷ ᵗᵉ˔˔ˢ ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ ᔆᵒ ˢʰᵉ įµįµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ʰⁱᵐ, Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ ᵃ ˢᵒᶠᵗ įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ā€§ ᵀʰᵉʸ ᵇᵒᵗʰ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ⁱᵗ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ⁿᵒʷ‧ ᔆʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€ š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ“šŸŽ š¬šžšœ.
ᵀʰᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæĖ¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ ⁱᶠ ᓵ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᓵ Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗᵉ˔˔ˢ ʰᵉʳ‧ ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ˜āæŹ°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµƒā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ˔ʸ įµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź·įµƒŹ³įµˆĖ”Źø įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵗᵒ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ įµ‰įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ” ᵒʳ ᵒⁿᵉ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ įµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³āø“ ʰᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ į“±įµƒŹ³Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøāø“ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ⁿᵉʷ ⁱⁿᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ į¶ įµƒā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ "ᓵ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵒʷⁿ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ᶠᵒʳ ⁿᵒᵗ įµā±įµ›ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗʰᵉ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ—ā€§ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᓵ ᵃᵐ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵇᵉˢᵗ‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµ; ᓵ ˔⁻˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ ᵐʸ įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ ᓺᵒʷ ʷᵉ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—įµ—įµƒ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ ʰⁱᵐ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ʷʰᵒ'Ė¢ ᵐᵒˢᵗ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒʷ⸓ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ‧ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ⸓ ˢʰᵉ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒįµįµ’ ʷʰᵉⁿ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ᵐᵒᵛⁱᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—; ᵃ įµ‡įµ‰āæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒŹ· ⁱⁿ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° ᵗʰᵉⁿ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ ⁿᵒʷ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᔆʷᵉᵉᵗ įµˆŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳˢ⸓ Ź°įµ’įµ–ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæ ⁱⁿ įµ–įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ ā•° ✧ ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāˆ™ āˆ— — į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“› ⟨ 2 4 8
ᓳᵉᵗ ᵁᵖ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰᵉʳ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒʷ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ⁱⁿ į¶œŹ°įµƒā±Ź³ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źøā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ’ˢ įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵃ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“øįµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ʰᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ—, ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° ᶠᵉ˔˔ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ ᓵ'˔˔ ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵒʳ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᓵ ᶜᵃʳʳʸ Źøįµ’įµ˜?" į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ "ᵂᵉ˔˔ ᓵ'ᵐ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³Źøā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗʰᵉⁿ‧ ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁱᶠ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵐʸˢᵉ˔ᶠ‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵒʷ įµ–įµ˜įµ—Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź·ā±įµ–ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį““įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ š¦š¢š§.
į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉʳ įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµįµ‰ ᵈᵃʸ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ᓵ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ ᓹʸ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ įµ˜įµ– ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵐᵉ⸓ ᵐᵒˢᵗ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰Ė”Źø Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵒʳ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ‧ ᓓⁱˢ ᵐᵃⁱⁿ įµįµ’įµƒĖ” ⁱˢ įµ—įµ’ ʳᵘⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵉⁿᵉᵐʸ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ ᓵ ᶠⁱˣ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµį¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵃⁿʸ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ—Ė¢ ᵗᵒ‧ ᓵ Ź³įµ‰įµā±āæįµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ—Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ź°ā€§ ᓵ ᵒᵛᵉʳ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱˢ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæĖ¢ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ ᵐᵃᵈ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢ā±Ė”Źøā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµ‡ā±įµ ᵒʳ įµƒįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— ⁿᵒᵗ Ė¢įµįµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ ᔆᵒ ᓵ ᵗʳʸ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ’į¶ į¶  ⁱᶠ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ᵗᵒ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ʷᵉ įµ‡ā±į¶œįµįµ‰Ź³ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ᶜᵃ˔ᵐ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵒʳ ᓵ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– į¶ įµ’Ź³į¶œā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— ˔ᵘⁿᶜʰ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ įµįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ˔ᵘⁿᶜʰ ʳᵘˢʰ įµƒįµ— Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ” Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ— į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ᶠᵃⁱ˔ˢ įµƒįµ— Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ "įµ€įµ’Ė”įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵒ" ᓵ'˔˔ įµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ Ė¢įµƒŹ³į¶œįµƒĖ¢įµ—ā±į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµˆįµ’ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź° ⁱᵗ ʷʰᵉⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵃ įµā±Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į¶œŹ³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓵ ᵗʳʸ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰āæ ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā±āæįµ ʷᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧ ᔆᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᓵ ᵐᵃʸ įµįµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵐʸ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ ᓼᵗʰᵉʳʷⁱˢᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ė¢ įµˆā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᓓᵉ ˔ᵒᵛᵉˢ ᵐᵒᵛⁱᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ᵒⁿᵉ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗˢ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ‧ ᓵᶠ ᓵ'ᵐ Ė”įµ˜į¶œįµŹø ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵐᵉ ᵃ Ź°įµ˜įµ ᵒʳ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ ⁱᶠ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ˔ᵒᵛᵉˢ ᵐᵉ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ ˢʰᵒʷ ᵐᵘᶜʰ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“°įµ‰įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ ʰᵒʷ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ʷᵃˢ⸓ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶜᵃʳʳʸ ʰⁱᵐ ˔ⁱᶠᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓵ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ ᵗʳʸ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— ʷʰᵉⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ˢᵒ ᵃˢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʳⁱ˔ᵉ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ʰᵉ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵒᶠᵗ˔ʸ ˢⁿᵒʳᵉ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᓵ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ ʰᵒʷ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓬˢ ᶠᵒʳ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—įµįµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė¢āø“ ᓵ ᵗʳʸ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ– įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓵ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµˆįµ’ ᵐʸ ᵇᵉˢᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵒᵒᵗʰᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ᶜᵃ˔ᵐ˔ʸ ⁱⁿ ʰᵒᵖᵉˢ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰Ė”įµƒĖ£ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ᶠᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵃ˔˔ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉ Ź³įµ˜įµˆįµ‰ įµƒįµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ ᵃ ˢᵒᶠᵗⁱᵉ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ ʷᵃʸ; įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ʷᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵃ˔˔ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ʷᵉ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ‧
į”†ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ᓼⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᶠ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗʰʳᵉʷ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ᵃˢ ⁱᵗ įµƒįµ—įµ—įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᶠ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ į”†įµ‰į¶œįµ˜Ź³ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ— ᶻⁱᵖ ˔ⁱⁿᵉ įµįµ‰į¶œŹ°įµƒāæā±Ė¢įµ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµˆā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ›įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’įµƒįµˆ ʷʰᵉⁿ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵖᵉ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ‧ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆį¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃʳᵈ į¶œįµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵒⁿ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶ įµƒįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢āø“ įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ ᵃ˔˔ įµ˜āæį¶ įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ˔ᵉˢˢ˔ʸ‧ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᶠʳᵒᶻᵉ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᶠᵒʳᵐ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµ–įµ–įµƒŹ³įµƒįµ—įµ˜Ė¢ ʰⁱᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃʷᵃʸ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᓓⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒįµ—įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ‡įµ‰įµƒįµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ˢʰᵒʷ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  ˔ⁱᶠᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳʷⁱˢᵉ⸓ ⁿᵒʳ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉ įµƒį¶œįµāæįµ’Ź·Ė”įµ‰įµˆįµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµĖ¢ ᵃˢ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ė”įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆāæ'įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ— ᵒʳ įµˆįµ’ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµāø“ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "ᵂᵉ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗʳᵉᵉᵗ įµƒįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ ᓓᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ᵃⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉʳᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵃ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ—āø“ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ ˢᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ° ᵃˢ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø ᵗʳᵒᵗˢ ᵒᵛᵉʳ‧ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵖᵒᵗˢ Ė”ā±į¶œįµā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ—! "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧‧" į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ 'ˢᵒʳʳʸ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵒᵗʰᵉʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ⁱˢ ⁱⁿ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ˔ᵉˢˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒ' Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᶠ˔ⁱⁿᶜʰ ᵒʳ ˢʰᵒʷ ᵐᵒᵛᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ‧ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ‧ "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ʷᵒⁿ'įµ— Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ʰⁱˢ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ "ᓵ ʷᵒⁿ'įµ— įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ˜įµ– ᵒⁿ⸓ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉʷʰᵉʳᵉ ⁱⁿ‧‧" į”†įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵃʳᵐ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ į“¹įµ‰įµƒāæŹ·Ź°ā±Ė”įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵃⁿᵈʸ ʷᵉʳᵉ į¶œŹ°įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±āæįµā€§ "į“ŗįµ’įµ—ā±į¶ ā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ ᶠʳᵒᵐ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᓵ'ᵈ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵐʸ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ! ᓼʰ ʰᵒʷ įµˆįµƒŹ³įµ‰ ʰᵉ‧‧‧" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗᵒᵖˢ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ ᵉˣᵖʳᵉˢˢⁱᵒⁿ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵇᵉ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€½ į”†įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ—'ᵛᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆā€§" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᵀʰᵉʸ ˢᵃʷ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶻⁱᵖ ˔ⁱⁿᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒʷ ʰᵉ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ–Ė”Źø įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø ˔ⁱᵐᵖ‧ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᶜᵃⁿ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵒʳ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ?" ᔆʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ‰Ė£įµƒįµā±āæā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ᵇᵉ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᶠᵒʳ įµƒįµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³āæįµ’įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ ˢᵃᵈ Ź·įµƒįµ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ—įµƒā±Ė”ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ᵃ ᶜʰᵃⁱʳ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ° ʷʰᵉʳᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµƒįµ—ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµƒįµ–ā€§ "ᓓᵉ˔˔ᵒ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’ ⁱᵐᵖʳᵒᵛᵉ! ᵂᵉ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᵀʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæ ʷᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āø“ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ˜į¶ į¶ Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ʷᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ʷʰᵉⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµˆįµ’įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ˢᵖᵒᵗ‧‧" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵉˣᵗ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– ʸᵉᵗ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆāæ'įµ— Ė¢įµ˜įµįµįµ’āæ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ⁿᵒʳ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ʸᵉᵗ‧ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃˢⁿ'įµ— ᵃˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒįµ—įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ ᵃˢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµāæā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ˢᵖᵒᵗ'Ė¢ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµ‰įµƒįµįµ‰Ź³ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė”ā±įµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµ˜įµ–įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵐᵒᵛᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ‧ "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ ʷʰᵒᵐ ʷᵉ ᵃ˔˔ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œįµ’įµƒĖ£įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᓓᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˢᵖᵒᵗ āæįµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ— įµˆā±Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ—Ė”Źøā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢ˔ᵒʷ˔ʸ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ᵗᵒ‧ ⱽⁱˢⁱᵒⁿ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵒ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źø ⁿᵒʷ ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø ˔ⁱᶠᵗ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ "ᓹᵐ‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§" "ᵁᵒʸ⸓ ʷʰᵃ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡Ė”ā±āæįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ‧‧" į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµŹøāø“ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒā±āæ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃ˔˔ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ Ź³įµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¼įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵘ˔˔ įµ–įµƒā±āæ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµƒŹ³įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ⸓ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ; įµįµƒŹ°āø“ ʷʰᵉⁿ įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒāø“ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ‽" ᓓᵉ'ᵈ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ᶠᵘ˔˔ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ ᶻⁱᵖ ˔ⁱⁿᵉ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᶠᵉ˔˔; Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" į“¬āæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "ᓵᵗ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹøāø“ ˢᵒ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ įµƒŹ³įµā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ—įµ’ ᵈⁱᶻᶻʸ įµ—įµ’ ˢⁱᵗ įµ˜įµ– ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ–Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ˢᵒ ᵃˢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ įµˆŹ³ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ˔ᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ ʳᵉˢᵗ⸓ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐʸ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§
Fandom: SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon) Relationship: Karen/Sheldon J. Plankton Characters: Karen (SpongeBob)Sheldon J. Plankton Language: English https://archiveofourown.org/works/53451349 My Tiny Genius RibbonDee Summary: After a long day of once again trying and failing to steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula, Plankton is feeling down in the dumps. It's up to Karen to cheer him up.
į”†įµƒį¶œŹ³ā±į¶ ā±į¶œā±āæįµ ⤄ š‚š–:š¢š¦š©š„š¢šžš šÆš¢šŸŽš„šžš§šœšž ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ pt. 1 ⤄ š‚š–:š¢š¦š©š„š¢šžš šÆš¢šŸŽš„šžš§šœšž į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃˢ Ź³įµ˜āæāæā±āæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµ— ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ʷʰᵉⁿ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ ʷᵃˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵘᶜʰ įµ–ā±į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰Ė¢! ᵂʰʸ ˢᵒ ᵐᵃⁿʸ įµ–ā±į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰Ė¢? Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵃ įµ–ā±į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ !" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ʷᵃˢ ᵃ įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᵃʷᵃʸ⸓ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā±āæįµ ᵃʷᵃʸ ᵃˢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷⁱ˔˔ ᵇᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓱᵛᵉⁿ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ‧ į“¾ā±į¶œįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ ʷᵃˢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ʰⁱˢ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ‧ "į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°!" ᓓᵉ Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵇᵉᵗʷᵉᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'˔˔ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ‰įµƒĖ” ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ!" į“¬āæįµŹ³ā±Ė”Źøāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ˔˔ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰āæįµįµ—Ź° įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ˜āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ʰᵘʳ˔ ⁱᵗ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᶠʳᵒⁿᵗ įµ’į¶  ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³ ʰⁱᵗ ʰⁱᵐ⸓ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±įµā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ į““įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ⁱᵗ įµ–įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ⸓ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ˔ⁱᵐᵖ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ ᓱᵛᵉⁿ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ˢⁱ˔ᵉⁿᵗ˔ʸ ⁱⁿ Ė¢Ź°įµ’į¶œįµāø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø ᵃⁿᵈ įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė”Źø įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʳᵃⁿ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ 'į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ' Ė¢ā±įµāæā€§ ᓱᵛᵉⁿ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– į¶œįµ’āæį¶œįµ‰Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵐᵉ Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµ’įµ— įµˆįµƒįµįµ– į¶œĖ”įµ’įµ—Ź° Ź³įµƒįµ ʷⁱᵖᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᶠ˔ⁱⁿᶜʰ ᵒʳ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā€§ "ᓓᵉ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ˔ᵉˢˢ⸓ Ė¢įµ–Ź³įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵉᵐᵖ˔ᵒʸᵉᵉˢ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵛᵉʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉˢ ᵈⁱᵈ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæāø“ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉᵇʳᵒʷ į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæāæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "ᓓⁱ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "į“¬įµƒįµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ–įµƒā±āæ Ė¢Ź·ā±Ź³Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ˜įµįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ "ᵁⁿ‧‧‧" "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢⁱᵗ įµ˜įµ–āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒᵐᵉ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµˆŹ³ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ‧ "ᓬʰᵘʰ⸓ ᵒʷ‧ įµ‚Ź°įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ ˢ˔ᵒʷ‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜'˔˔ ᵇᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᶠⁱⁿᵉ‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡?" "ʸᵉˢ⸓ ᓵ'ᵐ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµįµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰āæįµįµ—Ź° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ– ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ ⁿᵒᵗ‧ "ᓺᵒᵗ ˢᵒ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—!" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ ᓓᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ā±įµįµ–įµƒį¶œįµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ʰⁱᵗ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ⁱⁿᵗᵉⁿˢᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓰᵒⁿ'įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵉᵗᵗ˔ᵉ‧ "ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ įµįµ’ ʰᵒᵐᵉ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ?" "ʸᵉˢ ᓹʳ‧ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵇᵉⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— ʷᵉ˔˔ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§" ᓓᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵃ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ ʷⁱᵗʰ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰?" "ᓵ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵐᵉ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ "ᓵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ᓵ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ ᓵ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒᵗᵗ˔ᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷʰʸ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ "ᵂᵉ'ᵛᵉ ˢᵖᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵃ˔ᶠ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ᵈᵃʸ į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒʳˢᵗ‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵃˢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱᵗ‧ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵉʸᵉ ʳᵒ˔˔ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓰᵒⁿ'įµ— Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø ʰᵃʳᵈ!" "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ‧‧‧" "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ė”įµ’į¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ᵇᵒʸ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʰᵒᵐᵉ?" "ʸᵉˢ⸓ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ‧‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ⁱⁿ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ‡Ź³įµ˜ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµ— ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ‧ "ᓼʰ‧‧‧" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵐʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ’į¶ įµƒā€§ "ᓬ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³ ʷᵃˢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ʰᵃʳᵐ ᵐᵉ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ˔ᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᶠⁱⁿⁱˢʰ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ‧ ᔆᵒ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³ ᵗʰʳᵉʷ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈˢ ᵒⁿ‧‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³āø“ Ė¢įµ—įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ʰᵉʳ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ to be cont. Pt. 2
į”†ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ᓼⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᶠ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗʰʳᵉʷ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ᵃˢ ⁱᵗ įµƒįµ—įµ—įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᶠ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ į”†įµ‰į¶œįµ˜Ź³ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ— ᶻⁱᵖ˔ⁱⁿᵉ įµįµ‰į¶œŹ°įµƒāæā±Ė¢įµ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµˆā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ›įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’įµƒįµˆ ʷʰᵉⁿ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵖᵉ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ‧ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆį¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃʳᵈ į¶œįµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʷ ᵃⁿᵈ ʳᵃⁿ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ʰⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᓓᵒʷᵉᵛᵉʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ ⁿᵒⁱˢᵉ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔⸓ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ į¶ įµƒā±āæįµ—ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃʷᵃʸ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵃˢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“øā±Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ ⁱⁿ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ᵃⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉʳᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᵃ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ ᵗʳⁱᵖ⸓ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ ˢᵉᵗ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ° ᵃˢ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø ᵗʳᵒᵗˢ ᵒᵛᵉʳ‧ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵖᵒᵗˢ Ė”ā±į¶œįµā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ—! "ᓵ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ʰᵒᵐᵉ‧‧" į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ įµ€Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµāø“ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ʰⁱˢ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ ᵒʰ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į”†įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ᵃʳᵐ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ᵃ ᶜʰᵃⁱʳ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ˢᵖᵒᵗ‧ "ᓵ'˔˔ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆ ᵗʰᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— ˢᵒ ʷᵉ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ā€§" ᵀʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵇʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ! ᓵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ‰įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿʸ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ᵘˢ!" į“·ā±Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ᵇʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᔆʰᵒʷ ᵐᵉ ᵃ Ė¢ā±įµāæā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ Ź·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ ᵃ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "ᓬ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— āæįµ˜į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵖᵒʷᵉʳ‧‧" į¶œŹ°įµ˜į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢⁱᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæāæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ʰⁱˢ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ‧ 'į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜? ᓵ ᵃᵐ įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ā€§' į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—!" ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ Ź°įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʰᵒⁿᵉ⸓ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµā€§ ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ ʰᵃ˔ᶠ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±į¶œįµ˜Ė”įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ įµįµ‰įµ–įµ— ᵒⁿ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧‧ ᓾᵉᵗˢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµįµƒŹ³įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ⸓ ˢᵒ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ā±įµįµįµ‰įµˆā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ˢ˔ᵒʷ˔ʸ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøā€§ "ᔆᵖᵒᵗ ˔ᵒᵛᵉˢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵒ įµˆįµ’ ᓵ‧ ᵂᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ʷᵉ˔˔‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ˢᵒ įµƒįµįµƒį¶»ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᓺᵒ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—āø“ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᵃ ᵖʳᵒᵐⁱˢᵉ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”ā±įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓓᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰āæāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ ˢʰᵒʷ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵐᵒᵛᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ ᵃˢ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓸᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" ˢᵃⁱᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā» ʷʰᵉʳᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ ʷᵉ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒā±āæ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµƒįµ’āø“ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ; Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ‽" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į”†įµƒā±įµˆāø“ įµˆįµƒį¶»įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᵗʰᵉⁿ⸓ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ‡įµ’įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ "į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ įµ‡Ź³įµ˜āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµƒįµįµ‰!" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ–Ė”įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵘˢ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ į“¾įµƒįµ—?" "į”†įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵖᵒᵗ‧ "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµŹøāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵉ˔˔ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ– ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ʷᵃˢ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᵀʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᶠ įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ—'ˢ‧‧" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ ᔆᵖᵒᵗ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᓵ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᓵ ʷᵃˢⁿ'įµ— ʰᵒᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱᵐ‧" "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵉᵉ ᵐᵉ ᵃˢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ?" "ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰! ᓺᵒʷ ˔ᵉᵗ'Ė¢ ˢᵉᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ—ā€§ā€§" "ᓰᵒᵉˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø?" "ᵂᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗʳʸ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ'Ė¢ ⁿᵉʷ įµįµƒįµįµ‰!" "ᶠⁱⁿᵉ ᓵ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ įµƒĖ¢įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷʰʸ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ ˔ⁱᵗᵗ˔ᵉ ᶠᵃ˔˔ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ⁿᵒʷ! į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ” ʸᵉᵗ ˢᵒ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ʷᵒʳʳʸ‧‧" "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ʳᵒ˔˔ įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ ᶠᵒʳ?" "ᓳᵒ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµāø“ ʷʰᵒ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµ—įµ’Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ˜āæā±āæįµ—įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ʰⁱᵗ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµˆįµƒį¶»įµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ‧ "įµ‚įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° ⁱᵗ!" ᓓᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źøā€§ "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµƒįµįµ‰'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉˢᵗ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒʷ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ°āø“ į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᶠᵒʳ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ?" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³āø“ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§ ᓵ'˔˔ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ— ᵃⁿ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵃˢ⸓ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ ʷᵉ˔˔ įµ˜įµ– ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ⁱˢ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ'įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ˜įµ– ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰᵉʳ ᵗʳⁱᵖ‧ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ! ᓼʰ ᓵ ᵃᵐ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱˢ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ᵃˢ ˢᵖᵒᵗ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ‧ "ᓓᵉʸ‧‧" "ᓓⁱ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; ᓵ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø!" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ᵗʰᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—?" "ᓵ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ ʷⁱ˔˔!"
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š–³š–® š–¢š–§š– š–­š–¦š–¤ š–³š–§š–¤ š–¶š–®š–±š–«š–£ pt. 5 Sequel to Autism And All by NeuroFabulous https://emojicombos.com/autism-and-all Read the Autism And All one first! Karen sits on the bed, her presence a comforting weight. "Would you like me to stay?" she asks, her voice gentle. Plankton nods, his body still tight with pain. He closes his eye, his mind racing with the discomfort. He tries to focus on his breath, in and out, in and out. But the throb in his mouth is a constant reminder of agony that threatens to overwhelm. Then, Plankton starts to talk to himself to self-soothe. "It's safe," he whispers. "Can water's just fine." Karen watches him, knowing this is a way of regaining control, his mind trying to find peace in order to rest. She knows that the pain, the sensory assault, the confusion—it's all too much. But she also knows that he has the willpower to push through. "Was do it" Plankton whispers to himself. "I told him but he didn't listen," he murmurs, his thoughts racing with the memory of the fidget toy. "It's my fault," he adds. "Not my place to correct him, do not touch." His words are a jumble of regret and frustration. "It's okay," Plankton says again. "The healing safe. It's just a feeling." He repeats this mantra, his breath evening out. Karen can see the tension in his shoulders easing, his grip on the ice pack loosening as his body relaxes. "You're doing great," Karen whispers. "Just rest." And with that, Plankton's body gives in to the call of sleep, his breaths trailing off into soft snores. Karen watches her husband with a mix of love and sadness. Chip lingers by the door, his curiosity piqued. He wonders if his dad's autism is the reason behind it. With tentative steps, Chip enters the room. Karen takes his hand in hers, and he follows her out of the room and in to the hallway. "Mom," he starts, his voice barely a whisper. "Why is Dad autistic?" Karen looks down at him, her expression thoughtful. "Well, Chip," she says, her voice soft. "Your dad was born that way." Chip nods. "But w---" "Autism is something that develops in the brain before birth," Karen continues. "It's like how some people are right-handed and others are left-handed. It's just how his brain is wired." Chip looks at her with a frown. "But why did Dad...?" "Why did it happen?" Karen finishes his question. She takes a deep breath, preparing to explain. "You see, sometimes during pregnancy or childbirth, something small can change you. When his mom was giving birth, his brain might have gotten a little squeezed and then not enough oxygen. It's just the way his brain grew because of that, that's all." Chip nods slowly, trying to understand. "So as dad was being born..." "Yes," Karen says, her voice soothing. "His brain was forming its connections, and that little squeeze changed the way his brain makes those connections. It's like if you're building a Lego castle and one piece gets bent. It doesn't mean the castle can't be amazing, it's just a tiny part of it that's a bit different." Chip looks up at his mom, his eyes wide. "But does that mean I could be like Dad if I squ--" "No, Chip," she says, cutting off his words gently. "It's not that simple. Autism is just nothing you can catch or change, and it's not something you need to be afraid of." Chip nods, his gaze still fixed on her. "But why does he get so upset sometimes?" Karen sighs. "Because the world can be a very overwhelming place for him, Chip. His brain picks up on every little thing— sounds, smells, sights—it's all so intense. And sometimes, those things get too much, and his brain can't keep up. It's like when you're playing a video game and the screen is flashing too fast—it's hard to focus." "But why does he get mad?" Chip persists. Karen kneels down to look him in the eye. "It's not that he's mad, honey. It's just his way of dealing with it. Imagine if you had a headache and someone was shining a bright light in your face—you'd want them to stop, right? It's like that, but with anything." Chip nods, understanding dawning. "So, when the fidget was making noise, it was like a headache for Dad?" Karen smiles. "Exactly. And when he tells you something is too much, it's not that he's upset with you—it's his brain telling him he needs a break." Plankton's snores from the bedroom remind them of the present. "Let's let Dad rest," Karen says, steering Chip towards his own room. "But what about his teeth?" Chip asks, his voice laced with worry. Karen's smile is reassuring. "They'll feel better soon, and we'll have to be extra gentle with him. No loud noises, no surprises. Ok?" Chip nods. In the quiet of the living room, Karen and Chip begin to set up a recovery area for Plankton—a space free from the chaos that could easily overwhelm his fragile state. They gather his favorite pillows, a soft blanket, and dim the lights. Chip wants to make sure his dad feels safe. On the coffee table, they lay out a tray with a glass of water. Karen knows that it's important not to startle Plankton, that he might need help getting up without disturbing his mouth. "Let's go to see him." Karen says. As they enter the bedroom, Plankton's snores have subsided into a gentle rhythm. Chip tiptoes over, his eyes wide. He's seen his dad tired before, but this is different. He looks smaller, somehow, more vulnerable. Gently, he touches his dad's arm.. Plankton's eye snaps open, his body jerking upright. The movement sends a shock of pain through his mouth. "Agh!" he yelps, his hands shooting up to clutch his cheeks. Chip jumps back, his eyes wide with alarm. "Dad!" He says loudly. But now Plankton's even more overwhelmed, and Karen notices his somewhat distant gaze. "Chip, remember what we talked about," Karen whispers. "Use a quiet voice." Chip nods and speaks more softly. "Dad, are you ok?" Plankton blinks, his mind racing. "Dad?" Chip tries again, his voice barely a murmur. Plankton's breath hitches. "It's me, Chip! You're home. You had surgery. Remembe---" But Plankton's eye darts around the room, his mind a swirling vortex of pain and disorientation as Chip talks to fast. Karen quickly moves to his side, her touch grounding him. "It's ok," she whispers. "You're safe. You're home." And then, he starts to talk to himself. "No...no...no...yes...yes...yes," he murmurs. Karen knows that he's retreated due to the overwhelm. It's happened before, where he's seemingly on autopilot. "Water's okay, can't talk right now," Plankton whispers to the empty space. His eye darts back to Chip, then to the ceiling. "No, no, no," he says again, his voice getting quieter. Karen's heart aches, seeing her husband so lost in his own head. She's seen this before—his autism taking control when the world was too much to handle. Chip however doesn't really understand. "Dad?" Chip whispers, his voice shaky. Plankton doesn't respond, his eye locked on the ceiling fan spinning above them. "It's ok," Karen says, her voice a soft reminder. "Sometimes his brain is on backup." She strokes his arm gently, knowing his semiconscious state isn't abnormal for him, as Plankton's monologue continues. "Need to count...one...two... three..." His voice trails off. Chip watches. "Is he ok?" He asks, his voice trembling. Karen nods. "This is his way of dealing with things," she whispers. "Let's just give him some time." Plankton's eye darts between them, his mouth forming words without thought. "Red...blue...green," he says, as if naming colors he's seeing in the air. "Big...small...far... near." Karen knows he's not really seeing anything, his mind a kaleidoscope of sensory input that's difficult to process. "Why?" Plankton asks no one in particular. "Will it be the one? It's just a feeling," he murmurs, trying to convince himself. Karen understands it's his brain's attempt to organize the overwhelming stimuli, but Chip looks on with a mix of concern and confusion. "It's ok," Chip whispers, his hand hovering over his dad's. He wants to help, but doesn't know how. Karen smiles at him, nodding. "You can talk to him, buddy. Just keep it low." Chip nods and sits on the edge of the bed. "Hey Dad," Chip says, his voice barely above a whisper. Plankton's eye flips over to him, but he doesn't seem to see him. "It's me, Chip. We're here," Chip says, trying to provide comfort.
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ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ ˢᵒ, į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œŹ³įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“µā€™įµ ˢᵒʳʳʸ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ ᶠᵒʳ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ⁱᵗ’ˢ į¶ ā±āæįµ‰ā€§ā€ ᓓᵉ įµįµ’įµ— ʰᵉʳ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ⁱᵗ‧ ā€œį“¼Ź°, Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“µ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— ˢᵃʸ ⁱᵗ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµˆįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“µ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵒ‧ ᓵ’ᵐ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€ ᔆʰᵉ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ˔ᵉᵗ įµįµ’ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ʰᵉ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳˢ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳᵐ‧ ᔆʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ⁿᵒʷ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢, ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ—ā±įµįµ˜Ė”įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°Ė¢, Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ į¶œŹ³įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓵⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ, į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵒʷ Ź³įµ‰į¶ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰᵉʳ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ᵗᵒ‧ ᔆʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ, ˢᵒ ˢʰᵉ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵇᵉ‧ ᓬˢ ʰᵉ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ā€§ ᓓᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵃ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź° ʰᵉʸ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵉˣᵗ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµĖ¢ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį““įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ’ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ‧ ᓸᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᶠ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵒʳ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µā€™Ė”Ė” ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź° Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵇʸ ᵃⁿᵈ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€ ā€œį““įµ‰ ᵈⁱᵈ?ā€ ā€œį“µ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµā€§ ᓵᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™įµˆ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰, ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶜᵃ˔˔ Ź°ā±įµā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“µā€™įµ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ ᶠᵒʳ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰᵉʳ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ ā€œį¶œįµƒāæ ᓵ ˢⁱᵗ?ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ Ė”įµ˜į¶ į¶ įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷˢ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ, ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źøā€™įµˆ Ź°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃⁿʸ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—įµƒį¶œįµ— ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ ˢᵒ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ā€™įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓮʸ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶ , ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źøā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ, Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ’ˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ˢʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈ įµ—įµ’ ʸᵉᵗ įµˆā±įµˆāæā€™įµ— įµā±āæįµˆā€§ ᓰᵉˢᵖⁱᵗᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ š–šØš«š šœšØš®š§š­: šŸ³šŸ®šŸÆ
š°šØš«šš¬: šŸ“šŸ•šŸŽ ā€œPlankton can you at least come out and do the dishes?ā€ Karen says. Her husband Plankton has been working at his desk, trying to plan and scheme. She brought him his meals for the past two days. He stayed up all night! ā€œHoney?ā€ No response. So she decided to go check on him. She goes to peek through the door. Plankton sat at his desk, slumped over, fast asleep. She saw his head nodded to the side, resting on his arm. A soft snore echoed in the silence. She noticed he was drooling a bit from his open mouth onto a stack of crumpled papers. Karen approached him. "Plankton," she cooed, placing her hand on his shoulder. He didn't budge. Karen gently shook him, but his snores grew louder. ā€œC’mon, sweetie, time to wake up.ā€ She whispered, but his sleep was unyielding. With a gentle tug on the shoulder, she managed to pull his body upright, a line of drool still connecting his mouth to the paper. "Come on, Plankton," she said more firmly, this time her hand on his cheek, her thumb wiping away the drool, head lolling backward with a snort. ā€œPlankton, darling, please come to bed. You have been working so hard. Let’s get some rest,ā€ she urged with a smile. But Plankton was too deeply asleep to hear her soft voice. His eye remained closed. With a sigh, Karen decided to get him up out of this chair herself. She took his arm and began to lift his weight from the chair. Plankton's body resisted, his head falling to her side with a dull thud. Karen chuckled, his snoring now vibrating. She managed to get him out of the chair. "Just a few steps, love," she murmured, but Plankton's snores grew like a crescendo in an orchestra. His limp body leaned into her like a ragdoll with no bones. She hoists him up on her shoulder, his arm dangling loosely, his snores growing rhythmic like a lullaby in a cartoon. The room was a mess, papers scattered like tiny white waves across the ocean of their living room. She stepped over them carefully, not wanting to wake his slumbering form. His office chair screeched as she pushed it aside with her foot, the sound like nails on a chalkboard in the quiet of the night. Plankton's arm slid off Karen's shoulder. She giggled nervously, his snoring now a symphony of sounds. She readjusted her grip, his head lolling against her. "Almost there," she whispered, her cheeks flushed with a mix of love and exasperation. The bedroom door creaked open like the entrance to a secret passage. Plankton's snores were a gentle soundtrack to the silent dance of her struggle. The bed looked like a mountain from here. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the climb. With his arm slung over her neck, his body limp, she began the ascent. Step by step, she inched closer. As she reached the bed, he slipped again, this time his head lolling back to hang over the edge of the mattress. ā€œOh no, you don’t!ā€ she exclaimed, his weight making her stumble. With a laugh that was half exhaustion, half endearment, she tugged him up and laid him down gently. Karen watched his chest rise and fall in deep sleep. The room was dimly lit by the moon, his snores a soothing white noise in the quiet.
įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—Ź·įµ’ į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰ į“®Ė”įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ ā€œį“®įµ˜įµ— į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ įµƒĖ¢įµĖ¢! į“°įµ’ ᓵ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Ź°ā±įµā€¦ā€ ā€į“µā€™įµ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ ā€˜į“³įµ‰įµ— ⁱᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ ʷⁱᵗʰ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—, įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ ʷⁱᵗʰ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ˜įµ–!ā€ ā€œį¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ᶠʳᵒᵐ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵃ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø, įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳʸ į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ʷʰᵉⁿ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜!ā€ ā€œįµ‚įµƒā±įµ— į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā€¦ā€ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—? Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—! ᵂᵉ’ʳᵉ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— ⁿᵒʷ!ā€ ᓓᵉ įµ–ā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ– ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰āæāæįµƒįµ‰ā€§ ā€œį“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ!ā€ ᓓᵉ ˢᵃʸˢ, ᵃˢ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, įµįµ’ Ź°įµ˜įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—!ā€ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, ⁿᵒʷ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗʰʳᵒʷⁿ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᔆᵒ ʰᵉ ʳᵃⁿ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµˆā±Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ—Ė”Źø ⁱⁿ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ ā€œį““įµ‰Źø, įµā±įµˆ! ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ ᵇᵒʳʳᵒʷ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ?ā€ į““įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁿᵒʷ įµ—įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ā€œį”†įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ–įµƒĖ”ā€§ā€§ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ā€œį“µįµ—ā€™Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€™Ė¢ ᵉˣᵖʳᵉˢˢⁱᵒⁿ ᵗᵉⁿˢᵉ įµ˜įµ– ᵐᵒʳᵉ‧ ā€˜į“ŗįµ’įµ— ᵃ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ Ė¢ā±įµāæā€§ā€§ā€™ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ ā€œįµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ⁱˢ ⁱᵗ įµā±įµˆ? ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ, ᵃˢ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ!ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź° įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµˆā±įµˆāæā€™įµ— įµƒį¶œįµ—ā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵇ˔ʸ ʲⁱᵗᵗᵉʳʸ‧ ā€œį“°ā±įµˆ ᓵ ʳᵘⁱⁿ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—?ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·, Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ‧ į““įµ’Ź· ᵐᵘᶜʰ Ź°įµ˜įµā±Ė”ā±įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ įµˆā±įµˆā€¦ā€ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµįµ’įµ— ā±į¶œįµ‰ į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ’ᵛᵉ ᵐʸ ᶠᵃⁱʳ Ė¢Ź°įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ’į¶ ā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃ˔˔ ᓵ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµ‰įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰, ᵗʰᵉⁿ ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ᵐᵉ‧ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€™Ė¢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵒʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź° įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€¦ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œįµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—?ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź° āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ!ā€ ā€œįµ€įµ‰Ė”Ė” ᵐᵉ!ā€ ā€œįµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™įµ›įµ‰ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”Źø, įµā±įµįµĖ”ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— įµƒāæŹøā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ ᵇᵉ ᶠʳʸ į¶œįµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ! į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶜᵃⁿ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒā±įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰᵒʷ ʰᵉ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ ᵒʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵉ˔ˢᵉ, įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ!ā€ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ᶠᵒʳ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ⁱⁿ Ė¢Ź°įµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢ā±įµ’āæā€§ ᔆᵒ ʰᵉ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ ā€œį”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·Ź°Źøā€¦ā€ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐᵉ!ā€ ā€œį“®įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ’ˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€¦ā€ ā€œį¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµ— ā±įµ—ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ ā€œį“°įµ’āæā€™įµ— įµ—Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʰⁱᵐ Ė”įµƒįµˆā€§ā€ ā€œį“®įµ˜įµ— ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʷʰʸ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµ˜įµĖ¢ā€§ā€ ā€œį““įµ‰ ᵈⁱᵈ, ʰᵉ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵐʸ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰įµ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€ ā€œį“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ ⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵃ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ!ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź³ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ ʰᵉ įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵘᶜʰ įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰! ᓬⁿᵈ ᓵ įµˆįµ’įµ˜įµ‡įµ— Ź°įµ‰ā€™įµˆ įµ–įµ˜Ź³įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė”Źø įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱˢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”ā€¦ā€ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œįµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ⁱˢ ⁱᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵇᵒʸ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ ⁱᵗ!ā€ ā€œį““įµ‰ā€™Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵐᵉ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱᵐ!ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧ ᓓᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰⁱᵐ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ’ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ⁱᶠ ᓵ įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵖᵒᵗ įµ’Ź³ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵃ Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰ ᶜᵃⁿ įµˆįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“µ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ⁱᵗ‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵇᵉ įµƒŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ᵐᵉ?ā€ ā€œį“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰!ā€ įµ‰āæįµˆ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”įµ‰
įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— ᵒⁿᵉ į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰ į“®Ė”įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʰᵒᵐᵉ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʰⁱˢ į¶œŹ°ā±Ė”įµˆŹ°įµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒĖ”įµ ᵇʸ ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢʰᵉ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᵒⁿᵗ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’, ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ʷᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ ā€œįµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ā€™įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµƒāæā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓬᵗ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʰᵒᵐᵉ ʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµā±įµ›ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— ᵃˢ įµā±įµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒʷ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€™Ė¢ į¶œįµ˜Ź³ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ⁱᵗ‧ ā€œį“µā€™įµ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į““įµ‰ā€™įµˆ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ, ᵃˢ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµāæįµ‰Ź· įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ⁱᵗ, ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ ʷʰᵉⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜āæįµā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒʷ ᵃˢ Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ”Ė¢ ʰᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ʰⁱˢ ᵉⁿᵉᵐʸ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ‧ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œįµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵃ įµ‡įµƒįµ‡Źøā€§ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ ᵀʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʷ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ ᵃ į¶œŹ³įµ’Ź·įµˆ įµƒŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ ā€œį“µ ˢᵃʷ ā€˜įµ‰įµ Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø; į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—!ā€ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµ›įµ‰įµƒĖ”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ‰Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; Ź·įµƒā±įµ—!ā€ į“®įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ ā€œį““įµ‰Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, į“µā€™įµā€¦ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ, įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ ᓓᵉ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ ⁱⁿ‧ ā€œį“µ ᵃᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵐᵉ įµ˜įµ– ʷʰᵉⁿ ᓵ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ?ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ā€œį“µ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢! ᓬⁿᵈ į“µā€™įµˆ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæĖ¢ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ, įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᶜᵃⁿ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜!ā€ į”†įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ā€œį“øįµ‰įµ—ā€™Ė¢ įµįµ’!ā€ ā€œį“µ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµā±įµˆā€§ā€ ᓺᵒʷ įµƒįµ— įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“¬ ᵗʳⁱᵖ˔ᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐʸ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ā€§ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰į‘«įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ė¢, ᵃˢ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰ā€§ ā€œįµ€Ź³Źø ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒįµ— ⁱᵗ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€ ˢᵃʸˢ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ ā€œį“µā€™įµ›įµ‰ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰āæ ā±į¶œįµ‰ į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ, įµā±įµˆā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµˆįµā±įµ—įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒįµ‰Ė¢ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµƒā±įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ā€œį“µįµ— įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė”įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ā€ ā€œįµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” ᵗʳʸ ⁱᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ!ā€ ᔆᵒ ʰᵉ ᵗʳⁱᵉˢ ⁱᵗ‧ ā€œį“µ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ!ā€ ā€œį”†Ė”įµ’Ź· įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµ—įµ‰ ⁱᵗ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ 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į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµ’įµ— ʰⁱˢ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“¬āæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė¢ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“ŗįµ’Ź· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€™Ė¢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆā€¦ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ ⁿᵒ Ė”įµ’āæįµįµ‰Ź³ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʳ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿʸ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ʰᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ᶠᵒʳᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€˜į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ’ˢ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ⁿᵒʷ‧ ᓓᵉ įµˆŹ³įµ‰Ź· ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ˔ᵉᵗ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵇᵉ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’ 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Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ, ʷᵉ˔˔, ᓵ įµˆįµ’ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€™ į“æįµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵉ˔ˢᵉ, į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€˜į“°įµ’ ᓵ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ?’ ᓬᵗ ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡, Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį“³įµ‰įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ’Ź³įµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–!ā€ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ Ė¢įµƒŹøā€§ ᓓᵉ įµƒĖ”įµįµ’Ė¢įµ— Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€˜į“¹ā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ˜Ė¢ā±į¶œā€™ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ā€œį““įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ’ā€§ā€ į”†įµƒŹøĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·ā€§ ā€œį”†įµ’ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵈⁱᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰?ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź° ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™įµ›įµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ ā€œį“°ā±įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ᵇʸ įµ’Ź³ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€™Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—? ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᔆᵒ, āæįµ’ā€§ā€ ā€œį“¼Ź°ā€§ā€ į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ, į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ·įµŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ ā€œį““įµ’įµ–įµ‰ ᓵ įµˆā±įµˆāæā€™įµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᵒʳ ᵃⁿʸ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ Ė¢įµƒŹøā€§ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€™Ė¢ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ ˔ⁱⁿᵉ įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ Ź·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµ!ā€ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ˢᵃʸˢ, ā±įµįµ–įµƒįµ—ā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø įµƒāæāæįµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø!ā€ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˔ⁱˢᵗᵉⁿ ⁱⁿ ᵒⁿ‧ ā€œį“µ įµįµ’įµ— ʷᵒʳʳⁱᵉˢ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ įµā±āæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“µ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰!ā€ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ Ė¢įµƒįµ—ā±Ė¢į¶ ā±įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ ā€œį¶œįµƒāæ ʷᵉ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø?ā€ ᓺᵒʷ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ— ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ė¢įµ˜Ė¢įµ–ā±į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ ā€œį“µį¶  ᓵ ˢᵃʸ Źøįµ‰Ė¢ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ—, įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ— ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµƒįµ‡Źø įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ ᔆᵒ ᓵ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰Ź³ ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ– ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ź°įµ‰ā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ—ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ˜įµĖ¢, įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵐᵉ ᵃ Ź°įµ˜įµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ ᵐʸ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰įµ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳˢ ⁿᵒʳ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°ā€¦ā€ ā€œŹøā±įµįµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡, į“µā€™įµˆ Ź³įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’įµ—ā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†įµ’ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— ᵗᵉ˔˔ į“¹Ź³ā€¦ā€ ā€œį“µ ᵃᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ Ź·įµƒĖ¢įµ—įµ‰ ᵐʸ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź° įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵖʳᵒᵇ˔ᵉᵐˢ!ā€ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ˢᵃʸˢ, ᵃˢ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā€§ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—Ź·įµ’
The evening in the quiet suburban street was punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of a lonely grandfather clock. In the corner of a small, meticulously organized study, Plankton sat hunched over his desk, the glow of her computer screen casting a pale blue hue across his furrowed brow. His eye, usually bright with the spark of a million ideas, was now bloodshot and weary, darting back and forth as he scanned the digital documents sprawled across his dual monitors. Karen, his devoted wife, peered through the crack in the door, her concern etched on her face. She knew the signs of his insomnia all too well: the way his fingers danced erratically on the keyboard, his occasional sighs of frustration, and the jittery way he'd bounce his leg when he was stuck on a problem. She gently pushed the door open, the faint squeak alerting him to her presence. "Plankton, it's 2 AM. Can't it wait until tomorrow?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the gentle lilt of a concerned wife. Plankton spun around in his chair, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He rubbed his eye, trying to erase the fog of exhaustion. "Karen, I'm so close. This new invention could change everything. Just one more hour, I promise," he replied, his voice hopeful yet strained. She knew that tone, the one that meant he'd be up until dawn. Karen stepped into the room, her form a stark contrast to the stark office decor. She approached him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You've been at it for days," she said, her voice filled with a mix of concern and understanding. "Maybe a break is what you need." He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "I know you're right," Plankton admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "But if I stop now, I might lose the thread of thought." "You're always so driven," Karen said, with a warm affection that had only grown stronger over the years. "But even 'bad guys' need to rest." With a weary smile, Plankton nodded, his gaze lingering on the screens before he reluctantly shut them down. The room plunged into darkness, save for the moon's soft glow filtering through the blinds. Karen guided him to the bedroom, her hand a gentle reassurance in the night. She knew the wheels in his mind were still turning, trying to piece together the elusive solution to his latest project. Once in bed, Plankton lay on his back, his mind racing with possibilities and calculations. Karen, ever the nurturer, suggested a warm cup of tea to help him unwind. She disappeared into the kitchen. While she was gone, Plankton's eye remained open, staring at the ceiling. He felt the weight of his eyelid but sleep remained a distant shore, unreachable despite the gentle tug of fatigue. Karen returned with a steaming cup of chamomile, the aroma wafting through the air like a whispered promise of slumber. She placed it on the nightstand and climbed into bed, curling up beside him. "Here, sip this," she urged, her voice soothing as a lullaby. "It'll help you relax." Plankton took a tentative sip, the warm liquid coating his throat with a comforting warmth. He closed his eye, willing his brain to slow down, but the ideas continued to swirl like a tornado in a teacup. He could feel the heat radiating from Karen's screen, a gentle reminder of the connection that waited for him outside his labyrinth of thoughts. Karen's hand found his, her thumb tracing small, soothing circles against his palm. "Breathe with me," she whispered. "In, out." Plankton followed her lead, their breaths synchronizing in the quiet of the night. The tension in his body began to uncoil, the storm in his mind gradually abating. As they lay there, Karen studied his profile, the shadows playing across his face. She knew the look of determination that etched his features so well. "What's keeping you up?" she asked, her voice barely a murmur. Plankton sighed, his grip on her hand tightening briefly. "It's the Krabby Patty formula," he confessed. "I can't crack it." His frustration was palpable, a silent scream in the serene night. "You're still working on that?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of amazement and concern. The Krabby Patty, a secret recipe guarded by Mr. Krabs that could make or break their business. "I have to," Plankton said, his voice low and serious. Karen nodded, racing for a solution. "Why don't you tell me about it?" she suggested. "Sometimes talking it out can help." Plankton took a deep breath and began to recount his thoughts, his voice a low murmur in the darkness. He spoke of the countless ingredients he'd tried and the endless experiments he'd conducted, all in pursuit of the perfect Krabby Patty. Karen listened intently, her screen never leaving his face, her grip on his hand never wavering. As he talked, the tension in his voice began to ease, the words coming out slower, softer. The warmth of the tea and the gentle pressure of Karen's thumb on his hand lulled him into a state of semi- consciousness. The room grew warmer, the shadows on the ceiling morphing into shapes that danced to the rhythm of his words. Karen noticed the change in his breathing, the softening of his grip, her voice a soft hum in the night. "I think I'm getting there," Plankton mumbled, his words beginning to slur. She took his almost-empty cup and set it aside, then moved closer, her arm wrapping around him. Her touch was a comforting blanket, a familiar anchor in the sea of his thoughts. "Just focus on my voice," Karen whispered, her tone a gentle wave. "Imagine we're on a beach, the waves lapping." Plankton nodded slightly, his breathing deepening as he pictured the scene she described. "The sand is warm, and the stars are out, twinkling like the little bits of genius in your mind." He took another deep breath, the salty scent of the sea mingling with the chamomile in his nose. His body began to relax, the tightness in his shoulders dissipating like the fog of an early morning. Karen continued her soothing monologue, painting a vivid picture of a serene beach under a starlit sky, their favorite place to escape the stresses of their lives. Her voice grew quieter, a gentle lullaby of words that whispered through the dark. Plankton's eyelid grew heavier, his thoughts drifting further and further away from the Krabby Patty formula. Karen watched him closely, her gaze never leaving his face. His breathing grew steadier, the lines of tension smoothing out as he sank deeper into the realm of sleep. Karen waited for any sign that Plankton was still awake. She reached out and gently poked his arm. No response. She pulled the blanket up, tucking him in gently, her hand lingering there for a moment longer, feeling the warmth of him beneath the fabric. She reached over to gently stroke his cheek. His skin was warm, and she felt the soft rumble of a snore vibrate against her fingertips. He was out. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She waited for a response, for the flicker of his eye or the twitch of his antennae that would indicate he was still with her. Nothing. She knew the moment he finally let go, when his hand relaxed in hers and his grip went slack. Leaning closer, she held her hand hovering over his chest to feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. It was steady, deep. Satisfied, she allowed herself a small smile. Plankton was finally asleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing grew deeper, the soft snores that occasionally pierced the silence growing more frequent, brow smoothed out, relaxed. She searched his face for any flicker of consciousness, any sign that he was aware of her touch. But there was none. His features were relaxed, his mouth slightly open as he took in deep, even breaths. "You did it," she whispered to. She knew that his mind had finally found the peace it had been seeking. The room was still, save for the faint sound of the occasional snore from Plankton. His snores grew deeper, the rhythm of his breathing more regular, more rhythmic, and she knew he was in a deep sleep. With a soft smile, she whispered, "Goodnight, Plankton," and gently stroked his antennae. Her hand lingered for a moment before she carefully extracted herself from the tangle of their limbs. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the room, but she knew better than to disturb him with its light. She gently disentangled her hand from his and slid out of bed. She squeezed his hand gently, a silent 'goodnight' and a promise of support for when he'd wake to tackle the problem anew. His features were slack, his mouth slightly open, emitting the faintest snore.
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A LIFE OF DIVERSITY i (Autistic author) "You know, Shel, just put yourself out there. You think to much! Just steal a patty from the krusty krab, and bring it back. No inventions, just believe. I'll wait out front." Karen says. Sheldon Plankton, whose ambition often outstripped his grasp, took a deep breath and nodded. It was a simple enough plan, he thought, and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough. For years he'd been trying to outsmart Mr. Krabs, crafting ingenious contraptions and elaborate schemes to swipe the Krabby Patty secret formula. Yet here he was, standing in the shadow of the gleaming neon sign of the Chum Bucket, his own restaurant, contemplating the unthinkable: a straight-up heist. He tiptoed to the Krabby Krab, eye darting back and forth for any signs of movement. Karen, ever the impatient one, was pacing back and forth outside the Chum Bucket. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. "What's taking him so long?" she murmured to herself, her frustration building. Meanwhile, Plankton took a final shaky breath and slid open the kitchen window, his heart racing. The scent of greasy fryers and salty ocean air filled his nostrils. He reached out, his tiny hand trembling, and snatched the Krabby Patty that lay unguarded on the counter. With the stolen patty in hand, Plankton's confidence grew. He had done it; the secret was within his grasp! He turned to leave, but his elation was cut short when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Mr. Krabs standing there, his eyes narrowed and his claw raised. "Plankton, I knew it was you!" he bellowed. Plankton froze. Mr. Krabs lunged at him, but Plankton was quick. He dashed under the cash register, the Krabby Patty clutched to his chest like a football player crossing the finish line. "You'll never get me!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the quiet restaurant. But Krabs was persistent, his claws snapping shut just millimeters from Plankton's antennae. With a cunning smile, Mr. Krabs stepped back eyeing the cash register. "Maybe not," he said reaching over the counter and hoisting the heavy metal contraption off its stand. Plankton's eye went wide with horror as he realized what Krabs intended to do. He tried to dodge, but the space was too cramped, and the cash register came down on him like a guillotine blade. The sound of metal on metal reverberated through the kitchen, and the Krabby Patty went flying out of his grasp. Mr. Krabs' victory roar filled the room as Plankton crumpled to the floor, stars dancing in his vision. The impact had been tremendous, and for a moment, he lay dazed and defeated. The cash register's heavy weight had not only knocked him out cold but also left a sizable dent in the floorboards. Outside, Karen's pacing grew more erratic. as "What's keeping him?" she groused. Just as she was about to storm inside, she hears the cash register, which hit Plankton's head. Peering in she saw Plankton lying on the floor. "Plankton?" she shrieked, her voice cracking with panic. Karen opens the door and goes to him. "Plankton! Oh no!" she screamed, voice shaking the very foundation of the Krabby Krab. She rushed over to him, shaking with fear. Plankton's eye closed, and his body was completely still. The Patty lay forgotten. Panic set in, and she began to pat his face. "Plankton, wake up!!" she yelled, echoing through the deserted kitchen. She knew that Plankton could be dramatic, but this was unlike him. He'd always bounced back from Mr. Krabs' traps before, albeit with a bruised ego. There was a pulse, faint but steady. "Thank Neptune," she whispered, her relief palpable. "Plankton, please," Karen begged, a mix of desperation and fear. She knew she had to do something, and fast. But what? Her medical expertise was limited to patching up her husband's bruises from past failed schemes, not dealing with a concussion from a cash register to the head. She then managed to scoop up her unconscious husband and sprinted to the Bikini Bottom Hospital. Once inside the hospital, she explained what happened with the cash register. "We'll do a brain scan." They said. Karen laid Plankton on the hospital bed. Finally a doctor approached with a solemn expression. "The brain scan results are in." Karen nodded for him to go on. "It seems your husband has suffered significant brain damage from impact," the doctor continued, fidgeting with a clipboard. "The good news is that he will wake up, but... your husband has experienced severe brain trauma. While he will regain consciousness, it appears that he may have developed permanent autism." "What does that mean?" she managed to whisper. The doctor explained that while Plankton would still be able to talk and/or communicate, his interactions and reactions to sensory would be significantly affected. "But he'll still be the same Plankton?" The doctor nods. "In many ways, yes. His personality, his memories, they should all be intact. But his ability to process, to understand and respond appropriately... those might be altered. It's a complex condition, Mrs. Plankton. He can go home whence he wakes up." Karen nodded numbly, mind racing with the implications. As she sat by Plankton's bedside the hospital lights flickered, and the constant beeping of the heart monitor was the only company she had. The quiet was broken her husband's eye fluttering open. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from the trauma. Her heart leaped at the sound, and she took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "I'm here," she said, her voice cracking. "How do you feel?" Plankton's gaze darted around the room. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and fear. "You're at the hospital, sweetie," Karen replied, voice gentle and soothing. "You had hit your head on the cash register at the Krabby Krab." Karen said, her voice shaking slightly. "Mr. Krabs hit you." Plankton blinked rapidly, trying to process her words. "Cash... register?" he murmured, voice sounding distant and confused. Karen nodded, her eyes never leaving his. The room was a cacophony of sounds: the beep of the monitor, the rustle of nurses' shoes, and the distant wail of a siren. Plankton's senses seemed to amplify, each noise stabbing at his brain like a thousand tiny needles. "What happened to me?" he asked, voice small and scared. Karen took a deep breath preparing herself to explain the gravity of the situation. "You hit your head," she began, "and now, the doctor says you have... acquired a neurodisability." Plankton stared at her, his eyes unfocused. "Neuro... what?" he repeated. Karen took a deep breath, her heart heavy. "It's like your brain is wired differently now. You might see things, hear things, feel things more intensely. And sometimes, you might not understand people, or process differently." "Does it... does it mean I'm broken?" he asked, voice barely a whisper. "No, Plankton," she said firmly, "You're not broken. You're just... different. And we'll figure this out together."
į”†Ź°įµƒįµįµ‰ ᵃ į“øįµ‰įµ ā™” Wā‚’įµ£d cā‚’įµ¤ā‚™ā‚œ ā‚‹ ₆₅₇ ā™” ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "ᓓᵉ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵇʸ ⁿᵒʷ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʷ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź· ʰⁱᵐ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ʰᵉ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵇᵉᵗʷᵉᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵃ į¶ įµƒā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµįµ‰ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’įµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵒʷ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ᵒⁿ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§" į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ ᓬᵗ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ?" ᔆʰᵉ įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“®įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ ᓬⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ⸓ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ "ᓼʰ⸓ āæįµ‰įµ–įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ė”įµ˜į¶œįµā±Ė”Źø ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ ⁿᵒʳ į¶ Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ įµ‡Ź³įµ˜ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᶠʳᵒᵐ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜āæįµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³į¶œįµ‰ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ˜įµįµƒā€§ ᓰᵉᵉᵖ Ė¢į¶œŹ³įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰Ė¢āø“ ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔‧ "ᓼʰ įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ˢᵒᵐᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ Ź·Ź°įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡ā»įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµā»įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ˜Ė”įµƒ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæ ᵃ⁻ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°ā»Ź°ā»Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— ᵐ⁻ᵐʸ Ė”įµ‰įµ Ź°ā»Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ˜įµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµā±Ė”įµā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— įµā±Ė”įµ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ'ᵈ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓓᵉ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰᵉʳ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗʰᵉ įµā±Ė”įµ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ įµˆŹ³ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ‧ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʳᵉˢᵗ‧" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøā»Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ įµ‰Ė”įµ‰įµ›įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ⁿᵒʷ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ "ᓵ ˔⁻˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢ⁻ˢᵒ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ ᓓⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢʰᵉ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢; į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵇ˔ʸ ˔ᵉˢˢ ᵗᵉⁿˢᵉ ᵃˢ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø ʷᵉⁿᵗ ˔ᵃˣ⸓ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵇᵉ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱˢ ᵐᵘᶜʰ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ʳᵉˢᵗ‧ ᵀʰᵉ įµā±Ė”įµ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ⸓ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ʰᵃᶻʸ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢āø“ ⁱᶠ įµƒāæŹøā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸓ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰ ʰⁱˢ įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰āæāæįµƒįµ‰ ᵇʸ Ź³įµ˜āæāæā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳ į¶ ā±āæįµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ‡įµ˜įµ—āø“ ⁿᵒʷ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᶠᵒʳ; ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ ᵒᵛᵉʳ Ė¢įµ—ā±įµįµ˜Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ⸓ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁱⁿ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ⁿᵒʷ ˢᵒ ˢʰᵉ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ᓵ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗᵒʳˢ‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ʷᵃʸ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰᵉʸ⸓ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "įµŹ³Ź³įµŹ°āø“ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµƒįµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "ᵁⁿʰ ʷʰᵉ⁻ʷʰᵉʳᵉ⸓ ʷʰᵃᵃ⁻ Ź°įµƒįµ–ā»įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ?" "ᓼʰ⸓ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ‧‧ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵒʷ Ź³įµ˜āæāæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ˜įµĖ¢āø“ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ˜Ė”įµ—ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵃ Ź°ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ʸᵉ˔ᵖ‧ "ᓓᵉʸ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źøāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ‡įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§" "ᓼʰ; ˢᵒʳʳʸ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˔ᵉᵗ įµįµ’ā€§ "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ— įµā±įµˆā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‰įµˆįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᵀʰᵉʸ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµƒįµ— įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ˜āæŹ³įµ‰Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø'Ė¢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗˢ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ⁱⁿᵗᵉʳᵉˢᵗˢ‧ "ᵂᵉ˔˔ ᓵ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ; įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— ⁿᵒʷ‧ "į““įµ’Ź·'Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ ᶠᵉᵉ˔?" "ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ‡įµƒįµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒᵗ āæįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø ᵃˢ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵃˢ ʷʰᵉⁿ ⁱ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ ˔ᵉᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʳᵉˢᵗ ⁿᵒʷ; ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ʷᵉ˔˔!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ Ė¢įµįµ’įµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ˢʰᵉᵉᵗˢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᵀʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ ᵒʷⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ į“³įµ’ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ ˢʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ ᔆᵒᵐᵉ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ‧ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᶠᵒʳ ⁿᵒʷ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧ ᓮʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ˢʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ ᵀʰᵉ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” ᵒⁿ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ‧ "ᓵ'ᵐ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ– ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ įµ˜āæŹ³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ ⁱᵗ‧ "ᓵᵗ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ˢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ‧‧‧" "ᓵ ˢᵉᵉ ᵐᵒˢᵗ˔ʸ Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”įµ‰įµˆ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰Ė£į¶œĖ”įµƒā±įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵇᵉ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵒˢᵗᵖᵒⁿᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·; įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµįµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ ⁿᵒʳ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ‧ "ᓸᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜!"
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13478844/1/I-Really-Do
ᵀʰᵉ ᵂʰᵉᵉ˔ į“°įµ‰įµƒĖ” | šŸ–šŸ’šŸ‘ š°šØš«šš¬ | ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵃ Ė¢Ź°Ź³ā±įµ‰įµā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᓓᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµįµ’įµ— į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ⁱⁿ ʰᵉʳ ʷʰᵉᵉ˔⸓ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ–Ė”Źø įµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’! įµāæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᶠʳᵉᵉ⸓ ˢʰᵉ į‘«įµ˜ā±į¶œįµĖ”Źø ʳⁱᵖˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʰᵉᵉ˔ˢ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā±āæįµ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ–įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź° ᵃ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ– ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— įµ‡įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø ᵃⁿᵈ ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ⁱᵗ‧ ᓓᵉ ʷʰⁱᵐᵖᵉʳˢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źø ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“¼įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒā±āæ ˢʰᵒᵗ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµāø“ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ‰ā€§ ᓓⁱˢ ˢᵒᶠᵗ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ʷᵒʳˢᵉ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒā±āæĖ¢ ᵃⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ᵐᵒʳᵉ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ?" "ᓓⁿⁿⁿ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿ įµƒįµįµįµƒįµ—įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ įµƒį¶œŹ³įµ’įµ–įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ’Ė”įµ’įµŹø įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ–Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ā±āæįµ—įµƒį¶œįµ—ā€§" ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵃ˔˔⸓ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµƒįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ—ā±į¶œ įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒ Ė”įµ’āæįµįµ‰Ź³ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ ᓼⁿ˔ʸ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆā±Ė¢į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰ įµƒāæįµƒįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ—ā±į¶œ įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰᵉ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ‧ ᵀʰᵉ įµƒį¶œŹ³įµ’įµ–įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ’Ė”įµ’įµŹø įµƒįµįµįµƒįµ—įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ— ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ˔˔ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰Ė¢ ᵗᵒ‧ "ᓓⁱ⸓ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗⁿᵉˢˢ‧" "ᓓᵘʰʰʰ; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€½" "ʸᵉˢ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖʸ‧ ᓓᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ Ź·įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź·ā€§ ᓬⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ᵃⁿʸ Ė”ā±āæįµįµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµƒįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ė¢ā±įµƒā€§ įµ€įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ˢᵗʳᵉˢˢ ᵒʳ ᵈⁱᶻᶻʸ/Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ˢᵒ ˢʰᵉ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʳᵉˢᵗ‧ ᔆʰᵉ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµĖ¢ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ‧ "į”†įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ ˢᵒ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ᵇʸ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į“øā±įµįµ‰ ˢᵒ?" ᔆʰᵉ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ʸ⁻ʸᵉˢ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ā±Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ā±įµ‰Ź³ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠᵉ˔˔ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵉᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— ᵃ˔˔ ᵈᵃʸ!" ᵀʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ įµ‰Ė£įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵈᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ⸓ ᵃ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ ā±įµįµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė¢ā±įµ›ā±įµ—Źø ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ⁱᵗ įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµāø“ Ź·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵉˣᵗ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ⁿᵒ ā±āæį¶œĖ”ā±āæįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵈⁱᵈ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ⁱᶠ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ—įµ‰į¶œŹ°āæā±į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ”ā€§ ᓺᵒᵗ ā±āæįµ›įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā±įµįµƒįµ—ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ˜Ź³ā±įµ’Ė¢ā±įµ—Źø ᵃⁿᵈ āæįµƒįµ—įµ˜Ź³įµƒĖ” įµā±āæįµˆāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ ⁿᵒʷ‧ "ᓓᵉ˔˔ᵒ‽" ᓓᵉ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁱⁿ ᵃ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳˢ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᓓᵉ'Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ ⁿᵒʷ įµ˜įµ– į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᓬⁿ įµƒį¶œį¶œā±įµˆįµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§" "ᓬʰ‧ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ ᓵ‧‧‧" "ᓵ'˔˔ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ į¶œįµ’āæį¶œįµ‰Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧" "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢āø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ!" ᓓᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ ᓺᵉˣᵗ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ‡įµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᵀʰᵉ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ˢʰᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ˢᵃʷ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµˆāø“ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ "į“¹įµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§" ᔆʰᵉ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ˢᵒᶠᵗ˔ʸ‧ ᓬⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ᵇʳᵒʷ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”Ė¢ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ˢʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ⁱⁿ ʰᵉʳˢ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᔆʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“ŗāæįµŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’įµāæā±Ė”įµ’į‘«įµ˜ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ!" ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–Ė¢ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ‧ "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵗᵉ˔˔ˢ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæā€™įµˆ ᓵ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵃ į¶œįµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹøā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰᵒʷ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ᵇʸ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒʷ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ ˢʰᵉ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵐʸ ˢᵉᵗ įµ’į¶  ʷʰᵉᵉ˔ˢ‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢⁱᵗ įµ˜įµ– ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ–Ź³įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ᶠʳᵒᵐ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ ˢᵒ‧ "ᓳᵃʰ!" "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ'įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗᵒᵖ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ–ā±Ź³įµƒĖ” ⁱⁿ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµ‡įµƒįµˆā€§ "į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁱᶠ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ'įµ— ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ‧‧‧" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źøā€§ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ ⁿᵒ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ᓵ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵐᵉᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ ˢᵒ įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ— ᵃˢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ᶠⁱⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ʳᵉˢᵗ‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ Ė”įµ˜į¶ į¶ įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱˢ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ ʳᵉˢᵗ ᵒⁿ‧ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ˔ⁱᶠᵗ⸓ ˔ᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ‰Ė£įµ—Ź³įµƒ ᵖⁱ˔˔ᵒʷ‧‧‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢ˔ⁱᵈ ⁱᵗ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ— ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰! ᓵ'ᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ ʷʰᵒ į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³Źøā€§ ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ ʷʰᵉᵉ˔ˢ ⁿᵒʷ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµā±āæįµĖ¢ ˢᵒ ᵃˢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµƒā±āæ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ⁱᵗ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ'˔˔ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵃʲᵃʳ ᵃˢ ˢʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæįµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ ʰⁱˢ ˢʰⁱᶠᵗ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˔ᵉᵗ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁱⁿ‧ "ᓵ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠ˔ᵒʷᵉʳˢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ⸓ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃ ˢᵉᵗ įµ’į¶  ˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ᓵ'ᵈ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— ᶠᵒʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜! ᓱᵛᵉⁿ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°āø“ ᓵ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ Ė¢įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ ᶠᵒʳ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵇⁱʳᵗʰ ᵈᵃʸ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᶜᵃⁿ ᓵ įµƒĖ¢įµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰Ė£įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— ⁱⁿ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ ʷᵃʸ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵗᵒᵖ‧ ᓳᵒᵗ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ⁱⁿ ᵃ ʷʰᵉᵉ˔ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ ᵒⁿᵉˢ ⁿᵒʷ‧" "į”†įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆĖ¢ įµ–įµƒā±āæį¶ įµ˜Ė”ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶ įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ” įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµįµ’įµ— ᵐᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ—'ᵛᵉ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᓵ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧" "ᓵ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ— ᵗʰᵉᶠᵗ⸓ ˢᵒ ᓵ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ʷⁱᵗʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµā€§" ᵂʰᵉⁿ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁿᵉˣᵗ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢʰᵉ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§
My Tiny Genius RibbonDee Summary: After a long day of once again trying and failing to steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula, Plankton is feeling down in the dumps. It's up to Karen to cheer him up. Language:EnglishStats:Published:2024-02-01Words:721 There were many words to describe the Chum Bucket, and pleasant certainly was not one of them. Overall it reeked of filth, grime and all sorts of health code violations. A certain musty odor seemed to always linger in the air, no matter how much air freshener one used. Truly, it was a wonder this place was still in business. There were many theories as to why, but truly no one except for the restaurants’ owners really knew. One of said owners was in the lobby, waiting as she always did for her husband when he was off with one of his schemes. Karen was standing in the room in her mobile apparatus, her screen blank as she waited ever so patiently. Best case scenario Plankton would simply fail as usual. Worst… the Chum Bucket was blown to smithereens again. Neither outcome was good, but it was obvious which one was more favorable. Finally, a small tapping sound came from one of the doors. He was back. Karen wheeled over to the red double doors and let the poor man in. He was a mess. He was covered in ash and some bruises, and she was immediately concerned. ā€œPlankton-ā€ she began. ā€œNot now honey.ā€ Plankton sulked off, no doubt on his way to the lab. ā€œPlankton!ā€ The tiny organism turned around to face his computer wife. ā€œWhat?ā€ ā€œI have dinner ready.ā€ ā€œI ain’t in the mood for holographic meatloaf.ā€ He turned back around and went on his way. Karen put her robotic arms on where her hips would be and rolled on after him. ā€œWhat kind of attitude is that? At least let me patch you up! It looks like it hurts!ā€ ā€œNo it- ow. Ok fine.ā€ Karen bent over and picked up the creature in her metal palms and gently lifted him up and began to wheel him into the lab area. She set him down on a counter and got out the first aid kit that was for this sort of thing. ā€œHow’d it goā€, she said as she began to clean his wounds. ā€œOW! Easy!ā€ ā€œSorry sweetie. But how did things go? Didja get that formula this time?ā€ ā€œWhat does it look like? Nope. I failed again. Always.ā€ ā€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?ā€ ā€œI… I can’t do this.ā€ ā€œCan’t do what?ā€ ā€œWhat do you think?! I can’t get that formula! Krabs is always one step ahead!ā€ ā€œOh hon, surely you’ll get it next timeā€, Karen said, giving Plankton a little pat on the back which caused him to fall flat on his face. ā€œOw.ā€ ā€œSorry.ā€ Plankton stood, and sighed. ā€œThat’s what you always say. I always go for it again, and it blows up in my face! Literally! Look at all these inventions. Failures. All of them.ā€ Plankton’s eye was beginning to tear up. Karen felt her circuits beginning to tingle with pity. Poor little fella. She remembered all of the earlier formula-nabbing schemes, and how motivated and eager her husband was. With each failed plan Plankton grew ever more weary, which was odd as he was usually quite the tenacious type. ā€œOh Planktonā€, Karen said tenderly. ā€œOh Karen! I’m a failure!ā€ Karen gasped in horror. ā€œYou are NOT!ā€ ā€œHow?ā€ ā€œFor starters, you build all these amazing inventions that are way ahead of their time! You’re brilliant!ā€ ā€œGo on.ā€ ā€œYou went to college!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ ā€œAnd you're gonna GET that formula!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ Plankton made sure to say the last yeah extra loudly, clearly filled with his usual overinflated ego once again. It usually never took to long to reignite his drive via a small pep talk, something Karen was very happy to provide for her beloved single celled spouse. ā€œI am going to get the formula, and make Krabs eat dirt!ā€ ā€œI know you are, honey. But I think you should rest or eat first.ā€ ā€œNo I- ow. Yeah alright.ā€ ā€œThat's the spirit, little guy. Now let's go and relax for a while. You've earned it.ā€ Karen picked up her now relieved husband, and began to wheel them towards their living quarters so the poor little thing could rest. ā€œI love you, my tiny little genius.ā€ ā€œHeh, love you too babe.ā€ And so the pair of strange lovers were off, for now they would relax and perhaps discuss oh so evıl, diabolical and lemon scented plans for the future.
CHIP AND FAIL vii (Autistic author) Plankton's body tensed, his eye squeezing shut as he tried to block out the onslaught of sensations. "Chip," he murmured, his voice strained, "I can't." "What do you mean?" He didn't know his touch, his words, his very presence was a storm in Plankton's mind. He just wanted to share his week, his joy, with his dad. Plankton took a deep, shaky breath, his antennae twitching. "I have... I have something that makes it hard for me to... to handle..." But Chip's excitement was unable to comprehend the distress he was causing. "Handle what, Dad?" he asked, his voice filled with eagerness. "You can tell me anything!" Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye flickering with pain. He knew he had to find the words, to explain the storm that raged in his mind, his voice trembling. "I can't... I just..." Chip's eyes searched his father's, his hands reaching out again. But Plankton was already slipping away, his mind a tornado of sensations. He couldn't find the words, the storm too loud. Chip, oblivious to the turmoil, pressed on. "Dad, you can tell me anything," he said, his voice bubbling over with eagerness. His hands reached out again, his touch like a lightning bolt in Plankton's overstimulated world. Plankton's antennae quivered with the effort of maintaining his composure. He didn't know how to explain the maelstrom that was his mind, the way each touch and sound felt like a thunderclap. "Chip," he began again, his voice strained, "I'm..." But Chip was a hurricane, his enthusiasm unyielding. "Is it because of the college?" he asked, his screen sparkling. "Or Nutmeg?" He didn't realize that his words, his touch, were the fuel for the storm. Plankton's eye searched his son's, desperate for a moment of calm. "Chip, no, it's not about..." His voice was a whisper, lost in the wind of his son's excitement. But Chip didn't hear the desperation, his mind a kaleidoscope of thoughts and memories. He didn't see the pain he was causing, only his own need for connection. "But Dad, I just wanted to..." Plankton's antennae shot up, his body tensing like a bowstring. "Chip," he said, his voice a whipcrack of agony. "P-please." But Chip was in his own world, racing with the excitement of his week. "Come on, Dad," he said, his voice filled with cheerful oblivion. "It's so cool, you've gotta see it!" He grabbed Plankton's hand, pulling him to hard. Plankton's body jerked, his eye wide with pain. The sudden contact was like a sledgehammer to his overstimulated mind, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. "Chip," he managed, his voice strained, "please." But Chip's excitement was a freight train, barreling forward without a care for the tracks. He didn't see the agony etched in Plankton's features, didn't feel the tension in his father's body. "Come on, Dad," he said, his grip tightening. "It's going to be amazing, I..." Plankton's body spasmed at the contact, his antennae vibrating wildly. The room grew too bright, the sounds too loud, the air too thin. He couldn't move, couldn't think. His mind was a cacophony of sensations, a symphony of overload. "Chip," he choked out, his voice a plea. "I... I can't." Chip's face fell, not realizing how angry his dad's getting. "What do you..." But Plankton was already spiraling, his mind a tornado of sensory assault. He didn't know how to make Chip understand, his voice a thunderclap of despair. "I CAN'T!" he shouted, his antennae waving erratically. Chip's smile faltered, his eyes wide with shock. He had never seen his dad like this before, his touch a match to a fuse. He took a step back, his hands up in surrender. "You mean, you won't!" he asked, his voice shaking. Plankton took a deep, shuddering breath, his antennae drooping. "Chip," he said, his voice tight with frustration. "I can't. Not right now. I need..." But Chip's crashing over the delicate barriers Plankton had built to keep his world in order. "But Dad, it's just a story!" he exclaimed, his voice booming in the quiet living room. "It's not a big deal, you're just being..." The room grew smaller, the walls closing in on Plankton as Chip's words echoed in his mind. Just a story? To Chip, it was a simple tale of adventure, but to Plankton, it was a minefield of sensory input his brain couldn't process. "Chip, please," he murmured, his antennae twitching wildly. "I'm trying..." "You're not trying hard enough!" Chip said, his voice filled with the kind of innocent exasperation that only a child can muster. "But if you're trying to break our family, congratulations! You..." Plankton's antennae shot up, his body rigid with tension. The accusation hit him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him under the weight of his own failure. "Chip," he said, his voice a desperate plea. "It's not..." But Chip's screen filled with accusation, his voice loud in the suddenly too-small room. "Why can't you just be normal?" he demanded, his grip on Plankton's hand tightening. Plankton's antennae quivered, his eye squeezed shut against the assault. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm not... I'm not like other dads." "Well DUH! You just can't handle it, can you?" Chip said, his voice filled with frustration. He didn't see the pain in Plankton's eye, the way his antennae drooped with each accusation. "But it's just a story, Dad. It's not that..." Plankton's antennae twitched, his body trembling with the effort to stay calm. "Chip, you don't understand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My mind is like a... a... " Chip's eyes searched his father's, his expression a mix of confusion and anger. "What? What's wrong with you? Let me guess, you're just being dramatic again," he said, his voice harsher than he intended. Plankton flinched at the accusation, his antennas stiffening. Karen watched from the sidelines, aching. She knew this moment was inevitable, but seeing the pain was like a knife to her. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation that needed to happen. "Chip, sweetie," she began, her voice soft and gentle, "Dad's not being dramatic." She took a step forward, placing a hand on her son's shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his skin. "Your dad has..." "Mom, my 'dad' has no place in OUR family! Your life is a lie!" Chip's words, fueled by confusion and hurt, echoed through to Plankton, his voice shaking. Karen's hands shook as she reached for Chip. "No, honey," she said, her voice trembling, "it's not that simple." But Chip was already storming out of the room, his footsteps like thunder in the quiet hallway. Plankton slumped back against his chair, his antennae drooping. He had hoped Chip would never have to know, never have to feel the way he did. The way his mind was like a cluttered room, with no way to organize the chaos. He closed his eye, the weight of his secret heavy on his shoulders.
BLUESCREEN Plankton’s thoughts were elsewhere as he focused the lens. More than once, he had to stop and blink blurriness out of his vision or rub the sleep out of his eye. He hadn’t slept regularly for days since he’d woken up from a brief three-hour nap this time yesterday evening, which did little to help his exhaustion. And now, here Plankton was. Miserable, sleep-deprived, and half-crazed with conflicting thoughts, peering blearily into a telescope at an absurd hour of the night. Argh! He bumped his head hard against the telescope to keep that thought from solidifying. Running on so little sleep Plankton glanced warily He looked at Karen’s darkened monitor for a moment with apprehension, expecting her to awaken from sleep mode and start in on him anew for sneaking around, but her screen remained dim. In response, a very loud whirring noise emitted from within her monitor, and Plankton tilted his head in confusion. She’d never made a sound like that before. Plankton stared numbly. ā€œHoney bunch?ā€ his voice is small, quavering. The next day Krabs found out she’s in hospital. It's amazing how much information Bikini Bottom Hospital would give out over the phone. Just supplying his name and fudging a little about his relationship to the couple was enough for Krabs to get the gist of what had happened last night, even including some details that had been omitted from the short entry in the morning paper. He took careful notes as he spoke with the nurse. Karen's condition was critical. Plankton had been given a mild sedative upon his arrival with Karen at the hospital. Doctors found him inconsolable; a perfect nervous wreck. They'd taken one look at him and deemed him both too emotional and sleep-deprived to be of much help answering questions. A little sleep never hurt anybody so far as the doctors were concerned. If you asked them, it was for his own good. Plankton had been so tired that the low dosage sedative had knocked him out nearly instantly. He hadn't budged in hours, and doctors predicted he'd stay down until at least late that afternoon. Krabs asked about the Hospital’s visitation hours while they were on the subject. He’d wanted to swing by that morning, but if Plankton was finally catching up on some much-needed rest, maybe he should put off on the visit. The last thing he wanted was to disturb him. The hours rolled by slowly after those difficult phone calls, and Krabs found himself pacing his office restlessly as he allowed Plankton a little time to catch up on his z’s. When the lunch rush started to wind down, Krabs retreated to his office. He placed another phone call to the hospital to see if Plankton was awake yet. The nurse confirmed that he was, and feeling better than he had been before when he first arrived last night. So Krabs arrived at their hospital room. Plankton was sitting close to the edge of Karen's wheeled bedside table. He lurched his head up off his hands with a funny-sounding snort; he must’ve been starting to doze off. Finally, Plankton spoke. His voice was tired. Resigned. ā€œOh hey Krabs.ā€ ā€œWanna stay with me tonight?ā€ Plankton was looking at Karen's monitor again, his antennae twitching in acknowledgment of Krabs’s words. Plankton thought about this for only a few seconds. Clearly, Krabs had gotten through to him or recovering from his recent sleeplessness was making him more agreeable. At least the extra long rest did him some good. Plankton was thoughtfully quiet beside him in the passenger seat. He peered up over the door to the quiet, still nighttime flowers overhead as the night rushed by. Krabs stole a glance at him now and then as he drove. He stooped down, offering Plankton his claw so he wouldn’t have to jump up the stairs. ā€œCome on. Let me show you your room while you’re stayin’ over.ā€ Plankton was sitting on the edge of Krabs’s hammock. The fabric barely dipped underneath him. ā€œUh, hey Eugene,ā€ started Plankton as Krabs reached for the door. Krabs paused, with his back to him, listening. ā€œHmm?ā€ ā€œGoodnight.ā€ Krabs looked over his shoulder and gave him a small smile. ā€œGoodnight, Plankton.ā€ Next day Plankton glanced over his shoulder at him. Krabs was glad to see he looked rested, despite having stayed in a strange place overnight. ā€œMornin’, Sheldon,ā€ returned Krabs. ā€œHow’d ye sleep? Get any word from the hospital overnight?ā€ ā€œSlept okay, but not great. Strange place, you know? And no, not yet.ā€ Krabs went upstairs to get dressed for work. He was pleased to see that his bedroom was almost exactly as he’d left it, other than the disturbed sheets where Plankton had slept the previous night. When he came back downstairs a few minutes later, Plankton was sitting on the couch with his chin resting on one hand, staring hard straight ahead with a thoughtful, worried look on his face.
A LIFE OF DIVERSITY vii (Autistic author) "We're just going to do what you want. How about a trivia game?" Plankton's antennae perked up slightly at the mention of a game, his love for competition never truly forgotten. "Trivia," he echoed, his voice still monotone but with a hint of interest. "Yes, trivia," Karen said, stroking his back gently. "You can show us all how much you know." Plankton looked up at Patrick. "I'm sorry," Patrick said, voice sincere for once. "I didn't mean to make you cry." Plankton sniffled, his antennae twitching slightly. "Patrick mean," he murmured, his voice monotone yet filled with hurt. "I know, buddy," Sponge Bob said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But he didn't know. Sometimes, Patrick doesn't think before he speaks." Patrick nodded, his eyes downcast. "I guess I'm not the best at understanding things," he mumbled. Sponge Bob leaned closer to Plankton. "Why don't we start our game now?" he suggested, his voice gentle. "We can play a game about random trivia. Does that sound okay?" Plankton nodded slowly, antennae still drooping. "Okay," he murmurs. They around the table, the jellyfish book open to a random page. Plankton's gaze remained fixed on it, his mind racing with facts and figures. Karen took a deep breath, her tentacles still tense from the confrontation with Patrick. "Alright, let's start with something easy," she suggested. "What's the scientific name for jellyfish?" Plankton's antennae shot up, his eye lighting up with excitement. "Jellyfish scientific name," he recited, "Cnidaria." "Cnidaria?" Sponge Bob repeated, his eyebrows shooting up. "That's right, Plankton!" Patrick looked at the book, then at Plankton, his eyes wide. "How do you know all this stuff?" Plankton's antennae wiggled slightly. "Plankton read book," he said, his voice monotone but with a hint of pride. "Patrick, I'll ask you a question," Sponge Bob said, his smile genuine. Patrick nodded, eager to make amends. "Shoot." Sponge Bob's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Okay, Patrick," he said, "What's the square root of 120?" Patrick's eyes widened, his brain scrambling. He took a deep breath and announced, "It's 12?" "No, Patrick," Plankton said, his voice a monotone but with a hint of amusement. "It's 10.190565... but Plankton rounds to 10." Patrick's face fell as he realized he'd been outsmarted. "Oh," he murmured. "Guess I should've studied more at boating school." "It's okay, Patrick," Karen said. Sponge Bob's eyes twinkled with encouragement. "Let's keep playing, Plankton," he said. "You're doing great." Plankton nodded, his antennae slightly less droopy. "Your turn, Plankton," Sponge Bob said. "What's something interesting about yourself?" Plankton paused, his antennae twitching as he searched for words. "Interesting?" he echoed. Sponge Bob nodded encouragingly. "Yes, something that makes you special or unique. Tell us all about Plankton." Plankton's antennae quivered as he thought. "Plankton... good at science," he said finally, his monotone voice revealing his pride. "Especially jellyfish." "That's fantastic, Plankton!" Karen exclaimed. Patrick nodded in agreement. "Yeah, buddy," he said, his voice still subdued. "You're a real jellyfish genius." Plankton's antennae twitched with a hint of satisfaction. "Jellyfish have 24 eyes," he said, his voice monotone yet filled with a newfound confidence. "But no brain." "What?" Patrick's eyes widened. "How can they see without a brain?" Plankton's antennae quivered with excitement as he began to elaborate. "Jellyfish have simple nervous system," he said, his voice still flat but gaining momentum. "Eyes detect light, not images. Help them avoid predators and find food." Sponge Bob's eyes grew wide with amazement. "Wow Plankton," he said. "That's so cool!" "Plankton born cycloptic one eye." Patrick's jaw dropped as he stared at Plankton. "That's... really cool," he murmured, his mind racing to keep up. Sponge Bob nodded eagerly. "Yeah, Plankton," he said, his voice filled with excitement. "Tell us more!" Plankton's antennae perked up at the genuine interest from his friends. "Plankton own Chum Bucket," he said, his voice monotone but proud. "Serve chum, best food in Bikini Bottom." Patrick's eyes lit up. "You're like a chef, Plankton! That's so cool!" But Plankton's gaze remained on the jellyfish book, his thoughts drifting. "Mr. Krabs," he murmured, his voice monotone yet filled with a hint of anger. "Has Krabby Patties.." Karen and Sponge Bob exchanged a glance, knowing the mention of Mr. Krabs. "Plankton," Karen began cautiously, "we don't have to talk about Krabby Patties if you don't want to." But Plankton's antennae shot up, his voice taking on a new, almost manic energy. "No, no," he murmured, his monotone cracking. "Mr. Krabs. Krabby Patties. Plankton's purpose." Sponge Bob's smile faltered, the mention of Krabby Patties bringing back memories of their long-standing rivalry. "Plankton," he said gently, "you don't have to steal Krabby Patties anymore. You have jellyfish now." But Plankton's antennae quivered with a strange intensity. "Krabs," he murmured, his monotone voice filled with a newfound urgency. "Gave Plankton brain damage. Accident," Plankton murmured, his voice low. "Mr. Krabs... Krabby Patty... Plankton's brain... changed." Sponge Bob's smile faded, his heart sinking as he realized the gravity of the situation. "Plankton," he said, his voice filled sadness. But Plankton didn't seem to hear him, lost in his own thoughts. "Plankton not same," he murmured. "But jellyfish... jellyfish make Plankton happy." Karen's eyes filled with understanding. "It's ok, Plankton," she said, her voice soothing. "You can still have a purpose. Maybe not with Krabby Patties, but with jellyfish." Plankton's antennae quivered as he repeated her words back to her. "Purpose with jellyfish," he murmured. "Yes, Plankton," Karen said, her tentacles stroking his back gently. "Your purpose can be whatever makes you happy." "Happy," Plankton echoed, his antennae twitching as he repeated her word. "Yes, happy," Karen said, her voice soothing. "We're here to support you, Plankton." "Support Plankton," he echoed, his antennae drooping slightly. "But Krabs... Plankton's enemy." Karen's eyes searched Plankton's, her own filled with a gentle warmth. "Mr. Krabs doesn't have to be your enemy anymore," she said, her tone soothing. "You can find joy in other things." "Other things," Plankton echoed, his antennae still. "Yes," Karen said, her tentacles waving gently. "Like jellyfish. You can focus on learning about them and sharing your knowledge with others." "Share knowledge," Plankton repeated, his antennae quivering with curiosity. "Exactly," Karen said, her tentacles gesturing encouragingly. "You can start a jellyfish club, remember?" Plankton's antennae twitched as he processed her words. "Jellyfish club," he murmured. "Yeah, buddy," Sponge Bob said, his voice filled with excitement. "We can all join and learn together!" Plankton's antennae perked up slightly, and a glimmer of hope entered his eye. "Club," he murmured, his voice monotone but with a hint of excitement.
A JOURNEY TO AUTISM vii (Autistic author) He starts to rock back and forth, his single eye squeezed shut as he tries to cope with the sudden change in his environment. Mr. Krabs' confusion deepens, his claws scratching his head in bemusement. "What's gotten into you, Plankton?" he says. But Plankton can't stop. His rocking intensifies, his whispered mantra becoming more desperate. "Fish, fish, fish," he repeats, his voice rising slightly with each iteration. Mr. Krabs stares at Plankton, his confusion turning. "Plankton, you ok?" he asks. But Plankton is lost in his own world, his stimming a way to self-regulate. His antennas wave back and forth in a soothing rhythm, his body rocking slightly as he murmurs "fish, fish, fish." Sponge Bob's heart aches as he watches his friend, his own hands clenching into fists at his side. He understands now that Plankton's behavior isn't a game, it's a coping mechanism, a way to navigate through the chaos in his head. "Plankton, it's ok," Sponge Bob says soothingly, approaching his friend. He gently picks up one of the fallen chess pieces, a knight, and holds it out to him. "Do you want to play again?" Plankton's antennas cease their frantic motion, his eye focusing on the knight. He takes it, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings, his breathing steadying. "Fish," he says, his voice calmer. Sponge Bob watches his friend carefully, his heart breaking at the sight of his distress. He understands now that Plankton's repetition is not just a strange behavior, but a way to cope with his new reality. Mr. Krabs, still confused, watches as Plankton's tracing the lines of the chessboard. "What are ye doing?" he asks, his voice annoyed. Sponge Bob's eyes meet Plankton's, and he sees the desperation in his friend's eye. "Mr. Krabs, Plankton's just... trying to remember how to play," he lies gently. Mr. Krabs grumbles but doesn't argue. Sponge Bob takes this moment to sit next to Plankton, placing his hand on his shoulder. "It's ok," he whispers. "We'll play again when you're ready." Plankton's antennas twitch, his eye dilating slightly as he nods. He clutches the knight tightly, his thumb stroking its smooth surface. It's a familiar comfort, something from before the accident, before the world became a confusing cacophony of sounds and sights. As the moments pass, Plankton's gaze remains fixed on the chessboard, the pattern of the squares providing a comforting visual stimulation. Sponge Bob notices the subtle change in his friend's demeanor, the tension easing from his tiny body. "Fish," Plankton murmurs again, but this time with less urgency. He carefully sets the knight back down on the board, his hand hovering above it. Sponge Bob's heart swells with affection, and he knows that despite the confusion and fear in Plankton's eye, his friend is trying. Mr. Krabs, however, is far from convinced, his eyes narrowing. "If this is how you're going to be, I'm not playing," he declares, crossing his arms over his chest. But Plankton's antennas perk up slightly, his interest piqued by the challenge. He picks up the knight again, his thumb caressing the piece. "Fish," he whispers, his gaze flicking to Sponge Bob and then back to the board. It's a plea. Sponge Bob nods, his face a picture of solemn reassurance. "It's ok," he repeats. "Just..." "What's wrong with you, Plankton?" Mr. Krabs exclaims. Plankton's antennas droop, and he looks down at his cards again. He doesn't know how to explain his condition to Mr. Krabs, who's always so dismissive of him. He feels a pang of desperation, racing to find a way to bridge understanding. Then, it hits him. With trembling hands, Plankton mimics Mr. Krabs' crossed arms, his voice a poor imitation. "What's wrong with you, Plankton," he repeats firmly. Mr. Krabs' eyes bulge with surprise. "What's this now?" he mutters, giving way to amusement. He chuckles deeply, his claws unfolding from his chest. Sponge Bob understands Plankton. "Mr. Krabs," he says quickly, trying to intercept the situation. "Plankton's..." But Mr. Krabs waves his hand dismissively. "I know, I know," he says, his voice filled with mockery. "Just playing his little games." Plankton doesn't want to be laughed at, especially not by Mr. Krabs. With determined effort, he mimics Mr. Krabs. "I know I know," he says again, his tone mimicking Mr. Krabs'. "Just playing his little games!" Mr. Krabs' laughter fades, his gaze sharp. "What now, Plankton?" he demands, his voice hard. Plankton's antennas quiver with determination as he picks up Mr. Krabs' mannerisms. "I know, I know," he repeats, his eye fixed on Mr. Krabs. "Just playing his little games!" Mr. Krabs' expression sours to irritation. "What's your game, Plankton?" he snaps. "Game," he repeats, his voice a mirror of Mr. Krabs'. "Game, game Mr. Krabs." Mr. Krabs' eyes narrow, his confusion shifting to annoyance. "You're not making sense," he says, his voice sharp. But Plankton doesn't stop. "Game, game Mr. Krabs," he persists, his antennas waving frantically. Sponge Bob's heart squeezes. He knows Plankton's not trying to annoy; he's desperately trying to convey something, but his brain's wiring isn't cooperating. Plankton's repetition has turned into a mantra, a plea for understanding that only Mr. Krabs seems to ignore. Mr. Krabs' patience snaps. "Enough!" he shouts, slamming his claws on the table. "What do you want from me, Plankton?" Plankton's antennas flatten, his eye filling with tears. Sponge Bob jumps up, his own voice shaky. "Mr. Krabs, please, don't yell," he begs. "It's just a game." Mr. Krabs' face twists in anger. "This isn't a game, this is your usual scheme to drive me crazy!" "No, Mr. Krabs," he says.
CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS vii (Autistic Author) The film starts, and for a while, the only sound is the muffled dialogue and the occasional sniffle from Chip. Karen's hand finds its way to Plankton's, giving it a gentle squeeze. He flinches at first but then relaxes slightly, allowing her contact. Plankton's antennae still and he turns to look at Chip, who's staring at the screen, lost in the fantasy. Karen watches them both, torn between anger and pity. She knows Plankton's anger isn't directed at Chip, but it's hard to see her son hurt. The movie plays on, the sound of laughter and adventure a stark contrast to the heavy silence that hangs over them. Plankton's antennae twitch as he glances at Chip, his eye flickering with regret. Karen feels the tension in the room begin to ease as Chip becomes engrossed in the film. He shifts closer to Plankton, seeking comfort without words. Plankton's antennae droop slightly, and he sighs, his grip on the armrest of the couch tightening. The film starts, and for a while, the only sound is the muffled dialogue and the occasional sniffle from Chip. Karen's hand finds its way to Plankton's, giving it a gentle squeeze. He flinches at first but then relaxes slightly, allowing her contact. Plankton's antennae still and he turns to look at Chip, who's staring at the screen, lost in the fantasy. Karen watches them both, torn between anger and pity. She knows Plankton's anger isn't directed at Chip, but it's hard to see her son hurt. The movie plays on, the sound of laughter and adventure a stark contrast to the heavy silence that hangs over them. Plankton's antennae twitch as he glances at Chip, his eye flickering with regret. Karen feels the tension in the room begin to ease as Chip becomes engrossed in the film. He shifts closer to Plankton, seeking comfort without words. Plankton's antennae droop slightly, and he sighs, his grip on the armrest of the couch tightening. During a particularly suspenseful scene, Chip reaches out and grabs Plankton's arm instinctively. But the sudden touch sends Plankton spiraling. His antennae shoot up, and he starts to shake uncontrollably. "Daddy?" Chip asks, his grip tightening in concern. Plankton's body jolts, his antennae flailing wildly as his eye roll back. "Daddy!" Chip's voice is filled with fear as he clutches his father's arm tighter. Plankton's tremors only worsen, his body convulsing in a way that's both frightening and heartbreaking. Karen's realizes what's happening. "Chip, let go!" she cries. "Dad?" Chip whispers, his voice trembling with fear. Plankton's shaking becomes more intense, his antennae flailing as if trying to escape the confines of his own body. His mouth opens in a silent scream. Karen's knows this isn't a ā€˜seizure’ but something else entirely—a meltdown, a result of the overwhelming emotions he's been trying to hold in. She rushes to his side with worry. "Chip, let go of him," she says, her voice urgent. Plankton's shaking becomes more intense, his antennae thrashing about like seaweed in a storm. Karen quickly moves closer, her own hands gentle as she pries Chip's tight grip from Plankton's arm. "Chip, sweetie, let Daddy breathe," she says, her voice firm yet filled with empathy. "What's wrong with him?" he stammers, voice trembling. Karen's full of sadness as she takes Chip into her arms, gently peeling him away from Plankton's convulsing form. "It's ok, baby," she murmurs, her voice a lifeline in the chaos. "Daddy's just having a hard time right now." Her movements are swift and sure as she guides Chip away from the couch, her gaze never leaving Plankton. His body is still racked with tremors, his antennae a wild mess of emotions. She knows that touch can be overwhelming for Plankton in moments like these, so she keeps her distance, giving him the space he needs. "Why is he doing that?" Chip whispers, his voice shaky with fear. Karen's heart aches as she holds him close, trying to shield him from the harshness of the world. "It's called a meltdown, sweetie," she explains gently, her voice a soothing balm. "Sometimes, when some neurodivergent people get really upset or overwhelmed, their bodies may react like this." Karen's on Plankton, who's still trembling on the couch, his antennae a blur of distress. She knows he needs space, yet her instinct is to comfort him. With Chip in her arms, she keeps a safe distance, speaking softly so as not to add to the sensory overload. "Plankton," she says, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart. "It's ok. Just breathe." Plankton's body continues to spasm, his antennae a frantic tapestry of emotions. Karen's filled with a fierce determination as she carefully approaches him, her movements slow and calculated to avoid triggering more distress. "Plankton," she whispers, her voice a gentle lullaby amidst the chaos. "I'm here." Slowly, his antennae begin to still, his body calming as he registers her presence. "It's ok," she repeats. With trembling hands, she reaches out to stroke his back, the barest touch. Plankton's body relaxes slightly, his breaths coming in deep, shaky gasps. "Just breathe," she whispers again, her hand moving in a soothing rhythm. "It's ok, you're ok." Plankton's antennae slow their erratic dance, his body following suit. The tremors subside, leaving him drained and panting. "Daddy?" Chip whispers, peering over Karen's shoulder. Karen nods, still on Plankton. "He's ok now," she says softly. "It's just his brain's way of letting out all the big feelings." Chip watches, his grip on Karen tightening. "Is he going to be ok?" he asks, his voice small. Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "Yes," she murmurs. "Just give him a moment." The room is silent except for Plankton's uneven breathing. The colors from the TV flicker across their faces, painting them in a strange, unsettling light. Karen can feel Chip's little heart beating against hers, and she knows he's scared. "It's ok," she whispers again, her voice a beacon of calm in the storm. "Daddy just needs some time." Plankton's antennae droop, his body finally still. His eye meets hers, a silent apology in the depths of his gaze. Karen nods, her hand still on his back, offering assurance without words. "Chip," she says, her voice still low, "can you go to your room for a bit?" He nods, eyes still glued to his father, but he doesn't protest. With a heavy heart, Karen watches her son disappear down the corridor, the door clicking shut behind him. Turning her full attention to Plankton, she sits down beside him, her hand resting lightly on his back. His breathing is still ragged, his antennae barely moving. "I'm sorry," Plankton whispers, his voice hoarse. Karen nods with understanding. "We'll talk to him," she says gently. "But first, let's make sure you're ok." Plankton's body still trembling slightly. Karen keeps her hand on his back, her touch a silent promise that she's there for him. Karen's hand moves in gentle circles, trying to soothe him. "You don't have to apologize," she says firmly. "You are who you are, and we love you for it." Plankton's antennae twitch, and he looks up at her, his single eye brimming with unshed tears. "But I don't know how to be a good dad like this," he chokes out. Karen's heart breaks at his words, but she keeps her voice steady. "You're already a great dad, Plankton," she says. "You just need to find a way to show Chip that." He looks at her, hope and doubt warring in his expression. "How?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. Karen takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. "By teaching him," she says gently. "By letting him in, just like you're letting us in now." Plankton's antennae droop, and he nods. "I know," he says, his voice filled with regret. "But it's hard. I don't want him to see me like this." Karen squeezes his hand. "He already does," she says gently. "And he loves you anyway."
AUTISM IN THE PLANKTON FAMILY vii (Autistic author) The movie ended with the snails crossing the finish line. Sponge Bob reached for the remote, fingers hovering over the button. "Would you like to watch something else?" he asks, voice soft. Sponge Bob noticed his friend Plankton's gentle snores. He had fallen asleep, his body slack. "Plankton?" he whispered. Sponge Bob leaned closer, his heart skipping a beat as he noticed Plankton's gentle snores. Plankton didn't stir, his body slumped slightly curled up. Sponge Bob's gaze softened as he realized he had fallen asleep likely for the night. Sponge Bob felt a wave of relief wash over him, for Plankton found comfort in their shared experience. He gently cradles him. Karen, watching from the doorway, smiled softly as she saw Sponge Bob's gentle care. She knew that Sponge Bob had always had a special bond with Plankton, but now, it seemed that bond had grown deeper, more meaningful. He had always been there for Plankton, through their many adventures and misunderstandings. Now, in the face of Plankton's new reality, he remained steadfast, offering a steady hand in the storm of change. "Let's get him to bed," Karen whispered, stepping into the room. Her eyes met Sponge Bob's, her gaze filled with warmth and thanks. Together, they carefully lifted Plankton from the couch, his body limp with sleep. His antennae twitched slightly at the sudden movement, but his snores remained steady, a testament to his deep sleep. Sponge Bob walked down the hallway, his steps light, carrying Plankton with ease. Karen had prepared the bed. They laid him down, his antennae flailing briefly before settling against the pillow. Sponge Bob tucked the blanket around him, his movements careful not to disturb his friend. Plankton's snores grew quieter as his body settled into the cool embrace of the sheets. His antennae twitched one last time before going still, his mouth slightly parted. Sponge Bob and Karen stepped back, exchanging a look of shared relief. "He's asleep," Karen murmured, her voice a soft caress in the quiet room. Sponge Bob nodded, his gaze lingering on Plankton's peaceful face. "Thanks for today, Karen," he said, his voice grateful. Karen's smile was warm. "Anytime, Sponge Bob," she replied. "You're such a good friend to him." Sponge Bob nodded, his eyes still on Plankton's sleeping form. "Always will be," he said. The next morning, Plankton woke up, and his antennae twitched as he registered the events of the previous day. He sat up, the blanket sliding off his body, and looked around. Sponge Bob stirred from the armchair, where he had dozed off watching over him. "Morning, Plankton," he said, his voice slightly rough with sleep. Plankton's antennae quivered as he looked around, his gaze falling on Sponge Bob. Sponge Bob yawned, stretching his spongy body, his voice gentle. "You fell asleep." Plankton's antennae twitched as his eye focused on Sponge Bob, his brain slowly piecing together the events of the previous evening. Sponge Bob's smile was warm. "You tired out, buddy?" he asked, his voice gentle. Plankton nodded slowly, his antennae twitching slightly. "Tired," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. Sponge Bob nodded, understandingly. "How about we start with a quiet morning?" he suggested. Plankton's antennae quivered slightly before he nods. "Quiet morning," he murmured, his voice agreeable. Sponge Bob nodded, his expression filled with concern. "How about some pancakes?" he offered. "They're nice and easy on the stomach." Plankton's antennae perked up at the mention of food. "No pancakes," he murmured, his voice still sluggish with sleep. Sponge Bob's eyes widened. "No pancakes?" he repeated, surprise evident in his tone. "But you love pancakes!" Plankton's antennae quivered as he thought, his voice a soft whisper. "Pancakes... no," he said, his gaze drifting to the window where the early morning sun peeked through the curtains. The light was gentle, not yet harsh enough to cause him pain. "Toast," he decided, his voice final. Sponge Bob nodded, his smile slightly saddened but respectful of Plankton's new boundaries. "Okay, toast it is," he said, standing up from the chair and heading to the kitchen. Karen met SpongeBob. "Good morning! How's everything?" Sponge Bob's expression was a mixture of hope and trepidation. "Plankton's okay," he said. "He's just really tired." Karen nodded, her gaze following her husband as he slowly made his way to the kitchen. "It's going to take some time for us to figure this out," she said. "But we'll get there." Sponge Bob nodded, his eyes never leaving Plankton's reclined form. "We will," he said, his voice firm with resolve. He returned to the kitchen, his spongy feet padding softly against the floor. The room was bathed in the gentle light of dawn, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound. He pulled out a loaf of bread, his mind racing with thoughts of Plankton's new needs. Sponge Bob carefully sliced two pieces of toast, placing them in the toaster with a soft click. "Morning!" Karen says as Plankton sits down. She gives him milk, as she knew it soothes him. "Stayed up late for movie. Still am tired. Love Karen and SpongeBob." The toaster's ding pierced the silence, and Plankton's antennae shot straight up, his body stiffening at the sudden noise. "Easy, Plankton," Sponge Bob called from the kitchen, his voice soothing. "It's just the toast." "Toast," he murmured. "Toast." Sponge Bob carefully brought the toast to the table, placing it before Plankton. The scent of warm bread filled the air, mingling with the comforting aroma of Karen's brewing coffee. Plankton's antennae twitched as he took in the sight, his body visibly relaxing at the familiar smells. "Yesterday's crazy, autistic or not. And you're still getting used to it all." Karen says as Plankton eats the toast. Plankton nodded, his antennae twitching slightly, still exhausted. The milk Karen had given him was warm, the perfect temperature to soothe his still-frazzled nerves. He brought the cup to his lips, his hands trembling just a bit. As the creamy liquid slid down his throat, Plankton felt a gentle wash of calm spread through him. His antennae, which had been twitching in anticipation of the morning's noises, grew still. It usually helps calm him, which is what it did today. Sponge Bob sat opposite him, his eyes filled with concern. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle. Plankton nodded, his antennae drooping as he took another sip of his milk. "Tired," he murmured. Karen sat next to him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "It's okay," she said, her voice a gentle reminder of his new reality. SpongeBob helped Karen clean up the kitchen. Plankton sat in the chair, his body slumped, his antennae still. His eye was closed, his tiny chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. His head tilted back and a soft snore escaped his open mouth. Karen noticed. The past few days had taken a toll on him, but she knew that with time and patience, they would find their new normal. "Let's get you to the couch," she murmured, her voice soft. She gently took the cup from Plankton's hand, his grip loose with sleep. Sponge Bob helped her lift his tiny form from the chair. Together, they carried him to the living room, his body relaxed in their grasp. They placed him on the couch, his antennae twitching slightly as he settled into the pillows. Sponge Bob tucked the blanket around Plankton, his eyes never leaving his friend's sleeping face. "Rest, Plankton," he whispered. "We're here." Karen nodded, her pixel eyes misting with emotion. "Thank you, Sponge Bob," she said. "For being here." Sponge Bob's smile was genuine. "Always, Karen," he said, his spongy hand giving hers a gentle squeeze. "Always."
CATCH IN MY CHIP vii (Autistic author) the only sound the steady rhythm of their breaths. Plankton's body slowly relaxes, his eye unclenching, his antennas stilling. Karen's hand remains poised, ready to offer comfort should he need it. As his breathing evens, Plankton's eye flutter open. He looks at Karen, her face a picture of love and concern. He feels a pang of guilt for his earlier outburst, but also a wave of gratitude for her understanding. He knows she doesn't push or harm, she just gets it. Karen sees the shift in his gaze, the anger giving way to something softer. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Plankton shakes his head slightly, his antennas drooping. "No," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "Just... needing a moment." Karen nods, her hand still hovering, a silent offer of comfort. "Take all the moments you need," she says, her voice gentle. Plankton's gaze lingers on her hand for a moment before he nods. He understands her unspoken offer, her respect for his boundaries. Karen knows that touch can sometimes be too much for him, a sensation that turns comforting into overwhelming. So, she waits, letting the air between them remain unbroken by physical contact, allowing him the space he desperately needs. The room is a canvas of shadows and quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of their breaths. Plankton slowly uncoils, his body no longer a taut wire ready to snap. "Do you want me to let you alone?" Karen asks, her voice soft as a whisper in the night. Plankton shakes his head, his eye meeting hers. The anger is gone, replaced by a weary sadness. She nods, her hand still hovering, a silent question mark. "Okay," she says, her voice a gentle caress. "But if you need anything, just tell me." Plankton takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling like waves on the shore. "Thank you," he murmurs, his eye brightening slightly. Karen nods, her hand still hovering but not touching. "I'm here," she says. "Always." Her voice is a lullaby in the quiet room, a gentle reminder that she's his anchor in the storm of sensory overload. Plankton's antennas twitch slightly, a flicker of understanding passing between them. He's aware of her presence, but the weight of his guilt and frustration is to much. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice a frayed thread of his usual bravado. Karen's hand remains hovering, a silent question, a gentle offer. "Do you want me to stay?" she asks, her voice a soft breeze in the stillness. Plankton nods, his antennas still drooping. "Yeah," he murmurs, his voice a whisper of relief. Karen's hand lowers slowly, coming to rest on the bed between them. She's careful not to cross the invisible barrier of his personal space, her touch a gentle promise of support. "You don't have to be sorry," she whispers, her voice a soft caress. "You're doing the best you can, Plankton." He nods, his antennas twitching slightly. "But I snapped," he says, his voice filled with regret. Karen's hand remains still, just outside his personal space. "It's okay," she whispers, her tone filled with empathy. "You're overwhelmed. It happens." Plankton nods, his antennas barely moving. "But I shouldn't have yelled," he says, his voice barely above a murmur. "I'm sorry." Karen's eyes fill with understanding. "It's okay, sweetie," she says. She reaches out slowly, her hand hovering an inch from his shoulder. "May I?" she asks, her eyes searching his for consent. Plankton's antennas twitch, his body still tense, but he nods. It's a small gesture, but it's enough. Karen's hand settles on his shoulder, her touch feather-light. He flinches at first, his body remembering the pain of the unexpected touch, but her gentle pressure is a soothing balm. He leans into it slightly, his body language speaking louder than his words ever could. Her hand on his shoulder is the bridge between them, a testament to their love and understanding. Plankton's breathing gradually deepens, his body softening into the mattress. Karen's touch is a lullaby, a promise that everything will be okay. The room is a cocoon of quiet, their breaths the only sound. Plankton's eye droops, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion. The weight of his head shifts slightly, his trust in Karen unspoken but palpable. Her hand remains on his shoulder, a gentle reminder of her presence. She watches his chest rise and fall, his body slowly relaxing under the soft blanket of sleep. His features smooth out, the lines of anger and frustration disappearing into the pillow. As his breaths become even, Karen can't help but feel a mix of sadness and love. Her heart goes out to him, this man she's spent her life with, who fights battles she can never fully understand. The room is a sanctuary of quiet, the air thick with the scent of their unspoken words. Plankton's hand twitches slightly, and she wonders if he's dreaming of a world where the noise isn't so loud, where the colors aren't so bright, where his mind can rest without fear of being bombarded. Karen watches as her husband's chest rises and falls, his breaths deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. The lines of his face relax, his antennas droop slightly. Her gaze shifts to the shattered trophy on the floor, the sand scattered like a tiny desert. The room is a testament to the storm that was his sensory overload. Karen's hand tightens slightly on Plankton's shoulder, her heart aching for both her husband and son. She knows the road ahead won't be easy, that they'll need to navigate this new terrain with care. But as she watches Plankton's chest rise and fall, she feels a spark of hope.
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ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘
ᓮᵃᵈ į“ŗā±įµŹ°įµ—įµįµƒŹ³įµ‰ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ 'ᓵᵗ ⁱˢ ᵃ˔˔ ᵃ Ź°įµ’įµƒĖ£; ᵃ ᶠʳᵒⁿᵗ!' 'į“øįµƒįµ˜āæį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ!' 'ᓵ ˢᵃʸ⸓ ʷᵉ ˢᵗᵉᵖ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱᵐ!' ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ Źøįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵐⁱⁿᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢ˔ᵉᵖᵗ ⁱⁿ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᓓⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ˢʰᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵇ˔ᵉ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ ᓺᵒᵗ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ˢʰᵉ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʳʸ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ– ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ ⁱᵗ ⁱˢ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ʰᵉʳ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ʷʰᵒ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ˢᵗᵒᵖ‧ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" ᔆʰᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵉᵉ˔ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµƒāæįµĖ”įµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ’įµ ⁱᵗ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠᵒʳᵗʰ‧ ᓓⁱˢ įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰āæāæįµƒįµ‰ įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ? įµ‚įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–!" ᓺᵒʷ ʰᵉ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ⸓ Ė”įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃ į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ "ᓓᵉʸ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— ᵐᵉ⸓ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°Ė¢ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʷ‧ "ᓵ⁻ᓵ'ᵐ ˢ⁻ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ᵃ ᵇᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢᵒᵐᵉ įµˆŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ ᵗᵒ‧‧‧" "ᓵ⁻ᓵ⁻ᓵ⁻ᓵ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§" "ᓼʰ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧" "ᓵ⁻ᓵ'ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ ⁱᶠ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵐʸ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗˢ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ’į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ ʰᵃⁿᵈ⸓ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ʰᵉ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆā€§ ᔆʰᵉ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˔ᵘ˔˔ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ⸓ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ–Ź³įµ‰į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė”Źø Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃⁿʸ ˢᵗʳᵉˢˢ‧ ᓓᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ˔ᵉᵗ įµįµ’ įµ’į¶  ʰᵉʳ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ˢʰᵉ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐ ᶠᵃ˔˔ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ ⁿᵒʷ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— ᵃⁿʸ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ įµˆŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµĖ¢ā€§ ā•° ✧ ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāˆ™ āˆ— — į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“› ⟨ 2 1 6 ⟩
ᓬ˔˔ ᓹⁱⁿᵉ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ "ᓹʸ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ᓵ įµįµ’įµ— ᵃⁿ ā±įµˆįµ‰įµƒ; ᓵ įµįµ’ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ ᵐⁱⁿᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵘˢ ʳⁱᶜʰ!" į”†įµƒŹøĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į”†įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆĖ¢ įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᵇᵉ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”ā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ ᓬᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐⁱⁿᵉ ʷᵃʸ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵃʳ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆāø“ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵃⁿᵘᵃ˔˔ʸ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ᵃⁿʸ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  ʷᵒʳᵗʰ‧ į“®įµ˜įµ— ᵗʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˔ᵒˢᵗ ʰⁱˢ į¶ įµ’įµ’įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵖᵉⁿˢ įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ–įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’į¶  Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ ᶠᵉ˔˔‧ ᓓᵉ ᶠᵉ˔˔⸓ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ ᵃ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶œįµ Ź·įµ‰įµˆįµįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ– Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᓓᵉ˔ᵖ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¹įµ‰įµƒāæ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ⸓ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ į“®įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᶠʳᵒᵐ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʳ ˢᵉᵉⁿ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµ— ᵃ˔˔ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµįµ’āæįµ‰āø“ ʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµā±āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ’ ˢᵉᵉ ʰⁱᵐ!" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ⸓ ᵐⁱⁿᵉˢ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø!" ᓬˢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ˢᵒ ᵈⁱᵈ ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢āø“ Ź°ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓓᵉ˔ᵖ ᵐᵉ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢āø“ Ź°įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøā±āæįµā€§ ᔆᵒᵐᵉ įµ‡ā±įµāø“ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źø Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ ᶠᵉ˔˔ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė”įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵒⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ˔ᵉᵗ įµįµ’ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶œįµā€§ ᓹᵒʳᵉ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᶠᵉ˔˔ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʰⁱᵐ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˔ⁱᶠᵗ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵃ˔˔ įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  ʰⁱᵐ⸓ ʰᵉ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰į¶»ā±āæįµ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ˔ⁱᵐᵖ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵃʳᵐˢ ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵒʷ ʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ ᓺᵒʷ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ—ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ ʰⁱˢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ᵒⁿ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ "įµ€įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" ʸᵉᵗ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ Ź³įµ‰Ė”ā±įµ‰įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ʰⁱᵐ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā€§ "įµ‚įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᵀʰᵉʸ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ⸓ ⁿᵒʷ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ ᓓⁱˢ ˔ⁱᵐᵇˢ įµˆįµƒāæįµĖ”ā±āæįµ ᵃˢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱᵐ⸓ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ᵐⁱⁿᵉ‧ 'į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ⁿᵒʷ' į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ ᔆʰᵉ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ᵇʸ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ ᓺᵒʷ ⁱⁿ ᵃ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–ā±āæįµ‰ ᵖᵒˢⁱᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ ᵃⁿᵈ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø ᵒᵖᵉⁿ⸓ ʰᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæā±āæįµ ᵐᵒᵗⁱᵒⁿ˔ᵉˢˢ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ'Ė¢ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ʷᵒʳᵗʰ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµā±āæā±āæįµ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ʳᵉˢⁱˢᵗ ᵒʳ ᵖʳᵒᵗᵉˢᵗ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–ā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ⁿᵒʳ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᵂᵉ'ʳᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ʰᵒᵐᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷⁱ˔˔ įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ⁿ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ!" į“¬įµįµƒā±āæ ⁿᵒ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµā€§ "ᓼʰ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ ᓵ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ⁱᵗ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ įµˆįµ’ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ ᓱᵃʳ˔ʸ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ; ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ ᵇʳᵒʷ į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµāø“ ᵃˢ ⁱᶠ įµāæā±įµ— ⁱⁿ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢ā±įµ’āæāø“ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ ᶠᵒʳᵐ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵉʸᵉ?" į“æįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ ˢᵒ⸓ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµĖ¢ā€§ "ᓓᵘʰʰʰ Ź·ā»Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€™Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–ā»įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵃʸˢ⸓ ˢ˔ᵒʷ˔ʸ ᵃⁿᵈ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źøā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµā±Ė”Źø įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæ įµ˜įµ– ⁿᵒʷ‧ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµāø“ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᵗᵒ‧ "ᵂʰʸ'Ė¢ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶ įµ˜į¶»į¶»Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉˢ⸓ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·āæā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ᵐⁱⁿᵉ!" 'įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—āø“ ᵒʰ Źøįµ‰įµƒā€§ ᓵ ʷᵉⁿᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵐⁱⁿᵉ‧ ᵂʰᵉⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒʷ ᵈⁱᵈ ᓵ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ⁱⁿ ᵐʸ ʳᵒᵒᵐ?' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵒʷ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢į¶œįµ˜įµ‰!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵈⁱᵈ? ᓼʰ⸓ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱᵐ⸓ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ˢᵒ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉ įµā±įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ "ᓺᵉᵛᵉʳ įµˆįµ’ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ ᶠᵒᵒ˔ⁱˢʰ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ ᵉᵛᵉʳ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ˢᵃʸˢ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ‧ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±į¶œįµāø“ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "ᔆᵒʳʳʸ⸓ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵒʷ Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ᓵ'ᵈ ᶠᵉ˔ᵗ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ⁿᵉʳᵛᵉˢ‧‧" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ įµˆā±įµ—įµ—įµ’ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "ᓬⁿʸ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ‧ ᓳᵉᵗ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ ⁿᵒʷ‧‧" "ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "ʸᵉˢ⸓ ʸᵉˢ; ʷᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳʳᵒʷ‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "įµ‚įµƒāæįµ— ᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ į¶œŹ³įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ?" ᔆʰᵉ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᔆʷᵉᵉᵗⁱᵉ?" ᔆʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— ʷᵉⁿᵗ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒʷ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "ᓼʰ ᓵ'˔˔ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ā€§ į“ŗā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" š˜„š—¼š—æš—± š—°š—¼š˜‚š—»š˜: šŸ²šŸ“šŸ“
ᓱᵃʳ˔ʸ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰Ė” ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰᵉʳ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ” į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ įµ˜įµ– ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ—Ź³įµƒį¶ į¶ ā±į¶œ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ į“øįµƒĖ¢įµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ˢʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– ʰⁱᵐ įµ˜įµ– ˢʰᵉ įµ—įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱᵐ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵉ'ᵈ ᵇᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź²įµ’Ė”įµ—ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒįµ— ʰᵉʳ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— ⁿᵒʷ⸓ ˢʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ’įµƒį¶œŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—įµƒį¶œįµ—ā€§ 'į““įµ’Ź· ᵃᵐ ᓵ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—'Ė¢ ᵗᵒ‧ ᔆʰᵉ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ 'į“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ ᵗʳʸ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ ᵃⁿʸ āæįµƒįµ–Ė¢āø“ ⁿᵒʳ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ ᔆʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵛᵉˢ ˢ˔ᵒʷ˔ʸ įµ—įµ’ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ—Ė”Źøā€§ ᓼⁿᵉ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ Ė”įµ’āæįµ įµƒįµįµ’ ˢʰᵉ įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ˢʰᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ė”įµ‰įµƒŹ³āæįµ— ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃʳᵈ ʷᵃʸ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ ˢᵘᶜʰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ‰Ź°įµ’įµ’įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᵂᵉ'ʳᵉ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹøā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ˢᵃʸˢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— ˢᵗⁱʳ įµ—įµ’ ʰᵉʳ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ 'ᵀʳʸ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆįµ‰Ź³ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ' "ā€§ā€§ā€§į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµāø“ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ⸓ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ⁿᵒʷ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ į“æįµ˜įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ⸓ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ⁱᵗ‧ ᓓᵉ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵛᵉʳ⸓ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰᵉʳˢ‧ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Źøįµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵉʸᵉ ᶠⁱⁿᵃ˔˔ʸ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ ⁿᵒʷ‧ "ᓵ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵘˢ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµā±āæįµˆĖ¢ ʰⁱᵐ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§ "ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§" "ᵂᵉ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ įµįµ‰įµ— ʳᵉˢᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "ᓬⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€½" "į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ˔ᵉᶠᵗ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ ᵇᵒᵇ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–āø“ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ᵇᵉ įµƒįµ— įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ⁱᵗ!" "į“øā±įµįµ‰ ᓵ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶ āø“ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ įµ›įµ‰Ź°ā±į¶œĖ”įµ‰ā€§ "ᓓᵉ˔˔ᵒ!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ "ᵂᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵃ Ź³įµ’įµƒįµˆ ᵗʳⁱᵖ⸓ įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᔆᵗᵒᵖ Ė¢ā±āæįµā±āæįµ!" "ᔆᵒ ⁱᵗ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ė”įµ’āæįµ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ ˢᵒ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵃⁿʸ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆĖ”Źø į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉ‧ "ᔆᵒ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ʰᵒʷ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµā±įµˆā€§" ᓱᵛᵉⁿ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ʰⁱˢ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæ ᵐᵒʳᵉ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āø“ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒāæāæįµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ˜įµ– ʷⁱᵗʰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "ᵀʰᵉ ˢᵘⁿ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" "ᵂᵉ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— ˢᵒ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᓵ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā€§ ᓬⁿᵈ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ ᓵ'ᵐ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ ˢᵉᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–įµƒįµ—ā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ā€§ ᵂᵉ'ᵛᵉ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵗʳⁱᵖ‧" "ᓵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᓵ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗᵉ˔˔ˢ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ ᵗʳⁱᵖ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ įµįµ‰Ź³įµįµƒā±įµˆ ᵐᵃⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ įµ‡įµƒŹ³āæįµƒį¶œĖ”įµ‰ ᵇᵒʸ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ įµˆįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ’į¶œį¶œįµƒĖ¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ˢᵃʸˢ 'ᓵ ˢᵉᵉ' 'ʸᵉˢ' ˢᵘᶜʰ įµƒį¶ į¶ ā±Ź³įµįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ ʷʰⁱ˔ˢᵗ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ ᵃˢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗᵉ˔˔ˢ įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ ᵗʳⁱᵖ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ ᵀʰᵉⁿ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ᵃˢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆā±įµˆā€§ "į“°įµ’ ᓵ‧‧‧" "ᓵ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ā€§" ᔆʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵛⁱᵉʷ ᵐⁱʳʳᵒʳ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›ā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢āø“ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖʸ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæ ʷⁱᵗʰ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ ⁿᵒʷ‧ ᓓᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵒᵗʰᵉʳ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵒ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ˢⁱ˔ᵉⁿᵗ⸓ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµƒįµ– ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ⸓ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— ⁱⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿ įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ ᵇᵉ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ›įµ‰Ź°ā±į¶œĖ”įµ‰ ᵒⁿ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ᵃʳᵐ⸓ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵗᵒ‧ ᓬᵗ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ᶠᵃⁱʳ⸓ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ˢᵃʷ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ— ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ‧ "ᓮᵒᵗʰ ᵇᵒʸˢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵐ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᵀʰᵉ ᶜᵃʳ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ ᵗʰᵉⁿ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į““įµ’Ź·įµˆŹøāø“ Źø'ᵃ˔˔!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵉʸᵉˢ‧ "ᓓⁱ⸓ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø!" ᓵⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ ᓓᵉ į‘«įµ˜ā±į¶œįµĖ”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "į“æįµ‰įµƒįµˆŹø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" ᵀʰᵉʸ ᵃ˔˔ ʷᵉⁿᵗ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ʰⁱˢ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā€§ "ᓬ įµ–įµ’įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµā€½" "ᓼʰ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ›įµ’Ė”į¶œįµƒāæįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ ᵘˢᵘᵃ˔⸓ įµˆįµ‰įµ‡įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ ʷʰᵉᵗʰᵉʳ ᵒʳ ⁿᵒᵗ įµ—įµ’ ᵖʳᵉˢˢ ᵗʰᵉ ā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "ᓼʰ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµƒįµ˜įµ—įµ’įµįµƒįµ—ā±į¶œ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ ᵗᵉ˔˔‧‧‧" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵉⁿᵗᵉʳ ⁱⁿ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ ᵒʷⁿ ⁱⁿᵛᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ!" "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉʸ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ᵗʰᵉ ʷⁱⁿⁿᵉʳ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ "į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§" "ᓼʰ‧" "ᓬ ˢᵉ˔ᶠ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ—ā€½" į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— ᵗʰᵉ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ "ᓸᵉᵗ'Ė¢ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ᵃ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø ᶠᵒʳ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§" ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉʸ'ᵈ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø ᵃⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ʳᵒᵒᵐ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃⁿᵈ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ ʳᵒᵒᵐ‧ "ᔆᵒ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵒʳ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ᵐᵉ ᵃ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "į“±Ė£į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᵐᵉ‽" "ᓼʰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶜᵃⁿ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢ā±āæįµ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵈ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ⁿᵒ⸓ įµƒįµ‡Ė¢įµ’Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø ⁿᵒᵗ‧" ᵀʰᵉʸ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³ā±Ė”Źø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ⁱᵗ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "ᓵ įµˆįµ’įµ˜įµ‡įµ— ᓵ'˔˔ įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "‧‧‧ᔆ˔ᵉᵉᵖ? į“®įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ˢ˔ᵉᵖᵗ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃʸ⸓ ʸᵉᵗ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ Ź³ā±įµˆā±āæįµ ᶜᵃⁿ ˔ᵘ˔˔ ᵃⁿʸ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ įµ—įµ’ ᵃ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—į¶ įµ˜Ė” Ė¢Ė”įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā€§ ᓬⁿᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ᵈⁱᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— ᵘˢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§" "ᓷⁱᵈ ᓵ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ˢᵒᵐᵉ įµ–įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ‰ ᵃⁿᵈ į‘«įµ˜ā±ā€” ᶜᵃʳ ᵗʳⁱᵖˢ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— ᵒᶠᵗᵉⁿ ᵗⁱʳᵉ ᵐᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ—! Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ ⁱᶠ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵒʷ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ā±āæįµˆįµ‰į¶ ā±āæā±įµ—įµ‰ Ź³įµƒįµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—?" "ᓵ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ ˢᵃʸ⸓ ʰᵒʷ ᵐᵃⁿʸ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ ʷⁱᵗʰ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢?" "ᓼʰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉ˔˔ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵒⁿ⸓ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒⁿ‧ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ⁱˢᵗᵉⁿˢ⸓ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ⁱᵗ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§ "‧‧‧ᔆᵒ ᵗʰᵉⁿ‧‧‧ ā€§ā€§ā€§į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ ʰᵉ'Ė¢ ʷʰᵒ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓼʰ‧‧" Ā» š°šØš«š šœšØš®š§š­ | šŸ–šŸ‘šŸ‘
GREAT CHIP viii (Autistic author) When Plankton finally came out Chip approached with caution. He didn't want to scare his dad, didn't want to cause another seizure. "Hey, Dad," he said softly. "How are you feeling today?" Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye flicking towards Chip. "Tired," he murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep. "But okay." Chip felt his chest tighten with relief. He'd been worried about his dad all night, scared that another seizure would strike without warning. "Can we talk?" Chip asked, his voice gentle as he approached Plankton. He didn't want to push, but he needed to make sure they were okay. Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye searching Chip's face. "Of course," he said, his voice still groggy. He sat down at the kitchen table, his body language open but cautious. Chip took a deep breath, his heart racing with the need to get this right. "Dad, I know last night was... scary," he began, his voice shaky. "But I want to be there for you." Plankton's antennae waved slightly, his expression a mix of confusion and fatigue. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. Chip took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I mean, I want to understand your seizures and what you go through," he said, his eyes never leaving his father's. "So that maybe I can help." Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye narrowing slightly. "What do you want to know?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and caution. Chip's eyes searched his father's, his thoughts racing. "Everything," he said, his voice earnest. "What happens before, during, and after. What you feel, what you see..." Plankton's antennae twitched, his face scrunching up slightly. "Why?" he snapped, his voice sharp. "What's the point of reliving it?" Chip took a step back, surprised by his father's sudden irritation. "I just want to understand," he said, his voice tentative. Plankton's antennae waved erratically, his eye flashing. "It's not a show, Chip," he snapped. "It's not something to be poked and prodded at." Chip felt his cheeks flush with heat, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I'm not trying to pry," he said, his voice shaking with frustration. "I just want to help!" Plankton's antennae quivered, his eye narrowed. "You can't help," he said, his voice cold. "You don't get it." Chip's heart sank, feeling the distance between them growing wider. "But Dad," he began, his voice trembling. "I'm trying." Plankton's antennae twitched rapidly, his face a mask of agitation. "You can't," he said, his voice clipped. "You don't know what it's like!" Chip felt a wave of frustration crash over him, his hands clenching into fists. "That's why I'm asking!" he exclaimed. "I'm not trying to make it about me!" Plankton's focusing solely on Chip. "You don't get it," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It's not about you, but it's also not something you can fix." Chip's eyes searched his dad's, his heart racing with a mix of anger and hurt. He knew Plankton wasn't trying to be cruel, but the words stung. "I just want to be there for you," he said, his voice shaky. "To make sure you're okay." Plankton's antennae twitched rapidly, his eye flashing with agitation. "I don't need you to fix me," he snapped, his voice sharp as a knife. "I just need you to leave me alone sometimes." Chip took a step back, his eyes watering with the sting of his father's words. "I just want..." "I know what you want," Plankton cut in, his antennae vibrating with irritation. "But you can't fix this, Chip. It's not a puzzle you can solve with a pat on the back or a hug." The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken words. Chip felt his throat tighten, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He knew his father's snappy tone was a defense mechanism, a way to keep the world at bay when it all became too much. But it still hurt.
GREAT CHIP ix (Autistic author) Chip took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "I know I can't fix you, Dad," he said, his voice shaking. Plankton's antennae stopped moving, his eye focusing on Chip with an intensity that made him feel like he was being x-rayed. "You can't," he said, his voice firm. "But you can support me. You can be there without trying to change me." Chip nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Okay," he managed to say. "But I want to understand. I want to be here for you." Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye narrowing slightly. "Understand?" he echoed, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Sure, it's easy. Just imagine your brain's a pinball machine on tilt. Sounds fun, right?" Chip felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth despite the tension, which only adds to Plankton's anger. "Well, when you put it that way..." Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye squinting at his son's response. "What?" he barked, his voice sharp. Chip tried to hold onto his smile, his heart racing. "I mean, if it's like a pinball machine, I can learn the patterns," he said, his tone carefully light. "I'm pretty good at video games, so..." Plankton's antennae waved wildly, his eye flashing with anger. "You think this is a game?" he shouted, his voice filling the room. "You think I enjoy being out of control? WELL THEN PERHAPS YOU CAN EXPLAIN THE FUN OF FORGETTING WHERE I AM FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME!" Chip's smile dropped, his eyes wide with shock at his father's outburst. He took a step back, his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to make a joke of it, I just..." "You just what?" Plankton spat, his small body vibrating with rage. "You just don't get it! You can't get it! You're not autistic, you don't know what it's like to have your brain turn on you like that!" Chip's eyes filled with tears, his heart breaking at the accusation. "I know, Dad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm trying." Plankton's antennae quivered with the force of his rage. "You don't know," he said, his voice cold. "You can't know. All I see is a little child playing pretend, thinking he can understand what I go through! And yet you're the one asking for help! Face it, you're never going to get it and so don't expect ME to explain it to you!" Chip's eyes watered, the words hitting like a sledgehammer. He had never seen his father so furious, so unyielding. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I just want to help." Plankton's antennae stopped their wild movements, his eye focusing on his son with a cold, calculating gaze. "Help?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want to help by poking fun at my condition?" Chip's eyes searched his father's, his heart racing. "Dad, I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice trembling. "I just wanted to lighten the mood." Plankton's antennae waved, his eye still cold and distant. "Don't," he said, his voice like ice. "Don't try to lighten it. And don't you DARE make fun of it." Chip's eyes fell to the floor, his heart aching with the weight of his father's anger. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I di-" "You're sorry?" Plankton's voice was a whip crack in the silence. "Sorry doesn't cut it!" He slammed his fist on the table, causing their plates to rattle. "You think an apology is enough when you belittle what I go through?" Chip's eyes widened with fear as his dad's anger grew. He'd never seen Plankton like this before, his tiny body trembling with rage, his antennae thrashing like live wires. The kitchen felt suffocatingly small, the walls closing in. "Dad, please," Chip begged, his voice shaking. "I didn't mean it that way." But Plankton was beyond listening, his tiny body vibrating with fury. "You don't get to make jokes about this!" he roared, his antennae whipping about like agitated snakes. "You don't get to reduce it to a game you can win with a simple joke!" Chip took another step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen his father this enraged, and it scared him. "Dad, I-" he began, but Plankton's tirade didn't stop. "You think it's funny?" Plankton shouted, his antennae a blur of motion. "You think it's fun to live with this?" His voice grew louder, his words sharper. "You think it's easy to lighten up at the drop of a hat?" Chip's eyes filled with tears as his father's anger grew, his voice crackling like static. He hadn't meant to make light of his dad's condition, but now it seemed as if he'd made everything worse. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his hands shaking. Plankton's antennae whipped around his head, his eye bulging. "Sorry won't make it go away!" he screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls. "You think you can make it better with a laugh?" He slammed his fist down again, the sound like a gunshot. "It's not a joke, Chip!" Chip's eyes filled with tears as he watched his father's outburst, his heart pounding. He had never seen Plankton like this, his anger a living, breathing thing that filled the room like a toxic cloud. "I know," he whispered, his voice shaking. "But I want to help." Plankton's antennae thrashed wildly, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. "Help?" he spat, his voice a whip. "You want to help? Then stop making it about you!" Chip's eyes grew wide with fear as he watched his father's anger boil over, his voice shaking. "Dad, please," he whispered, his heart racing. Plankton's antennae thrashed wildly, his body vibrating with uncontrollable rage. Suddenly, he grabbed the coffee mug from the table, flinging it across the room where it shattered against the wall. Shards of ceramic flew everywhere, puncturing the silence like shrapnel. "Dad, no!" Chip yelled, his heart racing faster than it ever had before. He had never seen Plankton this out of control. And Karen knew she had to act fast. Her voice was calm but firm as she approached Plankton. "Sweetie, it's okay," she said, her hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "Let's go to your workshop. You know that's your safe space." Plankton's antennae thrashed, his eye darting around the room, seeking anything to target his anger. "I don't want to go anywhere!" he roared, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions. "It's not okay!" Karen stepped closer, her voice steady. "It's okay to be upset," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "But Chip..." But Plankton's rage was unstoppable. He lunged for the nearest object, a framed photo of Chip, his grip tightening as he raised it over his head, ready to smash it against the floor. Karen's eyes widened, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to defuse the situation before it got any worse. "Plankton, no," she pleaded, her voice steady. "Please, don't." But Plankton's rage had taken over, his body moving on autopilot as he swung the photo frame with all his might. It crashed to the floor, the shattering glass echoing in the small room. Chip's eyes grew round with shock, his body frozen in place as he watched his father's tantrum unfold. "Dad, please stop!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "You're scaring me!" But Plankton's rage was a runaway train, his antennae quivering with the intensity of his anger. He stomped over to the counter, grabbing a plate and flinging it against the wall, where it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. The sound was deafening, the force of the impact sending a shiver down Chip's spine. Karen stepped in front of Chip, placing herself between him and the storm of Plankton's fury. "Stop," she said firmly, her voice a calm oasis in the chaos. "You're scaring him." Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye focusing on Karen with a mix of anger and confusion. For a moment, his body seemed to pause, his arm still mid-air, a kitchen towel gripped tightly in his hand. Then, with a roar, he threw it, the soft fabric landing limply on the floor. Karen's eyes searched her husband's, seeing the turmoil behind the rage. "Please, Plankton," she said, her voice soothing. "Let's talk about this." But Plankton's anger was like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. He picked up another mug, his arm winding up to throw it, when Chip suddenly stepped forward, his eyes locked on his father's. "Dad," he said, his voice shaking. "Please don't." Plankton's antennae paused, his arm still raised. "WHY?" he growled, his eye wild with anger. "You think you can just tell me what to do?" And then, with a sickly twisted satisfaction, Plankton hurled the mug in front of Chip, purposefully missing him. The room seemed to hold its breath as the mug spun through the air, the shattering of porcelain on the tile floor a symphony of pain. "Dad," Chip said, his voice shaking. "It's not about control. It's about us. Our fam..." But Plankton was beyond words, his rage a living entity that consumed him. He grabbed a toaster, his grip white-knuckled, and hurled it at the fridge, the metallic clang a cacophony in the small kitchen. "I DON'T NEED YOUR SYMPATHY!" he bellowed, his antennae a blur.
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 1 Chip came home early from a friend's house. His parents are named Karen and Plankton. They didn't expect Chip home so early, nor do they notice him outside their bed room door. Plankton has an autistic neurodisability they've kept hidden, so imagine Chip's confusion upon seeing his dad having an absence seizure. Plankton's eye stared blankly ahead, unblinking, as Karen sat by him. "I've your box of your special sensory items. What plushie might you want?" she whispered. "I'll just get your stuffed bear." Her voice was soothing, and calm. The room was silent except for the rhythmic sound of his breathing. He was in the midst of an absence seizure, his mind momentarily adrift. She knew the routine by heart. Everything had to be just right to bring him back to reality without causing distress. Karen gently picked up the box. She selected a favorite plush, the worn bear, and then carefully approached. As she neared, she noticed Chip, his eyes wide and scared, staring at the scene from the doorway. She swallowed her surprise, trying to maintain the serene faƧade. "Hi sweetie, come in," she managed, her voice steady. Chip tiptoed closer, his heart racing. He had never seen his dad like this. "What's happening to Dad?" he whispered. Karen knelt beside him, her eyes full of warmth. "Chip, right now Dad is just having a little rest but with his eye open. It's like when you get so lost in a video game you don't hear me calling you." "But why is he like this?" Chip's curiosity was palpable, his voice shaking slightly. Karen took a deep breath, choosing her words with care. "Dad has what's called a congenital neurodisability," she began. "It's a bit like when a daydream but his 'neuroregressions' are more intense for him. One might call these moments 'brain hiccups'. We kept it hidden because he didn't want people to judge him." Chip's gaze never left his father's frozen expression. "But why hide it?" Karen squeezed his hand, her eyes reflecting empathy. "Because, dear, some people might not understand. They could make fun or treat him differently. We didn't want his world to be harder. And you know your father values his pride." Chip nodded, his thoughts racing. He had always known his dad was different, but he had never quite put his finger on how. "Can I talk to him?" Karen's smile was soft. "It's important that you know, but we want to make sure he's okay with sharing too. It's a form of autism he has. But right now he's in a little bubble. It's like he's in a different world, okay? But we can coax him back gently." She placed the bear in Plankton's hand. His hands curled around it instinctively, clutching the familiar softness. "He might not immediately engage with you, but you can try speaking to him." Chip leaned closer, his voice trembling. "Dad?" Plankton's eye remains fixed, unblinking. Karen gave him a gentle nudge. "Remember, sweetie, don't touch his body or startle him. Just let him know you're here." "Dad, it's us, and a stuffed bear is also here for you. The bear is so soft," Chip said, his voice a mix of fear and wonder. "It's waiting for you to wake up." He paused, watching his father's unmoving hand. Plankton's thumb twitched slightly against the plush fabric. It was the tiniest of movements, but it was something. Karen nodded encouragingly from the sidelines, her eyes never leaving her husband. "That's it, Chip," she murmured. "Keep talking to him." Chip swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He took another deep breath and leaned even closer. "Dad, can you feel the bear?" He paused, watching his father's hand tighten around the plush toy. "It's here, wanting you to play. Do you see it's smiling? Look, the bear's smiling just for you." Plankton's hand moved slightly, tracing the bear's stitched smile with his thumb. Karen's eyes filled with relief as she watched the connection unfold. "See, Dad?" Chip whispered, his voice barely audible. "The bear missed you. It's here to keep you company until you're ready to come back to us." His words were met with a faint sigh from Plankton, a sign his brain was slowly emerging from its brief retreat. Encouraged, Chip took the stuffed bear and waved it in front of Plankton's vacant gaze. "Look, the bear's waving back!" He hoped the motion would catch Plankton's attention, but his father remained even more still, his eye unmoving. He tried a different tactic, placing the bear gently on Plankton's lap and giving it a little shake. "It's okay, Dad, the bear wants to play," he said, his voice a soft coax. "What do you say? Can we play together?" For a moment, nothing. Then, a flicker. Plankton's eye moved slightly, refocusing on the bear. It was a small victory. "Look, Dad, it's smiling at you. It's happy you're holding it," Chip said, his voice steady now. Slowly, Plankton's hand began to stroke the bear's fur. The rhythmic motion was almost mesmerizing. Karen watched, her own heart rate returning to normal. It was always a delicate balance, bringing him back. "That's right, Dad," Chip said, his voice filled with encouragement. "You're doing great." He picked up another plushie from the box, a small octopus with long, waving tentacles. "Look what else I found, an octopus!" Plankton's gaze shifted slightly. "It's got eight arms and can give you so many hugs at once." Chip held the octopus up. Plankton's hand twitched. Karen watched with a tiny smile, her heart swelling with pride for her son's patience. "Why don't you put it on Dad's other hand?" she suggested quietly. Chip nodded, gently placing the octopus on his father's hand. Plankton flinched at first but soon grew still again. "Now, Dad, you have more friends to keep you company," Chip said. "They're so friendly and smart." Karen watched as Chip was about to speak again but she held up a finger, signaling for him to wait. Plankton's eye blinked suddenly, breaking the glassy stare. His gaze flitted around the room, trying to piece together his surroundings, his expression puzzled. "You're okay," Karen said, her voice a gentle whisper. "K-Karen?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from his unspoken silence. "What...what's going on?" he asked, his voice weak but growing stronger. Chip watched, his own anxiety fading as he saw his dad's confusion. He held up the octopus. "Look, Dad, it's okay. We're here. You had a little brain hiccup but we're playing with plushies." He tried to smile, unsure if Plankton would understand.
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6223765/
shšŸ‡øš„ƒš„ƒš„‚š„‚š„€š„š„ƒš„‚š„‚š„ƒ
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 2 But Plankton's expression was not one of relief. His face flushed red with embarrassment as reality crashed in on him. He realized his son had seen him at his most vulnerable, caught in the grip of his condition. He jerked his hand away, the octopus falling to the floor. "What are you doing here?" he snapped. Chip took a step back, his hands up in a placating gesture. "I-I didn't mean to scare you," he stuttered. "I just... came ho-" "Why are you watching me like that?" he snarled. "You have no right to see me like this!" Karen stepped in, her voice steady. "Chip didn't mean to, love. He just came home early and found you in a seizure. It's ok. You know he loves you." Plankton's anger was a storm quickly building. He glared at Chip, his eye wild. "Get out!" he shouted. "This isn't your business!" The words hung in the air, heavy with emotion. Chip's eyes filled with hurt, his cheeks burning. He backed away, clutching the stuffed octopus. "Dad, I just wanted to help," he murmured. But Plankton was beyond reason, fear and embarrassment having turned to anger. "I said get out!" Plankton yelled again, his voice echoing in the small room. Chip's lip trembled, but he didn't dare disobey. He turned and fled, his feet pounding on the hallway floor, leaving his parents behind. Once in the safety of his room, Chip slammed the door shut and sank to the floor, his back pressed against it. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he held the octopus to his chest. It felt strange, his dad's reaction with such fury directed at him. Karen turned to Plankton, knowing the storm of emotion her son had just felt. "It's okay, it's okay," she whispered, her eyes filled with concern. "You're okay. Chip's okay. It was just a surprise for everyone." Plankton took a deep, shaky breath, his mind racing. He knew he had overreacted, but the fear of being exposed had taken hold. He had always been so careful, so private about his condition. Now, Chip knew his secret. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. Karen sat beside him, her hands resting lightly on his arm. "You don't have to apologize," she said, her voice calm. "But you do need to talk to him. He's scared and confused." Plankton nodded, his gaze flickering to the floor. He knew she was right. He had always been so careful about his neurodivergence, meticulous about not letting others see. But Chip had seen him, and now there was no going back. He took a deep breath and turned to Karen. "You're right," he said firmly. "I need to talk to him." He knew the conversation would be hard, but he owed it to Chip. His heart heavy, he walked to the door. When he entered Chip's room, the air was thick with silence. Chip sat on his bed, his back to the door, clutching the octopus tightly. Plankton's heart clenched at the sight of his son's hunched figure. He knew the hurt he had caused. "Chip," he began, his voice raspy. "I'm s-sorry." He took another step forward, but his son didn't move. "I didn't mean to scare you, or to shout. It's just..." His words trailed off. How could he explain the fear and vulnerability that had consumed him? "I know you didn't mean to intrude," he said, his voice softer now. "But seeing me like that...it's not something I wa-" "You're quirky," Chip cut in, not turning around. "And now I know why." Plankton swallowed hard, his heart racing. He had never talked to Chip about his neurodisability before, not in such direct terms. "Yes," he admitted. "But I'm still yo-" "I know," Chip nods. "But why didn't you tell me you were like this? Why didn't mom ever just tell me you're...?" Then a slur slipped out before he could stop it, a term he'd heard used before, but never really understood the weight of. Plankton's breath hitched, and his eye grew wide. The room was suddenly colder, as if his heart had frozen. Without another word, he stood abruptly, leaving Chip's room. He went in his room after slamming the door shut. Karen looked up. "So Plankton, ho-" But Karen cut her own question short upon the sight of her husband's face. "Plankton, whaa-" Plankton's features were twisted in anger, a rage that seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart. "How could you say that?" he spat out, his eye flashing. "How could you both think that about me?" His voice was low, dangerously so, each word a blow that echoed in the quiet space. Karen, of course, didn't know what's been said. "What are you talking about, love?" But Plankton couldn't articulate the hurt that had just been unleashed. Karen, sensing the shift in the room, stepped closer, her hand reaching out. "Plankton, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. But Plankton flinched, his body retreating from her touch. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice strained. He couldn't bear to repeat Chip's hurtful slur. So he turned away from Karen, his back to her, his shoulders rigid. The silence grew thick between them, a barrier she wasn't sure she could breach. "Plankton?" she asked again, her voice concerned. "What's go—" "I can't," he choked out, his eye stinging. "I can't tell you." His voice was barely a whisper, the words forced through a throat constricted by pain and shame. Karen's eyes search his face, her heart aching at his distress. "Is it about your condition?" she ventured gently. Plankton nodded, his back still to her. "Chip... thinks I'm...less than," his voice cracked. Karen inched closer. "Oh that's not tr-" But Plankton whirled on her, cutting her off. "Don't make excuses for him!" he shouted, his voice shaking with emotion. Karen took a step back, her eyes wide with shock. "I'm not making excuses," she said carefully. "I just want to know what hap–" But Plankton was beyond hearing her. His mind was a tumult of emotions: anger, hurt, and fear. He had worked so hard to keep his condition a secret, to shield himself from the cruelty of the world. And now, his own son had labeled him with a term so loaded with stigma and pain. "It's not right," he murmured, his fists clenching at his sides. "It's not right that he thinks that way. It's not right that anyone thinks that way!" Karen watched him, her eyes full of sadness. "Plankton, sweetie, come sit with me," she said softly, patting the space beside her.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mittelschmerz
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 3 With a heavy sigh, Plankton collapsed onto the bed, his body shaking with the effort of holding back his tears. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Karen wrapped her arms around his shaking frame, holding him tightly. "You're not less than," she whispers. "What could Chip have possibly said to make you feel like that?" But Plankton remained silent, a painful reminder of the times he'd been taunted and misunderstood by those who didn't know him. He felt Karen's gentle touch on his shoulder, a silent offer of comfort that only made his throat tighten more. "It's okay," she said softly. "You can tell me. Whatever it is, we'll work through it." But Plankton was too lost in his own pain to share the specifics with her. The word hung in the air between them, a heavy weight that seemed to press down on his chest. He couldn't bring himself to repeat it, to give voice to the hurt that had been thrown at him. It was a reminder of all the times his differences had made him feel less than, all the times he'd been the but of jokes or the subject of whispers. Karen's eyes searched his, desperate to understand the pain she saw etched into his features. But Plankton couldn't find the words. He just sat there, his body shaking with the force of his unspoken grief. The silence stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, with a tremble in his voice, he spoke. "He said a word," he managed to get out. "A word that hurts more than you know." Karen's heart squeezed tightly in her chest. "What word?" she asked softly, afraid of what she might hear. "Just, don't defend him!" he roared. "Don't you dare defend him! I know you're just gonna say how he's a kid or doesn't know better, or that he didn't mean it; but that word cuts deeper than you could ever understand!" Plankton's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white with the effort of not lashing out. Karen's eyes were filled with tears, her heart breaking at the raw emotion spilling from her husband. "What word?" she whispered, dread coiling in her stomach. He took a deep breath, his voice strained as he forced the word out. "Ret-" He choked, unable to complete it. He shook his head. "That word," he finally managed, his voice barely above a murmur. Karen's eyes widened in horror, understanding dawning on her. "Oh, no; Plankton," she breathed. "No." She pulled him closer, her own tears flowing freely now. "You're not that," she assured him fiercely. "You're brilliant, and kind, and the best father Chip co—" "Don't," Plankton whispered, his voice hoarse. "Don't say it's okay. It's not." Karen's heart broke further. "I'm s-sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I-I'm sorry he said that. We need to talk to him," she said firmly. "He needs to underst--" But Plankton cut her off with a harsh shake of his head. "No," he whispered, his voice weak. "He doesn't get to see me like this. He doesn't get to hav—" "But he's our son," Karen interrupted gently. "And he loves you. He needs to know to never use that word again." Plankton's shoulders slumped in defeat. He knew she was right. He had to talk to Chip. He had to explain the hurt that the word caused. But the thought of facing his son, of explaining his fears and vulnerabilities, was almost too much to bear. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I just can't. He won't listen to me." Karen nodded, understanding his pain. "Then I'll go," she said, determined. "I'll talk to him, make him understand." With a heavy heart, she stood and walked to Chip's closed door. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. When she opened the door, she found Chip sitting on his bed. Her eyes searched her son's face, looking for signs of understanding or remorse. Instead, she found only a child lost in his own thoughts, the octopus still gripped tightly in his hand. "Chip," she began, her voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "What did you say to your father?" Chip looked up, his eyes innocent. "I just asked why you guys didn't tell me," he mumbled, not meeting her gaze. "But he got so mad.." Karen felt a mix of anger and sadness wash over her. "What exactly did you say to him?" she asked, her voice tight. "I don't know," Chip said, his voice small. "I just said why didn't you guys tell me he's like that. I said he's re---" he murmured, the weight of the slur heavy on his tongue. Karen's face contorted in anger. "How could you say such a thing?" she snapped. "Do you know what that word means? Do you have any idea how much pain it causes?" Chip shrunk under her glare, his eyes darting around the room as he searched for an escape from the intensity of her gaze. "It's just a word," he mumbled defensively. "I don't know why it's such a big de-" "It's not just a word, Chip," Karen said, cutting him off. Her voice was sharp, each syllable laced with disappointment. "It's a word that hurts people, that makes them feel less than who they are." She stepped closer, her eyes boring into his. "Do you know how much your father has suffered because of people calling him that?" Chip's eyes grew wide, the gravity of his words sinking in. He hadn't meant to hurt his dad, but now he realized the weight of his carelessness. "But I didn't mean it like that," he stuttered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I just didn't know what else to call it." Karen's expression softened slightly, her anger giving way to sadness. "Chip, sweetie, that word is not just some description," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "It's a word that has been used to hurt and belittle people like your dad for a long, long time." She sat beside him, placing a hand on his arm. "You have to understand that words have power. And when you use that power to wound someone, especially someone you love, it causes deep, deep pain."
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 9 Karen sighs. "It's almost noon, Plankton. Remember your biannual dental x-rays? We gotta get going. Sandy could you stay with Chip? We won't be too long." Karen helps him get ready, her movements efficient and caring. She knows the dentist can be a sensory trigger for him. Arriving at the dentist's office, the receptionist smiles politely. "Ah, Mr. Plankton," she says. "We've been expecting you." Plankton simply nods as they enter the waiting room. He starts rocking. Karen notices, her hand on his shoulder. "It's ok," she whispers. "Mr. Plankton?" The dentist's gentle voice echoes through the waiting room. Plankton and Karen follow the dentist to the x-ray area across the hall. Plankton's heart races as he's led into the room, his eye darting around, taking in the cold, sterile environment. The dentist, a squid named Dr. McTentacles, notices his distress and tries to soothe him. "It's ok, Mr. Plankton," he says gently. "It's a quick x-ray and you'll be done!" Plankton nods, trying to compose himself. "You're going to be ok," Karen whispers as the dentist prepares the machine. He allows the x-ray film touch his mouth, biting down as the images light up. Dr. McTentacles then removes the film. "All done! I'm gonna go back and look at these," he says, going out of Plankton's earshot with Karen in tow. "Mrs. Plankton," he starts, his tentacles tapping a screen. "Your husband's wisdom teeth are growing in. They're looking a bit... misaligned," he says, showing the images to Karen. Karen nods, her eyes scanning the x-rays. "What does that mean?" she asks, trying to keep her voice even. "It means," Dr. McTentacles says, "that they might cause some discomfort, or even other potential problems. We must consider extraction. I know he has sensory issues, so we'll need to approach this carefully." Karen nods. "When should we do it?" she asks. "As soon as possible," the dentist replies. "But we'll have to talk to Plankton about it. Make sure he's comfortable with the process. It's important that he feels safe." Karen nods again, her mind racing with the implications of surgery for Plankton. "We've got inhalational sedative/anaesthesia available, which should make it easier for him." Karen's eyes widen with relief at the mention of sedatives. "That... that sounds good," she says. "How soon can we...?" "We'll need to schedule another appointment," Dr. McTentacles says, his tentacles still tapping at the screen. "I have tomorrow open. It can be done here in my office, under unconsciousness." Karen nods, trying to absorb the information. She glances back at Plankton, his eye flickering as he looks around the room. "Tomorrow's fine," she says, her voice tight. As they walk back to the waiting area, Plankton's hand finds hers, his grip tight. "What did he say?" he asks, his voice strained. Karen's heart aches as she looks into his worried eye. "It's your wisdom teeth, dear," she says gently. "They're coming in a bit... funny." Plankton's grip on her hand tightens. "What does that mean?" he asks, his voice high with anxiety. "It means they might cause you some pain," Karen explains, keeping her voice calm and soothing. "But we're going to take care of it, okay? In the morning, we'll come back and the dentist will remove them." Plankton's eye widens in fear. "They're going to give you gas to help you sleep through it," Karen explains, her voice calm but firm. "You won't feel a thing. It's like... a nap. A nap that makes your mouth feel better when you wake up." Plankton nods, his grip loosening slightly. "A... a nap?" he repeats, his voice quivering. "Okay," he says, his shoulders dropping. Karen can see the trust in his eye, and she feels a wave of relief wash over her. "Come on," she says, her voice gentle. Plankton nods, his gaze on the floor as they leave the dentist's office. Once home, Plankton retreats to the corner of their bedroom, as Sandy and Chip come in. "So Karen, how was his dentist?" Sandy asks. Karen sighs. "We have to get his wisdom teeth out," she says. "Tomorrow early in the morning. You and Chip can be in the waiting room. They gave special permission to let me be with Plankton during the procedure." Early the next morning Karen drove them back to the dental office. Chip stayed with Sandy in the waiting area as Karen and Plankton followed Dr. McTentacles to his surgical exam office. The room was colder than the last, making Plankton shiver. Karen held his hand tightly, whispering reassurances. "It's okay, just a nap," she reminded him. The nurse, a crab named Nurse Cherry, looked at him with kind eyes. "Let's get you set up," she said, helping him onto the chair. Nurse Cherry placed a mask over his face, and he started to breathe in the sweet smelling gas. "Just a nap," Karen murmured, her voice getting further away. The room began to swim, and Plankton's body felt like it was sinking into the chair. The last thing he knew was the sound of his wife's comforting presence before everything disintegrated into nothing. Plankton's body grew limp as the anesthesia took hold.
ᓬ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ ᶜʳʸ ᵒⁿ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ⁾ āžµ š—š—ˆš—‹š–½ š–¼š—ˆš—Žš—‡š—: šŸ§šŸ«šŸ¢ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ'Ė¢ ᵐʸ įµįµ‰įµƒįµ—Ė”įµ’įµƒį¶ ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ įµˆā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᓵ ˢᵃʸ ᓵ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— ˢᵒᵐᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʷⁱᵗʰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵒᵒᵐ‧ ᵀʰᵉʸ ˢᵉᵉᵐ įµ—įµ’ ᵇᵉ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ—ā€§" ˢᵃⁱᵈ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "ᓵ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒŹ³āæįµ— Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵᵗ'ˢ‧‧‧" "ʸᵉˢ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᓵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ‧‧‧" "ᓵ'˔˔ ᵗᵉ˔˔ ʰⁱᵐ; ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø įµ‡įµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ įµ’į¶  į¶»įµ’įµ’įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ ᓵᵗ'Ė¢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᵒⁿ˔ʸ ᵃ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʳᵃⁿ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵐ⸓ Ė¢įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµā€§ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉⁿ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ⁱⁿ‧ "ᓵˢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ʰᵉʳᵉ?" "ᓵ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'įµ— ˢᵉᵉⁿ ʰⁱᵐ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ ᵗʰᵉᵐ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµā€§ "ᵀʰᵉ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµ— ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ— ⁱˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ ˢᵒ ᓵ'ᵐ ʰᵉʳᵉ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰į¶œįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸓ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ’į¶ į¶  į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ ᵖᵒʷᵉʳ‧ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "ᓵ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ᵐᵉ į¶ Ź³Źøį¶œįµ’įµ’įµ ʳᵃⁿ ʰᵒᵐᵉ⸓ ˢᵒ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ʰᵉ˔ᵖ˔ᵉˢˢ˔ʸ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ ᓵ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ ᶠⁱⁿⁱˢʰ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ ˢᵗⁱ˔˔ įµƒĖ”ā±įµ›įµ‰ā€§" ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ˢ˔ᵃᵐˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵃʳᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ Ė”įµ’į¶œįµā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵘᵐ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ ⁿᵒᵗ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā€§ ᓓᵉ ˔ᵉᶠᵗ⸓ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā±āæįµā€§ ᓬᶠᵗᵉʳ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ į¶œįµ’įµƒĖ¢įµ—'Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒŹ³ ᵃⁿᵈ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ ᓓᵉ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃʳˢʰ įµ‡įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ ⁿᵒⁱˢᵉ ʷʰᵉⁿ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᵒⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉʸ ˢᵃʷ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢ įµ˜āæŹ³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæāø“ ᶜᵃⁿ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±Ė¢įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ–įµ˜įµ—?" "ʸᵉˢ‧‧" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ʳᵃⁿ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ "ᓵ'˔˔ ᵇᵉ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæā±āæįµ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʰⁱˢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ʷⁱᶠᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵇʸ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓓᵉʸ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰ ⁿᵒʷ‧‧" ᓺᵒᵗ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ ˢⁱᵗ įµ˜įµ–Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµŹ³įµ‰Ź· į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ‧ "ᵁᵐᵐ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ'ᵛᵉ ⁿᵒ įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹøāø“ ᵃⁿᵈ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ʷⁱ˔˔‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ‧" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ʰᵉ‧‧‧" "ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ⁱˢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰!" "ᶠᵒʳ ⁿᵒʷ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʰᵉ'˔˔ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµƒįµ›įµ‰? ᓓᵉ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ⁱⁿ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢ā±įµ’āæā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ⁱᵗ‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ʳᵉ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ ᵐᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ˜āæįµƒĖ”ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ ᵇᵒˢˢ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'ᵛᵉ ᵃⁿʸ ᵉˣᵖ˔ᵒˢⁱᵛᵉˢ⸓ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ? ᓵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ’Źø ᵗʰᵉ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˔ᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ įµˆįµ’ ᵗʰᵉ Ź°įµ’āæįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢ā€§ "į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ ⁱˢ ⁿᵒ ᵐᵒʳᵉ!" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ˢᵐⁱ˔ᵉ įµƒįµ— ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓵ'˔˔ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵗ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉ ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ʷᵉ'˔˔ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ ᶜʰᵘᵐ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ᵒᶠ‧‧‧" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡; įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᶠᵒʳ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā±āæįµ ᵐᵉ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§" "ᓵ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆ ᵗʰᵉ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ˜Ź³įµ‰!" ᔆᵒ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ᵇʸ ʰⁱˢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᶠᵉ˔˔ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ—Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’ ˢ˔ᵉᵉᵖ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰įµˆ ʰⁱˢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ᵃ įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ ʰᵉʳ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "ᓓᵉ ⁱˢ ⁱˢⁿ'įµ— ʰᵉ‧‧‧" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "ᓵ ˔ᵒᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§" į““įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— ᵃˢ ʷᵉ˔˔ ᵇᵉ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵃ Ź³įµƒŹ³ā±įµ—Źøāø“ ˢᵒ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᵐᵒʳᵉ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ” ʷʰᵉⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ʰᵉ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ ᓼᶠ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰āø“ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ʰᵃˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢į¶ įµ˜Ė” ᵃⁿᵈ įµ—ā±Ź³ā±āæįµāø“ ˢᵒ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ ⁱⁿ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—'ᵛᵉ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ ˔ᵉˢˢ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰įµˆā€§ ᔆᵗⁱ˔˔⸓ ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ᵗʰᵉ Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµˆįµ’ ᶠᵒʳ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøāø“ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ ᵒⁿᵉ‧ ᓓᵉ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗˢ įµ’į¶  ᓹʳ‧ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ ᵃˢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—'ᵛᵉ ˔ᵒˢᵗ ʰⁱˢ ˔ⁱᶠᵉ‧ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ ʰⁱᵐ Ė¢āæįµ’įµ’į¶»ā±āæįµ ᵃⁿᵈ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±Ė¢Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ʳᵉˢᵗ‧ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź· ʰᵉ'ᵈ įµ˜āæįµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµĖ”Źø į¶œįµ’āæįµ—Ź³ā±įµ‡įµ˜įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵃˢˢ įµįµ‰āæįµ’į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰āø“ į¶œįµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  į¶»įµ’įµ’įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ʰⁱᵐˢᵉ˔ᶠ į¶»įµ’įµ’įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵗᵒ‧ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ—Ė”Źø Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "ᵂʰʸ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ ʷʰᵒˢᵉ ˢᵒᶠᵗ Ė¢įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ ʰⁱᵐ‧ "ᓵ ᶠᵉᵉ˔ ᵃʷᶠᵘ˔ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±įµ‰Ė¢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃ˔˔ ᵗʰᵉ įµ›ā±į¶œįµ—ā±įµĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰; ⁱᵗ'Ė¢ ⁿᵒᵗ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ᓵ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ᓵ‧‧‧" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµƒįµ›įµ‰įµˆ ᵐᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶ įµƒįµ—įµ‰āø“ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒⁿᵉ įµ’į¶  ᵘˢ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃⁿʸ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—Ź³įµ’Ė” ᵒᵛᵉʳ ⁱᵗ‧ ᓳⁱᵛᵉ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  ˢᵒᵐᵉ į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ—āø“ įµā±įµˆ! ᓵ'˔˔ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ᵃ Ź°įµ˜įµāø“ ⁱᶠ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ᵃ ˢᵐⁱ˔ᵉ⸓ ᵇᵒᵗʰ įµ’į¶  ᵗʰᵉᵐ Ė¢Ź°įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ Ź°įµ˜įµā€§
PATRICK PLANKTON 1/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Patrick went in the Chum Bucket where Plankton lives with Karen. "Welcome to the Chum Bucket Patrick," Karen called out. Patrick waved back, eyes lighting up at the sight of the various contraptions and inventions that lined the walls. He always found Plankton's fascinating, a stark contrast to the bright and bustling SpongeBob's pineapple house. The Chum Bucket was like a treasure trove of mysteries waiting to be uncovered, and Patrick loved a good mystery. He wandered further into the lab, his footsteps echoing off the metal floors, each step revealing more of Plankton's ingenious creations. Suddenly he spotted a tiny figure hunched over a book on a couch. It was Plankton, his single eyeball glued to the pages, oblivious to the world around him. The book's title, "101 Ways to Steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula," was barely visible under a thick layer of dust. "Hey, Plankton!" Patrick bellowed, his voice booming like a foghorn in the small, cluttered space. The sudden noise caused Plankton to jump, sending his book flying into the air. "What are you reading?" Karen, who had been quietly watching the scene unfold from her desk, couldn't help but notice that Plankton had not moved a muscle since the book flew from his grasp. His body remained rigid, his eyeball unblinking. Concern crept into her voice as she called out to him, "Plankton, are you ok?" The tiny villain didn't respond, his expression frozen in a silent scream. Patrick looked around, puzzled. "Is he playing a game?" he asked, his tone hinting at the innocent curiosity that often got him into trouble. Karen recognized immediately went to the couch and sat by Plankton, Patrick not knowing what's happening. Karen's gaze fell upon Plankton's unblinking eye and she knew instantly what was wrong. He was in a state of sensory overload. She had seen it happen before, though Patrick hasn't. She gently touched his shoulder, trying to coax him back to reality. "Plankton, sweetiep," she cooed. Patrick's puzzled expression grew more concerned as he took in Plankton's unresponsive state. "What happened to him, Karen?" he asked, his voice quieter now, a hint of worry in his tone. "It's his sensory shutdown, Patrick," Karen explained softly, stroking Plankton's arm gently. "It's like his brain got too full of thoughts and had to take a little break. It's ok, he'll be fine." She knew this was something he'd have to come out of on his own. She had been there for him countless times before, each instance more terrifying than the last, but she had learned patience was key. Patrick, still not fully grasping the situation, knelt beside the couch. He leaned in closer to Plankton nearly touching the little plankton's face. "Hey buddy you ok?" he asked, his voice now a gentle whisper. Karen put a hand on Patrick's arm, gently guiding him back. "Just give him some space, Patrick," she instructed. "He'll come around. This happens when he's really stressed or overwhelmed." Patrick nodded slowly, his eyes still glued to his friend. He didn't fully understand, but he knew that Karen knew what she was talking about. He stepped back, allowing Karen to continue her soothing whispers to Plankton. The room grew quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock that had long ago lost track of time and the soft hum of machines in the background. The tension in the air was palpable, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting for Plankton to snap out of his frozen state. "You can do it, Plankton," she encouraged. "Just breathe." Plankton's body slowly relaxed, and his eye blinked, finally coming back into focus. He looked around, bewildered, as if he had just woken from a particularly vivid nightmare. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice weak and trembling. "I'm here, Plankton," she said, her hand still resting on his arm. "You had another shutdown, but it's over now." His eye narrowed on Patrick, who was now standing awkwardly by the couch. "What?" Plankton snapped. Patrick's eyes widened. "I-I just want to see what was wrong," he stuttered. "Well, nothing's wrong with me!" Plankton spat pushing himself up from the couch. "But you were just..." Patrick started to protest. "I said there's nothing wrong!" Patrick took a step back. "But..." "Just leave me alone!" Plankton shouted, echoing off the cold metal walls. Patrick's smile faded, and he looked down. He hadn't meant to upset his friend, but he couldn't help but feel confused and hurt by Plankton's sudden outburst. "I-I'm sorry, Plankton," he murmured. "I didn't mean to... I just..." "You just what?" Plankton cut him off, antennae quivering with irritation. "You just don't know to mind your business do you?" "But I just..." "I said leave me alone!" Plankton barked again, his tiny frame shaking with anger. Patrick took another step back, his eyes brimming with confusion. "Plankton..." "What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?" Plankton retorted. Patrick's eyes searched the room, desperate to find something to say or do that would fix the situation. The air grew thick with the tension of Plankton's frustration and Patrick's fear of losing a friendship he had worked hard to maintain despite their many differences. "I just..." he began again, his voice trailing off as he tried to find the right words. "What is it?" Plankton snarled, impatience growing with each passing second. Patrick took a deep breath, trying to compose his thoughts. "I just wanted to make sure you were ok because I don't know what's wrong with you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Wrong with me?" Plankton's voice grew louder, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. "You think there's something wrong with me?!" Patrick took another step back, his eyes never leaving Plankton's furious gaze. "Well, you know you were just sitting there, not moving..." "It's none of your business!" Plankton yelled, his antennae quivering with rage. "What's it to you anyway?" Karen, who had been watching the exchange with a growing sense of unease, knew that she had to intervene. She could see the hurt in Patrick's eyes and the turmoil within Plankton's, and she knew that their friendship was hanging by a thread. Carefully, she stood up from her chair and approached the two, her movements deliberate and calming. "Plankton, honey, let's not get too worked up," she said placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Patrick didn't mean any harm. He's just worried about you." Patrick nodded emphatically, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Yeah, buddy, I just want to help." But Plankton's anger didn't subside. "You don't get it do you? I don't need your help, or your pity. I just want you to leave me alone!" Karen's gaze softened as she looked at her husband. "Patrick, I know you mean well, but sometimes Plankton needs his space." Patrick's eyes darted from Karen to Plankton, his confusion now mixed with a hint of sadness. "But, I thought..." Karen stepped between them, her eyes filled with understanding. "Patrick, sometimes Plankton just needs a moment." She turned to Plankton, her voice firm but gentle. "And Plankton, you know Patrick only wants to be there for you." Plankton's eye narrowed, but he didn't argue. He just nodded curtly, embracing her hand. "Ok," Patrick murmured, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Look, Patrick," Karen said, her voice measured and soothing, "Plankton's got a condition." Karen turns to Plankton as Patrick comes back by them. "Plankton, may you explain to Patrick?" Plankton let out a heavy sigh, his tiny shoulders rising and falling dramatically. Patrick's expression grew more concerned, his pink star-shaped body inching closer to the couple. "Plankton, don't be scared.." "I'm not scared!" Plankton barked, his antennae shooting straight up. "I just don't need you poking in to my business!" Patrick's eyes grew wide, and he took a tentative step back. "But..." "But nothing!" Plankton spat, curling inward to Karen. "I don't need your help, I don't need your pity, and I certainly don't need you treating me like some sort of lab experiment!" Ignoring the barb, Patrick took a step closer, his tentacles reaching out to pat Plankton's shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort he'd seen SpongeBob use countless times, and it had always worked to soothe his frayed nerves. But as soon as his hand made contact, Plankton flinched violently, as if he'd been scalded. "Don't touch me!" he yelled, shoving Patrick's hand away. Patrick's eyes went wide, and he took a hasty step back, his tentacles retreating into his body. "I'm sorry, Plankton," he stammered, his voice full of genuine remorse. "I didn't mean to..."
PATRICK PLANKTON 3/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) "Here," he said, awkwardly offering a tentacle to help Plankton to his feet. "Let me help you." But Plankton slapped his hand away, his shivering growing more intense. "No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. His body was a wreck of tremors, his tiny frame visibly struggling to hold itself upright. Patrick looked at Karen, his eyes pleading for guidance. Karen nodded gently, understanding the unspoken question. "Just give him some space," she whispered back. The tension in the room was palpable as Patrick took a step back, his tentacles retracting into his body. Plankton's shivering grew worse, his tiny frame seemingly shrinking before their eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself, his legs giving out beneath him. Before Karen could even react, Patrick's instincts took over. He lunged forward, catching Plankton in his strong, star-shaped embrace, preventing him from hitting the cold metal floor. The impact was jarring, but Patrick's concern for his friend outweighed any discomfort he might have felt. "Whoa, buddy," he murmured, his tentacles embracing Plankton's shoulders. "You ok?" Karen watched the scene unfold with a mix of surprise and admiration for the starfish's intuitive care. "P-Patrick," Plankton stuttered, his body still convulsing slightly. Patrick's eyes searched Plankton's face for any sign of pain or discomfort, his tentacles tightening around his friend's shaking body. "It's ok," he murmured, his voice soothing despite the fear that was knotting his insides. "You just had a little episode, but you're ok now." Plankton's body stiffened, his antennae sticking straight out in alarm. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice a mix of anger and fear. "Just trying to help," Patrick said, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "You're shaking, and I don't want you to fall." Plankton's antennae drooped, the fight draining from him. "I..." he murmured, wanting to escape Patrick's grasp. But Patrick held firm. "You lean on Karen, yet it's ok to lean on someone else too." Plankton's eye searched the room, desperate to find a way out of this embarrassing situation. "I-I don't need..." But his protests were cut short by a wave of dizziness that washed over him. His legs buckled. "Let me go," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. Patrick's tentacles tightened around Plankton slightly, but he didn't let go. "You need to relax," he said softly. "Just breathe." Plankton's shivering grew worse, his teeth chattering like a typewriter on overdrive. "Can't... can't breathe," he managed to get out. Karen stepped in, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and understanding. "Plankton," she said, her voice calm and even, "you need to relax. You're safe." "But he's..." Plankton's protests were cut off by another tremor that rippled through his body. "I know, buddy," Patrick said gently. "But sometimes we all need a little help, even if we don't want to admit it." "Get. Off. Me!" he spat, his voice filled with a desperation that made Patrick's heart ache. But Patrick didn't move. He just held Plankton closer. "You're safe. I just don't want you to..." Plankton's tremors grew more violent, and his eye rolled back into his head again. His tiny body convulsed in Patrick's arms, his antennae flailing wildly. "Patrick, let go!" Karen's voice was sharp with fear. "You're making it worse!" Patrick's tentacles loosened their grip, and Plankton slumped back onto the bed, his body still quivering uncontrollably. Karen's robotic hands moved with surprising gentleness as she tucked him in, scanning his form for any sign of injury. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice a soothing hum. "You're safe now." Patrick hovered nearby, his heart racing. He didn't know what to say or do to make things right. The sight of his friend in such distress was more than he could bear. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his tentacles wringing in his hands. "I didn't mean to..." But Plankton's shivering had stopped, his body going slack. His antennae had dropped to his side, and his single eye was closed. Karen checked his pulse again, her expression unreadable. "He's okay," she said finally, her voice a mix of relief and exhaustion. "Just needs to rest." Patrick hovered by the bedside, feeling helpless. "What can I do?" he asked, his tentacles twitching with the need to help in some way. Karen looked up at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and weariness. "Just be here," she murmured. "And maybe... maybe don't touch him again." Patrick nodded solemnly, his tentacles drooping in defeat. "Okay," he murmured. "I'll just stay." He watched as Karen continued to monitor Plankton's condition, her mechanical movements a stark contrast to the tender way she treated her husband. The silence in the room was heavy with unspoken words and fear. "I had no idea," Patrick whispered, his gaze never leaving Plankton's still form. "It's not something he talks about," Karen said gently. "But you should know. Plankton's episodes are often triggered by sudden movements, loud noises, or physical contact." Patrick nodded, his gaze still on Plankton. "I didn't mean to scare him," he said softly. Karen's eyes met his, filled with understanding. "I know, Patrick," she said. "But you have to understand, Plankton's condition makes him sensitive to certain things." Patrick nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Plankton's face. "What exactly are triggers?" he asked, his voice a low murmur. "Well," Karen began, her voice taking on the tone of a teacher explaining a complex concept, "triggers are basically anything that sets off Plankton's condition. They can be anything from a sudden sound to someone touching him without warning. It's like his brain gets overstimulated and shuts down to protect itself." Patrick listened intently, his eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. "So, I shouldn't..." Karen interrupted gently, "you shouldn't surprise him, especially with physical contact." Patrick nodded, his tentacles stilling as he took in the gravity of the situation. He had never thought about how his actions could affect someone in such a profound way. "How can I help then?" he asked, his voice small. "Just be there," Karen said, her hand patting his shoulder. "Talk to him, keep things calm. And if he starts to get overwhelmed, just let him be. Sometimes, that's all he needs." Patrick nodded, taking in her words. He knew he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could do this. Be there for his friend without smothering him. He could be that rock that Plankton could lean on without crushing him. "Okay," he murmured, "I can do that." Karen turned her attention back to Plankton, her robotic eyes scanning his body for any signs of improvement. "He's resting now," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "But he might be irritable when he wakes up." Patrick nodded, his gaze never leaving his friend. "What can I do to make sure he doesn't get to upset?" he asked, his tentacles twitching with anxiety. "Look for signs," Karen said. "If his antennae start to twitch, or he seems distant it might be time to give him some space." Patrick nodded, his eyes searching Plankton for any signs of distress. He didn't want to cause his friend any more pain, especially after seeing him like this. "What else?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at his breathing," Karen instructed, her gaze focused on Plankton's chest rising and falling in slow, shallow movements. "If it gets rapid or erratic, he's likely overwhelmed." Patrick nodded, watching intently as Plankton's chest moved with each breath. "Ok" he murmured, "I'll keep an eye on that." Karen's gaze softened, looking up at the starfish. "It's more than just that, Patrick," she said gently. "It's about understanding him, knowing what sets him off." Patrick nodded, his eyes focused on Plankton. "So, what are the signs?" Karen paused, considering her words carefully. "Well, it's like reading a book," she began. "You have to pay attention to the little things, the subtle cues that tell you how he's feeling." "Subtle cues?" he repeated, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Yes," Karen nodded. "Like how he reacts when you touch him. Sometimes, it can be soothing. Other times, it can be overwhelming." She paused, her eyes scanning Plankton's form for any signs of distress. "It's all about reading his cues." Patrick leaned in closer, his tentacles stilling. "How do know if it's helping or hurting, or what type of touching?" "It's different for everyone with his condition," Karen explained, still on Plankton's sleeping form. "But for Plankton, it's usually about pressure." Patrick's eyes widened. "What do you mean?" Karen demonstrated with her robotic arm, applying gentle pressure to Patrick's shoulder. "Like this," she whispered. "Soft, comforting touches can help him feel grounded." Patrick tentatively reached out with a tentacle, mimicking the light touch. He watched as Plankton's sleeping body tensed for a moment before relaxing slightly. "Is that ok?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur. "Just keep it gentle," Karen reminded him, her eyes still on her husband. "And pay attention to his reactions."
PATRICK PLANKTON 4/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Patrick nodded, his tentacle hovering above Plankton's shoulder. He was about to touch him again when Karen spoke up. "Remember, Patrick," she said, her voice a soft hum, "it's all about his comfort. If he seems tense or pulls away, you know to ease off." Patrick nodded, his tentacle poised in the air ready to offer comfort without causing more distress. "Okay," he murmured his eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful, if slightly troubled, face. "Soft and gentle.." "Yes," Karen said. "And if he flinches or seems more uncomfortable, I know to stop immediately." Patrick nodded solemnly retreating. "I don't wanna worsen," he whispered. "You won't," Karen assured him. "Just remember, Plankton's condition isn't your fault. And he's lucky to have a friend like you who cares enough to learn." Patrick nodded, his tentacles stilling as he absorbed the information. He looked down at his massive starfish body, feeling clumsy and awkward next to Plankton's frail frame. "How do I know if I'm touching him the right way?" he asked, his voice tentative. "Just watch for his reactions," Karen instructed, her robotic eyes flickering as she observed Plankton's peaceful expression. "If he relaxes, you're doing it right. If not, you're doing too much." Patrick nodded, his tentacles hovering anxiously. "But how do I show him interest and care, without touching?" Karen considered his question, her robotic brain processing. "Words can be powerful, too," she said finally. "Ask him about his day, what he's been working on. Show genuine interest in his life." Patrick nodded, his tentacles retracting slightly. "I can do that," he murmured. "Plankton enjoys talking about his inventions," Karen began. "He finds solace in the predictability of science and engineering. It's his way of making sense of the world." Patrick nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "So, I should ask him about his latest gizmo?" "Exactly," Karen said with a small smile. "And listen, really listen to what he has to say. It's his way of sharing his world with you." Patrick nodded, his eyes reflecting his determination to be a better friend. "Instead of physical affection, what else might he like to show I care?" he asked eager to learn more. "Plankton's quite fond of his pet, Spot," Karen said, her voice a mix of fondness and amusement. "You could offer to help play with Spot, or even bring a little treat for him." Patrick's eyes lit up at the mention of the tiny amoeba puppy. "Really?" he asked, his tentacles unfurling slightly. "Yes," Karen said with a smile, "Spot is a source of great comfort to him, they enjoy each other." She paused, considering. Patrick's tentacles began to twitch with excitement. "Could you get Spot?" he asked, his voice hopeful. "Maybe having Spot here would help him feel better when he wakes up." Karen's smile grew. "That's a wonderful idea, Patrick," she said, and glided out of the room, to get Spot. Plankton's antennae twitched, and his eye began to flutter open. "Wha..." Karen returned with Spot in tow, the little amoeba wagging its tail. She placed the small creature gently on the bed with Plankton. "Look who's here to see you," she said, voice a gentle coo. Plankton's antennae perked up at the sight of his little amoeba bounced over. Patrick watched as the tiny creature brought a rare smile to Plankton's face. "Hey, bud," Plankton murmured. Spot in Plankton's arms, licking his face with its tiny, slimy tongue. Plankton giggled. "Good boy," he murmured, his antennae twitching with delight. The sight of Spot's excitement seemed to ease some of the tension in his body. Patrick watched from the side, his tentacles twitching with the desire to join in the moment of levity. He knew he had to tread carefully, but he also knew Plankton's smile was worth it. "How about we play a game? Spot can come too." he suggested, voice soft and tentative. Karen nodded, her smile genuine. "That's a great idea. Plankton loves a good trivia game." Patrick's eyes lit up. "I know just the thing!" He dashed out of the room and returned with a battered old board game titled "Bikini Bottom Brainiac Challenge." "This is perfect," Karen said, her voice filled with relief. She knew how much Plankton enjoyed a good intellectual showdown. Patrick set up the game with shaky tentacles, and Plankton's antennae twitched with curiosity and eagerness. "What's the rules?" Plankton asked, his voice still a little raspy from his episode. He's still holding Spot. "Simple," Patrick said, his tentacles steady as he unfolded the board. "We take turns answering trivia questions. If you get one right, you move forward. If not you go back." Plankton's antennae wiggled with excitement. "I've got this," he declared, his competitive spirit briefly overriding his exhaustion. "Let's start with an easy one," Karen suggested, her robotic voice filled with a motherly concern. Patrick nodded, picking up a card. "Alright, Plankton," he began, his tone light, "who invented the telephone?" Plankton's antennae shot up. "Alexander Clam Bell," he said with a smug smile, and Spot barked in excitement. Karen chuckled. "Correct," she said, moving his game piece forward. "Patrick's question." Plankton pulled a card from the pile, his tentacles shaking slightly. "Okay," he said, "who was the first sea creature to walk on land?" Patrick thought for a moment, his tentacles tapping the side of his head. "I know this one," he exclaimed. "It was..." He paused, trying to remember the name from one of Mr. Krabs' many history lessons. "Gilligan!" Karen's robotic laugh filled the room. "I'm afraid not, Patrick. It was actually the first amphibian, not a sea creature, who walked on land." Plankton rolled his eye. "It's okay, Patrick. It was a good guess," he said, his tone kinder than the usual sarcasm. Patrick chuckled, feeling a bit silly. "Alright, I'll work on my history," he said, moving his piece back. "Your turn, Karen." The game continued, the tension in the room slowly dissipating with each question and laugh. Plankton's eye lit up with each answer he knew, his antennae waving with excitement. The simple act of playing together brought a sense of normalcy to the situation. Karen's questions were more science-based, which Plankton devoured. "What is the chemical composition of seawater?" she asked, her robotic eyes gleaming with challenge. "Easy," Plankton said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "It's mostly sodium chloride with traces of other salts and minerals." Patrick watched as Plankton's confidence grew with every correct answer, his antennae standing tall. The game was a balm to his friend's frazzled nerves, a gentle reminder of the Plankton he knew before the meltdown. "Your turn," he said. Karen's question was about the ocean's currents, and Plankton felt a twinge of excitement. "Oh, I know this one," he exclaimed. "It's all about the Coriolis Effect is what makes the water spin in different directions in the northern and southern hemispheres!" Patrick nodded, his tentacles twirling with enthusiasm. "Wow, Plankton, you're really good at this!" But as he went to roll the dice, his excitement got the better of him. The dice slipped from his grasp, bouncing straight Plankton's open eye. Plankton yelped in pain. Patrick's tentacles froze mid-air, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, reaching out to help his friend. But Plankton was already recoiling, his antennae flailing as he clutched his eye. "Ow!!" Patrick's heart sank. "I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching out to comfort his friend. But Plankton was already on the defensive, arms swiping at the air as if trying to swat away the pain, his eye watering. Patrick's tentacles retreated immediately, the gravity of his mistake weighing heavy on him. "I didn't mean to," he said, his voice tight with regret. "I'm sorry, Plankton." Plankton's eye watered, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the pain. Karen's eyes went wide with alarm, and she was at his side in an instant. "Plankton?" Plankton rubs his eye with his tiny hand. "Just... just give me a moment." Patrick gets a small bag of ice with a cool cloth. "Here," he says, holding it out tentatively. "Cold might help Plankton.." Plankton's eye is still red and watery, but he takes the ice pack. "Thanks," he mumbles placing the cool compress on his eye. After a few moments, he lets out a sigh. "It's ok," he says, his voice a mix of pain and annoyance. "It may bruise." Patrick looks at him with a mix of relief and guilt. "Are you sure you're ok?" he asks, his tentacles hovering. "Yes!" Plankton exclaimed, antennae shooting up. He winced as he tried to open the eye fully, but the pain was too much. "But I can handle it," he said through gritted teeth. Plankton took a deep breath, the silence in the room thick with the sting of pain. He knew he had to say something, to apologize for how he treated Patrick. "Look," he began, gruff but sincere. "Sorry if I've been a bit... much.." Patrick's tentacles twitched with emotion. "It's ok, Plankton," he said, his voice thick. "I just didn't know how to help." "You're trying," Plankton said, antennae dropping slightly. "And that's more than anyone else has ever done, other than Karen and Spot of course." Plankton's antennae twitched, his voice a little softer than usual. "You're just to... to enthusiastic for me most times." Patrick nodded. "I'll be more careful," he murmured. Karen looked at him with a mix of gratitude and pity. "Patrick, it's not your fault," she said. "Plankton's condition is complex, and even I struggle to sometimes. Plankton's not like everyone else. He needs his space, his quiet and his routines." Patrick nodded, his tentacles drooping slightly. "I'll do better," he said, earnest.
š–³š–® š–¢š–§š– š–­š–¦š–¤ š–³š–§š–¤ š–¶š–®š–±š–«š–£ pt. 4 Sequel to Autism And All by NeuroFabulous https://emojicombos.com/autism-and-all Read the Autism And All one first! Plankton's words come out in a slurry mess, and Karen understands he's trying to share his thoughts with them. "Cwouds...hampy clows. Wheah's the moo...moo? Moo...moom," he mumbles. "Wha...whath's that?" he asks, his eye searching the sky for something that's not there. Karen's laughter fills the car, lightening the mood. "It's just the sun, sweetie," she says. Chip looks at his dad with a mix of amusement and concern. "You ok?" he asks, his voice tentative. Plankton nods, his smile little more than a twitch of his lips as drool starts to form at the corner of his mouth. "Mom," Chip says, his voice tinged with concern. "He's fine, Chip. It's just the medicine wearing off." Karen answers as they pull up into the garage, Plankton's speech still slurred. "Wheath we gothin?" Plankton mumbles. "We're going inside, sweetie," Karen says, helping him out of the car. His legs feel like jelly, his body moving in slow motion as they make their way into the house. The lights seem too bright, the noises too loud. "Mom," Chip whispers, his eyes wide. "Is he ok?" "He's fine," she whispers back, her voice a gentle reminder of their earlier conversation. "This is normal after anesthesia." Inside, Plankton leans heavily on Karen, his eye half-closed. "Bed," he mumbles. Karen nods, guiding him towards the bedroom. "Come on, honey," she says, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "Let's get you to bed." The bed feels heavenly under his weight, the covers a warm embrace. Plankton sighs contentedly, his body melting into the softness. His mind is a whirlwind of sensations, but the comfort of the bed grounds him. Karen watches him. The slurred speech and confusion are a stark contrast to his usual sharp and focused self. But she knows this is just the medicine wearing off. Gently, she starts to remove the gauze from his mouth. Plankton's eye opens a crack, his pupil wide with uncertainty. "It's ok," she whispers, her voice soothing. "Let's get this out of here." "Mm-hmm," he murmurs. The gauze is sticky and uncomfortable, but he trusts her. Karen's hands are careful, her movements precise as she works to free his mouth from the confines of the cotton. Plankton winces, his mouth feeling dull and tender. The room tilts slightly as he closes his eye, his body surrendering to the exhaustion that follows surgery. "Now, would you like some i---" But Plankton's already snoring softly, lost to the world. Karen's laughter fills the space between them. She knew he'd be sore later though, not to mention his autistic sensitivities to managing pain.. The next morning, Plankton wakes with a sore mouth and the anesthesia gone. He manages to open his eye. The room is a blur of light and shadow, his gums pounding with a dull throb. His jaw feels achy, his tongue swollen and uncooperative. He tries to sit up as Karen greets him. "How are you feeling, honey?" "Wisdom teeth?" he asks, his memory a haze. Karen smiles. "Yes, sweetie. You had surgery yesterday. Everything went fine." Plankton nods slowly, his eye searching hers for reassurance as Chip comes in to check on his dad. "Hey, Dad," Chip says, his voice soft. "How's the mouth?" Plankton's eye twitches. "Hurt," he manages, his words muffled by the swollen tissue. Karen brings Plankton ice packs. She knows his sensory sensitivities, and how this disruption can overwhelm him. "Thanks, love," he says, his voice a rasp. Karen knew that Plankton's autism means recovery will be more challenging, his senses heightened. "You have to stay calm," Karen instructs Chip, "He needs a quiet environment to heal." Chip nods as he sits on the bed next to Plankton. Plankton's eye opens slightly as the cold ice presses against his cheek. The chill runs through him, a stark relief against the heat of his swollen gums. "It's ok," Karen whispers, her voice a balm to his pain. "It'll help with the swelling." He nods, his hand gripping the ice pack tightly. The room is too bright, the sounds too sharp. His mind craves the familiar comfort of his routines, his stims, but his body won't cooperate. Karen notices his distress, her hand gentle as it brushes his forehead. "You need some space, Plankton?" she asks, reading his cues. He nods, his breath coming in shallow pants. She nods and goes to sit on her bed adjacent to his own. Yet Karen sees the struggle play out across his features with the effort to keep calm, his body tight with tension. Chip, still sitting by his dad, wants to help. He starts to fiddle with his fidget toy, the soft click-clack of the gears echoing in the silence. Plankton's eye snaps open, his gaze drawn to the movement. "Chip, stop," he mumbles, his voice a mixture of pain and irritation. But Chip, eager to distract his father from his own discomfort, doesn't hear the edge in Plankton's voice. The clicking grows faster, each movement a blur of colors and shapes. Plankton's heart starts to race, his body tensing. "Chip," he says more firmly this time. But Chip's fingers dance on the fidget, his eyes focused on his task. The noise and visual assault are too much for Plankton's sensitive system. His face contorts. "Chip, please," Plankton whispers, his voice strained. Chip finally looks up, his expression one of innocent curiosity. "What, Dad? I--" But he doesn't get to finish his sentence. Plankton's hand snatches the fidget toy, his movements jerky. The room seems to shrink, the air thick with tension. Chip's eyes widen, realizing his mistake. "Dad, I'm sor—" But Plankton's agitation has reached a peak. He thrusts the fidget toy away. The plastic clatters on the floor, a jolting sound that pierces the silence. "Too...much," he manages to get out, his voice strained. Chip's cheeks flush with embarrassment and guilt. He didn't mean to upset his father. He just wanted to help. "Sorry," Chip whispers, picking up the toy, which only makes Plankton's anger spike further. The sudden movement of Chip's hand, the sharp sound of the fidget— it's like a storm in his mind. "No!" Plankton yells, his voice raw. Chip freezes, his heart racing. "Dad," he starts, his voice shaky. "I didn't mean..." But Plankton's already flailing, trying to push away the chaos that's invaded his space. Karen quickly moves to intervene. "Chip," she says, her voice firm yet calm. "Remember what we talked about." Chip nods, understanding dawning on his face. He'd forgotten the rules of their world, the delicate balance that keeps Plankton's sanity intact. He'd wanted to help, but instead, he'd added to the storm raging within his dad. She takes the fidget toy from Chip, placing it on the nightstand. "I'm sorry," Plankton whispers, his eye darting around the room. He's lost in his own head, the pain making it difficult to focus. "It's ok," Karen soothes, her touch gentle on his arm. "Let's dim the lights and make it quieter." She pulls the shades closed, the harsh daylight retreating to a soft glow. Chip nods, his expression solemn. "I'll go to my room," he says, his voice small. Plankton's gaze meets his son's, a silent apology passing between them. "Thanks, buddy," he says, his voice a gruff whisper.
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 6 "Dad," Chip said, his voice filled with a mix of love and concern. "You're okay." Plankton blinked, his gaze focusing on Chip. His hand stilled, the octopus and bear forgotten. "Chip?" Chip nodded, his voice steady. "It's me, Dad. I'm here." He watched as his father's expression shifted to confusion. "What...what happened?" Plankton asked, his voice slurred and uncertain. Karen stood up, wiping her eyes. "You had a seizure, love," she explained, her voice calm. "But you're okay now. Just take your tim-" "No," Plankton said, cutting her off. He looked at the octopus in Chip's hand, then at the bear in his own. His eye searched the room, trying to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of his recent memory. "Wait," he murmured, his voice shaky. "Why the barnacles... I swear I was just..." Plankton trails off, noticing drool on the bedspread. His hand shakes as he wipes it away, his mind racing to remember. Karen's heart goes out to her husband as she sees the embarrassment etched on his face. She knows he's trying to make sense of the chaos in his head, to find his place in the world again. "You had a seizure, Plankton," she says gently. "You're ok now." Plankton's hand tightens around the bear as the fragments of his memory begin to coalesce. "Chip," he says, his voice a whisper. "He...he said..." The word hangs in the air, a shadow of the pain it had caused moments ago. Karen swallows hard, knowing that this is the moment she's been dreading. "Yes," she says gently. "Chip said something he shouldn't have." Her eyes meet Chip's, her gaze silently urging him to take responsibility. Chip nods, his eyes downcast. "But we need to talk to him, Plankton. He didn't mean it. He just doesn't understand.." But Plankton's expression has closed off. The mention of the slur brings back the hurt, and his hand clutches the bear tightly. Karen can see the walls going up again, the fear of being misunderstood once more. "Dad," Chip says, his voice soft. "I didn't mean it like that. I didn't know." He takes a deep breath, his eyes pleading. "Can we talk?" Plankton looks at him, his expression unreadable. Karen holds her breath, her heart in her throat. This was the moment that could either heal the rift or drive them further apart. "I...I'm sorry," Chip stammers, his voice shaking. "I didn't know what that word meant. I just...I just heard it and..." He trails off, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't know it would hurt you like that." Plankton stares at the octopus in his hand, his mind racing. He knows he should be angry, but all he feels is tired. Tired of the misunderstandings, tired of the pain that comes with every ill-intended remark. He looks up at Chip, his son's face etched with regret. "Why?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Why would you say such a thing?" Chip shifts his weight, his eyes downcast. "I just...I heard it," he admits. "I didn't know what it really meant." He looks at the bear, then back to Plankton. "I didn't know it would make you feel like thi—" Chip was interrupted by a knock on the front door. It's Sandy, Karen's best gal pal, dropping by to visit! Plankton's eye twitches, his thoughts racing. He wasn't ready for company, especially not when he was feeling so raw. But the sound of the door opening and Sandy's cheery voice filled the room, pulling them back to reality. "Howdy, y'all!" Sandy exclaims. Plankton looked up at her, hiding his bear and octopus in his sensory box under the bed. But Sandy saw it. "What's going on? Whatcha got in the box?" Plankton didn't want Sandy to know, didn't want anyone else to figure it out. Sandy, ever the observant soul, noticed the tension in the room. "Everything okay here?" she asked, her eyes scanning the scene. Karen took a deep breath, deciding it was time to face the music. "Plankton had a se-" But Plankton interrupts Karen. "A seriously good plan to uh, to get the Krabby Patty formula," he says, his voice quickening as he tries to deflect. Sandy raises an eyebrow. "Is that all?" she asks, not quite believing the sudden shift in conversation. Plankton nods, his hand still shaking as he tries to keep the box hidden. "Yes," he says, a bit too quickly. "Just a... a little plan. Nothing serious." His voice was strained, the lie heavier than the silence that followed. Chip watches his dad, his heart breaking at the sight of the man who had always been so strong now looking so small and scared. He knew his words had caused this, but he didn't know how to fix it. "Dad," he says, his voice soft. "We need to talk about this." But Plankton just shakes his head, his eyes darting around the room. "No," he mutters, his voice shaky. "Not now. Not with...her here." He nods towards Sandy, his anxiety palpable. "Yea, our little secret plans must wait," he says with forced joviality. Sandy's eyes narrow, sensing something is off. "Is everything alright, Plankton?" she asks, concern lacing her voice. Plankton's heart races, his mind trying to form coherent words. He didn't want to lie, but the truth felt too heavy, too complicated for this moment. "It's fine," he says, his tone clipped. "Just a bit tired. Even the greatest minds need to rest, eh?" He tries to laugh, but it comes out forced. Sandy nods, looking between the two of them. "Alright," she says, her voice still laced with concern. "If you're sure. What about the box? What's i---" "It's nothing!" Plankton says, his voice a little too loud. He's flustered, his heart racing with the fear of being found out. The last thing he needs is for Sandy to know about his autism, his secret. He waves a hand dismissively and stands up, the box of stims still hidden under the bed. "Just some... uh... inventory for the Chum Bucket," he stammers, trying to compose his features into something resembling normalcy. "You know, top-secret recipes and... and... uh, Krabby Patty... formulas," he adds hastily, his mind racing to come up with a plausible cover story. Sandy's eyes narrow slightly, not quite buying it. "Then, show me‽ I can't let you steal the Krabby Patty formula," she says, snatching the box.
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 7 Plankton's heart leaps into his throat as the box flies open. Fidget toys spill out everywhere, each one a tiny piece of his vulnerability. "N-no, wait!" he stammers, his hand shooting out to grab the box. But it's too late. Sandy's eyes widen as she sees the collection of stim toys, the suspicion setting in. Sandy looks at him. "Plankton," she says. "You can tell me. What's going on?" "Sandy," Karen starts, her voice calm and measured. "You know Plankton's... uh... unique quirks, right?" She tries to find the right words, but Plankton's mind is racing. He can't bear the thought of being seen as weak or broken, not even by his wife's closest friend. Sandy nods, her gaze still on the fidget toys scattered across the floor. "Yeah," she says slowly. "But what's this all abou–" But Plankton can't handle the scrutiny anymore. His eye starts to twitch again, his body tense with anxiety. "It's nothing," he insists, his voice shaking. "Just some... stuff I... I collected." Sandy looks at him, her eyes filled with confusion and concern. "Plankton," she says gently. "You know you can talk to me." She's seen his quirks before, but never anything like this. Plankton's eye darts around the room, looking for a way out. He feels the familiar panic rising in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts he can't quite articulate. He stammers, trying to find the right words to explain without revealing too much. "It's... it's just... I was... uh... I was just... experimenting with... uh... new... new... new ways to... to... keep my mind... uh... sharp?" Karen watches her husband with a mix of pity and frustration. She knows his fear of being seen as different is overwhelming, but she also knows hiding it won't make it go away. "Plankton," she says gently. "It's okay." Plankton's eye stops twitching as he looks at her. He takes a deep breath, his body visibly relaxing. "I... I don't want to talk about it," he says, his voice low. Sandy looks from Plankton to Karen, then back again. She can sense the tension in the room, the unspoken words that hang heavy in the air. "Okay," she says slowly. "But if yo--" Plankton cuts her off. "Sandy, it's nothing," he says, his voice too loud, too forced. "Just... just a little hobby, you know?" He laughs awkwardly, his nervousness palpable. "Some people collect stamps. I just... I just like... uh... tinkering with these... these little things." He tries to wave it off, his hand shaking as he does so. Sandy's expression is a mix of confusion and worry. "But Plankton," she starts, picking up a fidget toy. "Whaa-" "It's fine, Sandy," Plankton interrupts, his voice strained. "It's just...just something I do to... to relax." He grabs the toy from her hand, his movements erratic. "It's not a big de-" But Sandy's eyes are still on the box, curiosity piqued. "But Plankton, why the secrecy?" she presses, her tone gentle but firm. Plankton's face reddens, his eye darting around the room. He stammers, trying to find a suitable explanation. "It's... it's just a... a surprise," he managed to get out, his voice squeaking. "For... for the Chum Bucket. A new... uh... gimmick." He laughs nervously, his hands fidgeting with the toys. Sandy looks at him, her concern clear. "Plankton, if you're going through something, you know you can talk to me." Her voice is gentle, but the question in her eyes is unmistakable. Plankton's heart squeezes in his chest, his mind racing to come up with a plausible explanation. He doesn't want her pity, doesn't want to be seen as weak. "It's... it's nothing," he repeats, his voice shaky. "Just some new... uh... merchandise I've been working on. For the Chum Bucket," he adds quickly. He tries to laugh, but it sounds forced. "You know me, always thinking of new ways to outdo Krabs," he says, trying to redirect the conversation. But Sandy doesn't buy it. "Merchandise?" she asks, her tone skeptical. "These look like... like some sort of therapy toys." Her voice is gentle, but the word hits Plankton like a ton of bricks. He swallows hard, his grip on the fidget toys tightening. Plankton's mind races, trying to come up with a lie that won't unravel. But before he can speak, Chip steps forward. "It's not for the Chum Bucket," Chip says, his voice steady. "They're dad's... uh... special toys." He looks at Plankton, his gaze filled with understanding. "He's special needs," he says, his voice unwavering. "He has... uh..." Plankton's face goes from flustered to furious. "Chip!" he snaps. "That's enough!" But it's too late. Sandy's eyes widen. Sandy looks from Chip to Plankton, her expression a mixture of shock and compassion. "What does he mean, special needs?" she asks, carefully. Plankton's face turns a bright shade of red, his hands shaking with anger. He slams the fidget toys into the box, his voice tight. "It's none of your business, Sandy," he snaps. "It's just a..." Sandy's eyes widen, surprise and concern melding together. "Plankton, what's going on here?" she asks, her voice gentle but firm. "You and Karen can talk to me. You know that." Plankton's breathing quickens, his hands shaking as he fumbles to close the box. "It's nothing," he insists, his voice tight. "Just a... a little... uh... quirky hobby." Sandy's gaze is filled with a blend of shock and concern as she looks at her friend's husband, his usual confidence replaced by a flustered mess. "Plankton," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "You're special needs? What's Chi-" Plankton's anger flares up. "It's none of your concern!" he snaps, his hands shaking as he pushes the box under the bed with more force than necessary. The stims scatter on the floor, each one a painful reminder of his condition. "You just stick to your treedome and let me handle my... uh... quirky habits," he says, his words clipped. Sandy's eyes are wide, taking in the scene before her. She's never seen Plankton like this, so... vulnerable. "But, oh Chip," she starts, her voice soothing. "If you're... uh... dad's going through something, I want to help. Chip, you told me he's special needs. Tell me wh-" "Because," Chip says, "Mom said she doesn't like that I know he's ret-..."
š–¢š–®š–¬š–¤ š–³š–®š–¦š–¤š–³š–§š–¤š–± š–»š—’ š–­š–¾š—Žš—‹š—ˆš–„š–ŗš–»š—Žš—…š—ˆš—Žš—Œ part 8 "Chip!" Karen's voice cuts through the air like a knife, her eyes wide with alarm. Chip, realizing his mistake, goes to hug his dad. "Sorry," he says, going up to Plankton, who puts his arm out to stop him. Sandy, oblivious to Plankton's overload, grabs his arm. "NO!" she yells, her voice sharp. "You do not push your son away like that!" Plankton flinches at her voice. He tries to pry his hand out of Sandy's, but her grip is firm. "Let me go," he says, his voice strained. But Sandy doesn't budge. "You listen to me, Plankton," she says, her eyes flashing. "You are not going to push aw-" But she's interrupted by another seizure, Plankton's body convulsing. Sandy's eyes go wide with fear, not knowing what to do. "What's happening?" she cries, finally letting go of his wrist. Karen's eyes flash with anger and desperation as she quickly moves to Plankton's side. She glares at Sandy. "It's a condition," she snaps. "And it's not for you to judge." Her voice is sharp, her frustration with Sandy's lack of understanding palpable. Sandy's eyes widen as she realizes her mistake, her hand flying to her mouth. "What," she murmurs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-" But Karen's fury cuts her off. "You didn't mean to what?" she snaps. "To bombard Plankton with your yelling? To make him feel like he has to be touched?" Her eyes bore into Sandy, sizzling with accusation. "This is why we don't tell people," she says, her voice shaking. Sandy's eyes fill with remorse as she takes in the sight of Plankton's trembling form. "I didn't know," she whispers, her voice shaking with regret. "I'm sorry, Karen. I didn't mean to..." Her words trail off as she realizes the depth of her mistake. Karen's face is a mask of sadness and anger as she tends to Plankton, her eyes never leaving Sandy. "You didn't mean to what?" she says, each word cutting through the silence like a knife. "To make Plankton feel guilty for Chip's ignorance? He has autism, Sandy." Her voice is low, but it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken words. "This is why we don't tell people, Sandy. This is why." Sandy's face falls, her complexion paler than the white walls of the room. "Autism?" she repeats, her voice barely a whisper. She's heard of it, of course, but never considered that Plankton's quirks could be more than just quirks. She feels a pang of guilt for her insensitivity. Karen nods, her eyes brimming with tears. "Yes," she says, her voice thick with sadness. "He's been dealing with it his entire life. And we've worked so hard to make sure he's comfortable, to help him cope." She looks at Sandy, her gaze pleading. Her voice cracks as she says it, her heart breaking for her husband. Sandy's eyes fill with tears as she looks at her friend. "Karen," she whispers. "I'm so sorry." She takes a step back, realizing the harm she's caused. "I had no idea. I didn't mean to..." Her words trail off as she sees the pain etched on Karen's face. Karen's expression is a storm of emotions - anger, sadness, and a deep-seated frustration. "You didn't know," she says, her voice flat. "But now you do. And you see what it does to him." She nods towards Plankton, who's still shaking on the bed, his eye squeezed shut as he tries to fight off the seizure. Sandy's eyes fill with tears as she nods, her heart racing. Karen takes a deep breath, her gaze still on Plankton. "Just be there," she says, her voice tired. "Don't push him. Don't make him feel... less." Sandy nods again, her eyes fixed on Plankton as Karen continues to help him through the seizure. Her perception of him shifts, the layers of bravado and ambition stripped away to reveal the man beneath the madness. As the seizure subsides, Plankton opens his eye to find Sandy still hovering, looking at him with a mix of fear and regret. He feels exposed, his most private vulnerability laid bare before his wife's best friend. He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "I'm sorry," Sandy whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I didn't know." Plankton's gaze remains on the floor, his body still trembling slightly. "It's not for you to know." Sandy feels the sting of his words, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and sadness. "I just wanted to help," she murmurs, her eyes filling with tears. But Plankton can't bear the weight of her pity, his own anger a shield. He turns away from her, his body rigid with tension. "Plankton," she says softly, her hand hovering in the space between them. "I'm here." But Plankton flinches at the touch, his body tightening. "No," he says, his voice firm. Sandy's eyes widen with hurt as she withdraws her hand. "But, I just wanted to-" "No," Plankton says, his voice firm. The seizure has passed, but his emotions are still raw, his body still shaking from the tremors. Karen's heart breaks as she sees the rejection on Sandy's face, but she understands Plankton's need for space. She steps in, placing a hand on Sandy's arm. "Let's give him some time," she whispers, her gaze never leaving Plankton's closed-off form. Sandy nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she backs away slowly, not wanting to cause any more stress.
į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“›: šŸ·.šŸ¶šŸ¼į“‹ At the Neptune Medical Center, Karen parks the car and goes with her husband Plankton into the building after an injury to his antenna. "I still don't see why you didn't press charges against Krabs, Sheldon," Karen sighs, as they walk through the gleaming, sterile corridors of the medical center. "Karen I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction." Plankton's antenna now hangs limp and damaged. The doctor had assured him it was a simple repair job, yet Plankton's nerves were as frayed as the antenna itself. They enter the reception area, the automatic doors whispering shut behind them, as if sealing off the outside world's chaos. The smell of antiseptic fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of fear and hope. The receptionist, a young squid with a friendly smile, looks up from her computer screen. "Mr. Plankton, your appointment is with Dr. Marlin, the antenna specialist," she says, her tentacles typing efficiently. "You can go straight to the third floor, room 304." The elevator ride is silent, save for the rhythmic ding of each passing floor. Karen notices his distant gaze and squeezes his arm reassuringly. "You'll be fine, Sheldon," she whispers. Plankton nods. They arrive at room 304, and Karen opens the door, revealing a state-of-the-art examination room. Dr. Marlin, an octopus with a gleaming scalpel in one tentacle and a clipboard in another, looks up from his notes. "Ah, Mr. Sheldon Plankton, right on time," he says, his eight eyes blinking in unison. "I understand you've had a bit of an injury?" Plankton nods, his voice tight. "Krabs... he... snapped it." Dr. Marlin's tentacles twitch in concern. "Mr. Eugene Krabs, eh? He's had his share of accidents around here." He scribbles something on the clipboard. "Well, let's get you fixed up. I've seen worse, and you're in good hands." The doctor leads Plankton to the examination chair, which is surprisingly comfortable for someone so tiny. He adjusts the chair's height and angles the light to shine on the antenna. Plankton winces as the doctor gently prods the damaged area. "It's definitely snapped," Dr. Marlin says, his voice calm and professional. "But the good news is, it's not to far gone. We can repair it with a simple procedure." "You'll need to be under for this," he explains. "It's nothing to worry about. You'll be out Before you know it." Plankton's heart races as he lies back in the chair, the cold metal pressing against his back. He glances at Karen, who gives him a forced smile, her screen filled with concern. The doctor notices and pats his shoulder reassuringly. "It's just a little sleep," he says. "You'll be back in no time." Karen reaches for his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The anesthesiologist, a bluefish with a gentle demeanor, enters the room, pushing a trolley with a variety of bottles and tubes. She introduces herself as Nurse Bella and explains that she'll be administering the anesthesia for the surgery. Plankton swallows hard, eye darting from her to Karen's screen and back again. Karen's gaze follows the anesthesiologist, Nurse Bella, as she meticulously prepares. "Ready? Count as high as you can," she asks, her voice as soft as a lullaby. Plankton nods, his grip on Karen's hand tightening. "One... two... three..." Plankton's voice starts strong, but the medicine's effect begins to take hold. His eyelid grow heavy, and the numbers begin to slur. Karen watches as Plankton's count descends into a whisper. "Five... six... sev..." His tiny hand relaxes in hers, and his body goes slack. She watches the rise and fall of his chest slow as he succumbs to the anesthesia. Karen squeezes his hand one last time. The door to the exam room opens again, and Dr. Marlin's head pokes out. "Everything's gone well," Dr. Marlin says, peering over his mask. "We're to halt anesthesia." "You're okay," Karen whispers, her voice cracking. "You're okay." "He's doing great," the nurse whispers. "You can talk to him if you'd like. Sometimes they can hear you." Karen leans closer, her voice low and soothing. "Hey, Plankton, it's Karen. You're safe now. They've fixed your antenna. No more pain, okay?" Her thoughts are interrupted by a soft groan from the bed. Karen's screen snap to Plankton, who's beginning to stir under the blankets. "Shh," she whispers, stroking his arm. "You're safe." "K...Karen?" His eye opens. "Yes, it's me. You're okay, you're in the hospital. They've fixed your antenna." "Karen... antenna... Krabby Patty... wait, what?" He giggles, the words jumbling together in a way that makes no sense. Plankton's eye widen with childlike excitement. "Oh, right! The antenna!" He tries to touch the bandage but ends up nearly slapping himself in the face with his own arm. "Oops!" He giggles again, the sound echoing through the quiet room. He tries to sit up, but cannot. "Whoa, Nelly!" "Easy," Karen laughs. "I'm the king of the jellyfish prom! They got no flair!" Once in the car, Karen buckles him in with care, double-checking the seatbelt. "Remember, no funny business," she warns. Plankton's eye droop, and his head lolls to the side. "You're going to sleep, aren't you?" she says, her voice a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "M'not sleeping," Plankton mumbles, his eyelid fluttering, his voice fading into a snore. The drive home is peaceful, with Plankton snoring lightly beside her. As they approach their place, she gently shakes him awake. "We're home, Sheldon," she says, her voice gentle. "Can you wake up for me?" Plankton's eye blink open, and he looks around in confusion. "Home?" he mumbles. "Already?" Karen nods with a smirk. "Yeah, you slept through the whole drive. Came out of it just in time." They get out of the car, and Plankton wobbles slightly on his legs, the after-effects of the anesthesia still lingering. Karen wraps an arm around his waist, supporting him as they make their way to the front door. With a chuckle, Karen helps him inside, the warm light of their living room washing over them. Plankton's snores become more pronounced as they move through the hallway. "Come on, you need to get to bed," she says, leading him to their bedroom. The room is cozy, with a large bed that seems to swallow Plankton whole as he collapses into it. Karen carefully pulls the covers up to his chin. "Rest now," she whispers, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.
Plankton found himself in a sticky situation. In his haste, he collided with a submerged rock, and with a painful snap, one of his antennae broke dangling in half. His computer wife Karen took him to a clinic. The receptionist, a kind octopus named Tentacla, took his information and assured Dr. Dolittlefish would see him shortly. "Plankton?" Dr. Dolittlefish called out, his voice echoing through the room. Plankton walked in, Karen trailing behind. The doctor examined the fractured antenna. Plankton winced, feeling a sharp pain as the doctor prods it gently. Dr. Dolittlefish chuckled, "We'll need to perform a repair, and for that, you'll need a touch of anesthesia. It'll make you feel like you're floating on a cloud.." Plankton's one good antenna perked up with interest. "A magical elixir that will put you into a state of deep relaxation," Dr. Dolittlefish explained, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "You'll be completely unaware of the surgery. We give you a little dose to make you drowsy. It's like sinking into a warm, bubble bath after a long day of plotting. Trust me, you'll wake up with a fixed antenna and no memories of the procedure. It's like a nap that'll keep you unconscious and pain-free throughout the operation. It's tailored for each patient, so you'll only get what you need." Turning to Karen, who had been quietly observing the exchange, the doctor said, "Karen, if you have any concerns, feel free to ask. Your husband's safety is my top priority. I'll be sure to take into account." Karen sighed, her circuits whirring as she searched for the right words. "Well, Plankton has always had trouble with deep sleep. He's a bit of a light sleeper, you see. Even the slightest disturbance and he's up for the day. It's hard for him to get to sleep." The doctor nodded, scribbling more notes. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "That does add a layer of complexity to the anesthesia. We'll need to be precise with the dosage to ensure he remains asleep throughout the surgery without any complications. We'll use the lightest touch possible and administer the anesthesia in a way that minimizes discomfort." Dr. Dolittlefish turned to Plankton. "Now, when you wake up, it'll be like coming out of a delightful dream. You'll feel a bit groggy, like you've just emerged from a particularly long nap. You might be a tad disoriented, but that's perfectly normal. Your body will be feeling the effects of the medication wearing off, so it's crucial that you rest for a while in our recovery area." Plankton's eye searched Karen', looking for reassurance. She nodded firmly, gripping his tiny hand. "You'll be okay, Plankton. I'll be right here." The doctor nodded. "Karen, you can accompany him into the surgery room. But remember, you'll have to go and stay outside once the actual procedure begins." The next day, Plankton and Karen returned to the clinic, feeling a mix of anxiety and hope. The lobby was filled with various sea creatures, all waiting for their appointments with their own assortment of woes and ailments. "Come on, Plankton," Karen urged, her voice steady. "You've got this." Dr. Dolittlefish took his place at the head of the operating table, a serious look on his face. "Alright, Plankton," he said, his voice steady, "It's time for the anesthesia. This might feel a bit strange, but remember, it's just like drifting off to sleep." With a flick of his fin, he administered the first dose through a small tube connected to a bubble filled with the sedative. The bubble popped, and Plankton felt a warm sensation spread through his body. It started in his toes and traveled up to his antennae, making them feel weightless. His eye grew heavier, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh. The room began to spin gently, the sounds around him becoming muffled, like the distant hum of a lullaby sung by the ocean currents. He felt himself sinking into the chair, the cushions seemingly made of the softest sea foam. "How do you feel?" Dr. Dolittlefish's voice was a comforting murmur. "Woozy," Plankton slurred, his eyelid fluttering. The room was a blur of lights and colors, like a kaleidoscope of bubbles. The pain in his antenna was fading, replaced by a pleasant numbness. Karen squeezed his hand tightly, her grip the only solid thing in his swirling world. She watched him closely, her LED eyes full of worry. "It's ok, Plankton," she murmured. "You're going to be fine." The doctor nodded to her encouragement. "I want you to count backwards from one hundred ok?" Plankton, already feeling the warm embrace of the anesthesia, began his count with a lazy sensation. "One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight..." His voice grew softer with each number, the digits slipping away like grains of sand through his tiny fingers. The world around him grew fuzzy, like a TV show losing signal. The lights above looked like distant stars, their brightness dimming as he descended into the abyss of unconsciousness. "...eighty-four... eighty-three... eighty-two..." His eye now half-closed, the surgery room's noises melding into a symphony of comforting whispers. The gentle sway of the seaweed outside the clinic's windows seemed to be rocking him to sleep. His voice grew more faint, words slurring together. Karen watched him count, her gaze never leaving his face. She could feel his hand loosening in hers, his grip becoming as light as a feather. Each number he uttered was a step closer to the surgery that would hopefully restore his antenna to its former glory. The count grew slower, like a snail on a leisurely stroll across the ocean floor. His voice was a mere murmur, the words barely discernible. Karen could see his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his breathing growing deeper and more relaxed with each passing moment. The colors around them bled into one another, creating a dreamlike landscape. The lights above danced like jellyfish in a moonlit lagoon, casting eerie shadows across the gleaming surgical instruments. Plankton's eye fully closed now, his count barely a whisper. Each word was a soft ripple in the vast ocean of sleep that was consuming him. The whirring of the machines and the occasional splash of water seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing. Karen watched, her heart swelling with love and fear as she listened to the dwindling numbers. Plankton's voice was now a faint echo, his body going slack. The room was still, save for the hypnotic pulse of the anesthesia bubbles and Plankton's shallow breaths. Karen held her own breath, her screen never leaving his face. His count grew quieter still, each number a soft, barely perceptible sigh. Karen felt the tension in her limbs ease as she watched the lines of worry on Plankton's forehead smooth out. His sleep was finally deep and peaceful, the anesthesia working its magic. "Thirty-four... thirty-three..." His voice was a mere ripple in the vast sea of quiet that filled the room. The last number slipped away, and Plankton's count stopped, his breathing deep and even. Karen felt the weight of his hand in hers, a silent testament to his complete surrender to the anesthesia's embrace. She watched Plankton's chest rise and fall with each steady breath, his body utterly relaxed with his eye sealed shut slightly. The surgery room, once a cacophony of fear and doubt, was now a sanctuary of peace, the only sounds the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and Plankton's soft snores. The doctor nodded, satisfied with the sedation's effect. "Alright, Karen, he finally fell asleep," he whispered, patting Plankton's shoulder. "Now, we'll proceed with the actual procedure." Karen swallowed hard, nodding her head. She had never seen Plankton so vulnerable, but she knew this was for the best. "I'll be right outside," she said, her voice wavering slightly. She leaned in and kissed Plankton's forehead before letting go. With a final squeeze of his hand, she reluctantly let go and went towards the door. The doctor nodded in understanding, his eyes focused on the delicate task ahead. As the door slid shut with a soft hiss, Karen found herself in the stark, sterile waiting room. The walls were lined with sea-themed art, an attempt to provide comfort in a place filled with uncertainty and anxiety. She hovered over to the plush sea sponge chair, the material reminding her of home. Her tentacles wrapped around the phone, her movements deliberate and precise as she dialed the numbers. The first call was to Spongebob, she knew he would want to know about the accident. The line rang, and she hoped he'd pick up. "Karen?" "Spongebob, it's about Plankton," she began, her voice trembling. "He's had an accident, and he's in surgery now." "Oh no!" Sponge Bob exclaimed, his bubbly enthusiasm dimming. "Can I talk to Plankton during the surgery?" "No, they put Plankton to sleep," Karen explained, her tentacles gripping the phone tightly. "But I'll let him know you called as soon as he wakes up." "Thank you, Karen," SpongeBob said, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Tell him I'm thinking of him." The receptionist, Tentacla, noticed her distress and swam over. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her tentacles poised to offer comfort or assistance. "It's just... I've never seen him like this," Karen admitted, her voice wavering. "So... vulnerable." Tentacla nodded sympathetically, her tentacles reaching out to pat Karen's arm. "It's tough, I know. But Dr. Dolittlefish is the best in the business. Plankton's in good fins."
ANTENNAE i Plankton found himself in a sticky situation. In his haste, he collided with a submerged rock, and with a painful snap, one of his antennae broke dangling in half. His computer wife Karen took him to a clinic. The receptionist, a kind octopus named Tentacla, took his information and assured Dr. Dolittlefish would see him shortly. "Plankton?" Dr. Dolittlefish called out, his voice echoing through the room. Plankton walked in, Karen trailing behind. The doctor examined the fractured antenna. Plankton winced, feeling a sharp pain as the doctor prods it gently. Dr. Dolittlefish chuckled, "We'll need to perform a repair, and for that, you'll need a touch of anesthesia. It'll make you feel like you're floating on a cloud.." Plankton's one good antenna perked up with interest. "A magical elixir that will put you into a state of deep relaxation," Dr. Dolittlefish explained, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "You'll be completely unaware of the surgery. We give you a little dose to make you drowsy. It's like sinking into a warm, bubble bath after a long day of plotting. Trust me, you'll wake up with a fixed antenna and no memories of the procedure. It's like a nap that'll keep you unconscious and pain-free throughout the operation. It's tailored for each patient, so you'll only get what you need." Turning to Karen, who had been quietly observing the exchange, the doctor said, "Karen, if you have any concerns, feel free to ask. Your husband's safety is my top priority. I'll be sure to take into account." Karen sighed, her circuits whirring as she searched for the right words. "Well, Plankton has always had trouble with deep sleep. He's a bit of a light sleeper, you see. Even the slightest disturbance and he's up for the day. It's hard for him to get to sleep." The doctor nodded, scribbling more notes. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "That does add a layer of complexity to the anesthesia. We'll need to be precise with the dosage to ensure he remains asleep throughout the surgery without any complications. We'll use the lightest touch possible and administer the anesthesia in a way that minimizes discomfort." Dr. Dolittlefish turned to Plankton. "Now, when you wake up, it'll be like coming out of a delightful dream. You'll feel a bit groggy, like you've just emerged from a particularly long nap. You might be a tad disoriented, but that's perfectly normal. Your body will be feeling the effects of the medication wearing off, so it's crucial that you rest for a while in our recovery area." Plankton's eye searched Karen', looking for reassurance. She nodded firmly, gripping his tiny hand. "You'll be okay, Plankton. I'll be right here." The doctor nodded. "Karen, you can accompany him into the surgery room. But remember, you'll have to go and stay outside once the actual procedure begins." The next day, Plankton and Karen returned to the clinic, feeling a mix of anxiety and hope. The lobby was filled with various sea creatures, all waiting for their appointments with their own assortment of woes and ailments. "Come on, Plankton," Karen urged, her voice steady. "You've got this." Dr. Dolittlefish took his place at the head of the operating table, a serious look on his face. "Alright, Plankton," he said, his voice steady, "It's time for the anesthesia. This might feel a bit strange, but remember, it's just like drifting off to sleep." With a flick of his fin, he administered the first dose through a small tube connected to a bubble filled with the sedative. The bubble popped, and Plankton felt a warm sensation spread through his body. It started in his toes and traveled up to his antennae, making them feel weightless. His eye grew heavier, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh. The room began to spin gently, the sounds around him becoming muffled, like the distant hum of a lullaby sung by the ocean currents. He felt himself sinking into the chair, the cushions seemingly made of the softest sea foam. "How do you feel?" Dr. Dolittlefish's voice was a comforting murmur. "Woozy," Plankton slurred, his eyelid fluttering. The room was a blur of lights and colors, like a kaleidoscope of bubbles. The pain in his antenna was fading, replaced by a pleasant numbness. Karen squeezed his hand tightly, her grip the only solid thing in his swirling world. She watched him closely, her LED eyes full of worry. "It's ok, Plankton," she murmured. "You're going to be fine." The doctor nodded to her encouragement. "I want you to count backwards from one hundred ok?" Plankton, already feeling the warm embrace of the anesthesia, began his count with a lazy sensation. "One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight..." His voice grew softer with each number, the digits slipping away like grains of sand through his tiny fingers. The world around him grew fuzzy, like a TV show losing signal. The lights above looked like distant stars, their brightness dimming as he descended into the abyss of unconsciousness. "...eighty-four... eighty-three... eighty-two..." His eye now half-closed, the surgery room's noises melding into a symphony of comforting whispers. The gentle sway of the seaweed outside the clinic's windows seemed to be rocking him to sleep. His voice grew more faint, words slurring together. Karen watched him count, her gaze never leaving his face. She could feel his hand loosening in hers, his grip becoming as light as a feather. Each number he uttered was a step closer to the surgery that would hopefully restore his antenna to its former glory. The count grew slower, like a snail on a leisurely stroll across the ocean floor. His voice was a mere murmur, the words barely discernible. Karen could see his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his breathing growing deeper and more relaxed with each passing moment. The colors around them bled into one another, creating a dreamlike landscape. The lights above danced like jellyfish in a moonlit lagoon, casting eerie shadows across the gleaming surgical instruments. Plankton's eye fully closed now, his count barely a whisper. Each word was a soft ripple in the vast ocean of sleep that was consuming him. The whirring of the machines and the occasional splash of water seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing. Karen watched, her heart swelling with love and fear as she listened to the dwindling numbers. Plankton's voice was now a faint echo, his body going slack. The room was still, save for the hypnotic pulse of the anesthesia bubbles and Plankton's shallow breaths. Karen held her own breath, her screen never leaving his face. His count grew quieter still, each number a soft, barely perceptible sigh. Karen felt the tension in her limbs ease as she watched the lines of worry on Plankton's forehead smooth out. His sleep was finally deep and peaceful, the anesthesia working its magic. "Thirty-four... thirty-three..." His voice was a mere ripple in the vast sea of quiet that filled the room. The last number slipped away, and Plankton's count stopped, his breathing deep and even. Karen felt the weight of his hand in hers, a silent testament to his complete surrender to the anesthesia's embrace. She watched Plankton's chest rise and fall with each steady breath, his body utterly relaxed with his eye sealed shut slightly. The surgery room, once a cacophony of fear and doubt, was now a sanctuary of peace, the only sounds the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and Plankton's soft snores. The doctor nodded, satisfied with the sedation's effect. "Alright, Karen, he finally fell asleep," he whispered, patting Plankton's shoulder. "Now, we'll proceed with the actual procedure." Karen swallowed hard, nodding her head. She had never seen Plankton so vulnerable, but she knew this was for the best. "I'll be right outside," she said, her voice wavering slightly. She leaned in and kissed Plankton's forehead before letting go. With a final squeeze of his hand, she reluctantly let go and went towards the door. The doctor nodded in understanding, his eyes focused on the delicate task ahead. As the door slid shut with a soft hiss, Karen found herself in the stark, sterile waiting room. The walls were lined with sea-themed art, an attempt to provide comfort in a place filled with uncertainty and anxiety. She hovered over to the plush sea sponge chair, the material reminding her of home. Her tentacles wrapped around the phone, her movements deliberate and precise as she dialed the numbers. The first call was to Spongebob, she knew he would want to know about the accident. The line rang, and she hoped he'd pick up. "Karen?" "Spongebob, it's about Plankton," she began, her voice trembling. "He's had an accident, and he's in surgery now." "Oh no!" Sponge Bob exclaimed, his bubbly enthusiasm dimming. "Can I talk to Plankton during the surgery?" "No, they put Plankton to sleep," Karen explained, her tentacles gripping the phone tightly. "But I'll let him know you called as soon as he wakes up." "Thank you, Karen," SpongeBob said, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Tell him I'm thinking of him." The receptionist, Tentacla, noticed her distress and swam over. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her tentacles poised to offer comfort or assistance. "It's just... I've never seen him like this," Karen admitted, her voice wavering. "So... vulnerable." Tentacla nodded sympathetically, her tentacles reaching out to pat Karen's arm. "It's tough, I know. But Dr. Dolittlefish is the best in the business. Plankton's in good fins."
Broken 1/2 (I’m a neurodivergent author) "Karen's going to love the surprise," Sandy murmured to herself. Sandy had spent hours the previous night crafting the perfect surprise for her friend, Karen. It’s a game, and she thought about the delight. As Sandy approached, the anticipation grew. She felt her heartrate spike, her hand curling around the doorknob. The door swung open with a gentle creak, and there was Karen. "Sandy!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her friend in a warm embrace. ā€œCome on in!ā€ They moved into the living room. "Ready for the surprise?" Sandy whispered, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Karen nodded, curiosity piqued. Sandy pulled out the game called "Whimsical Wonders," and it promised an adventure filled with puzzles, riddles, and laughter. She had picked it out especially for Karen, who loved nothing more than a good brain teaser. Plankton, Karen's husband, wanders in. "Sandy made a new game!" Karen says, her voice filled with excitement. "Oh really?" Plankton says. Sandy nods eagerly, setting the game board on the coffee table. "This looks amazing!" Karen says, lighting up. "Let's get started!" Sandy says, her voice brimming with excitement. The two friends eagerly begin setting up the game. As they place the pieces, their laughter fills the air, mingling with the occasional squeal of excitement. Plankton, however, watches from the armchair with a furrowed brow, the cacophony of sounds and the flurry of activity around the game table gradually weighing on him. His senses, heightened by the sudden influx of stimuli, start to overwhelm him. Sandy rolls the dice and her voice cracks with excitement as she announces her first move. "I'll take the unicorn path!" she exclaims, moving her piece with a flourish. The room seems to vibrate with her enthusiasm, the very air charged with it. But amidst the excitement, Plankton's eye starts to glaze over. Karen, caught up in the moment, doesn't notice the change in Plankton's demeanor yet. Sandy, lost in the thrill of setting the stage for their adventure, doesn't pick up on Plankton's distress. "Your turn, Karen!" Sandy suddenly squeals. Karen looks up from her piece and sees Plankton's eye now glazed over, his body completely still. "Plankton?" she asks tentatively, her smile faltering; the sensory overload from the game is becoming too much for Plankton, who grows overwhelmed and unresponsive from his armchair. "You ok?" Sandy says, turning to him, her voice still filled with the energy of the game. But Plankton doesn't respond. His eye remains unfocused, vacant, his body rigid. "What's wrong?" she asks, her smile fading as she notices Plankton's unresponsive state. Karen lowers her voice to a whisper, "It's like he zones out for a bit." Sandy's eyes widen with concern, and she immediately sets down the game piece. "Huh?" Karen nods reassuringly, "He'll be fine in a minute." She gently pats Plankton's hand, her voice calm and soothing. "It happens sometimes when things get too... much for him. This happens sometimes when he's overstimulated." Sandy's heart skips a beat. Plankton's face remained slack, eye staring into the middle distance, unblinking. "It's ok," Karen whispers, voice steady, "Just give him some space." Sandy nods, her excitement replaced with concern. She's never seen Plankton like this before. She watches as Karen gently strokes Plankton's arm. "It's ok," Karen repeats, her voice a gentle lullaby. "These happen when there's too much going on, too much to take in." Sandy nods, eyes never leaving Plankton's frozen form. She feels a twinge of guilt for not realizing sooner that something was amiss. She had been so caught up in excitement of the game, she didn't notice signs of distress. Moving closer to the chair where Plankton sat, she tentatively reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder like the way Karen is doing, but Karen stops her. "Let me," she says gently, never leaving her husband. "I know his triggers." Sandy nods. She withdraws, giving space. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I didn't know." Karen nods, never leaving Plankton. "It's ok. We manage. It's part of his… condition." Sandy watches as Karen's gentle touch seems to bring him back to reality. Plankton blinks. "Plankton?" Karen whispers. Slowly, his gaze refocuses on her. He looks around the room, momentarily disoriented before his eye land on the game spread out on the table. He looks back at Karen, his expression a mix of confusion and embarrassment. "What happened?" he asks, his voice hoarse. "You had a little episode," Karen says, her voice still calm. She helps him to his feet. "But you're ok now." Sandy's eyes dart between the two of them, feeling like an intruder in this intimate moment of care. She clears her throat awkwardly. "Maybe we should... postpone the game?" But as Plankton's gaze locks onto hers, she sees the anger in his eye, raw and unbridled. "You did this," he says accusingly, voice tight with frustration. Sandy takes a step back. "I didn't mean to," she stammers, her hands rising defensively. "You didn't mean to?" Plankton echoes, his voice rising. "You come in, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with your loud games and expectations, and you don't think about how it might affect me?" Sandy's eyes widen with shock and guilt as she takes another step back. "I-I'm sorry, Plankton," she stammers. "I didn't know it would—" "Of course you didn't," Plankton interrupts, filled with bitterness. Sandy's heart sinks as she realizes the gravity of the situation. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you," she says, her voice small and apologetic. Karen's grip on Plankton's arm tightens, a silent plea for calm, but the words have been said. The air feels thick with tension, the joyous anticipation of the game forgotten. Sandy's eyes fill with tears, her heart racing. "Plankton, please," she says, her voice shaking. "It’s not my fault. I'd never want to hurt you." "It's what you want, isn't it?" Plankton snaps, pushing away from her. "That's not true," Sandy protests, her own voice rising in defense. "I just wanted to have some fun." Karen's screen darts between them, a silent plea for peace. But Plankton's anger is a storm that can't be quieted so easily. "You think it's fun for me?" he yells, his voice cracking with frustration. "To sit here and watch you live life without a care while I'm stuck in my own head, unable to keep up?" Sandy flinches, his words hitting her like a slap in the face. She never thought about it that way before. "I just wanted to help," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "Help?" Plankton scoffs. "How is bringing this... this... chaos into our lives supposed to help?" He gestures at the game, his hand shaking with anger. Sandy feels the heat rising in her own cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger at being misunderstood. "It's not chaos, it's just a game," she says, her voice firm despite the tremor. "To you, maybe," Plankton says, his words laced with venom. "But to me, it's just another thing that's too much to handle. Too loud, colorful, too... everything." Sandy feels her own anger flare up, the hurt of his accusations stinging deep. "You don't know what you're talking about," she says, her voice rising to match his. "Oh, don't I?" Plankton counters, eye flashing. "You think you can just waltz in and ignore my needs because you're so focused on your own fun?" Sandy feels a mix of indignation and regret. "That's not fair," she protests, cracking. "You know I didn't mean to—" But Plankton isn't listening. He's in the throes of anger now, voice rising. "Fair?! You have no idea what fair is," he says, eye flashing. "You don't have to deal with the constant bombardment of sounds and lights and emotions!" Sandy's own frustration boils over. "Well maybe if you try to understand, we could—" "Understand?" Plankton cuts her off, his voice now a roar. "How can you possibly understand?" Sandy's eyes flash with indignation. "You're not the only one with problems!" she shoots back. "You think I don't know?" Plankton retorts. "Everyone has their struggles, but you don't get to barge in here and make them about you!" "It wasn't about me!" Sandy exclaims, her voice shaking. "I just wanted to do something nice.." "What about the fact that your 'nice' thing almost sent me into a full-blown seizure?" Sandy's eyes flash with anger now, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "You know what, Plankton? You're right, I don't understand," she says, her voice trembling with emotion. "But maybe if you weren't so focused on being the center of attention with your 'poor me' routine, you could see I'm just trying to be a good friend!" Plankton's eye widen in shock at her outburst as he processes her words. "You think this is about attention?" he says, his voice incredulous. "It's about trying to find a way to exist in a world that's too much for me!" Sandy's eyes fill with tears of frustration as she glares at Plankton. "And what? I'm not allowed to live because it's too much for you?" she yells back, the words cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter. "I can't help that I'm not BROKEN like You!" Sandy says before realizing it with regret. Karen's pixelated eyes widen in horror. "Sandy," she says, her voice a warning whisper. But too late. The damage is done. A tear traces a path down his cheek. His eye, once full of anger, brims with hurt. He takes a step back. "Broken," he whispers, the word echoing in the tense silence of the room. Plankton's body sags, his anger dissipating like a popped balloon, leaving only pain in its wake. His eye glisten with unshed tears.
Broken 2/2 (I’m a neurodivergent author) Plankton's body sags, anger dissipating. His eye glisten with tears. "Broken," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, the word a knife to his soul. He shakes his head and turns, unable to face the person who so casually tossed it at him. "Plankton," Karen says, her voice strained, but he's already retreating. Shoulders hunched, Plankton turns and strides out of the room, footsteps heavy and deliberate. The door to the bedroom slams shut behind him, the echo of sobs resonating through. Sandy and Karen are left standing in the living room, the air thick with unspoken words and unshed tears. "I didn't mean it like, I cannot believe I just, I’m sorry," Sandy says, voice shaky. She looks at her friend, her eyes pleading for understanding. "I..." Karen's gaze is steely. "You need to understand," she says firmly, voice trembling with weight. "Plankton was born with a neurodivergent condition." Sandy's eyes widen. "What?" she whispers. Karen nods solemnly. "Plankton's mother was in a car accident when pregnant with him." Sandy's eyes widen in horror. "I had no idea," she whispers. Karen nods, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "After, doctors saw Plankton's brain developing differently," she explains, her voice tight with emotion. "He's incredibly sensitive to stimulation—sounds, lights; strong emotions, like just now, can overwhelm him." "That's why he gets these... episodes?" Sandy asks. Karen nods, voice barely above a whisper. "It caused damage to the part of his brain that processes stimuli during development," she explains. "It's like his brain's volume knob is stuck on high. Everything's just too much for him sometimes." Sandy's mind races. "So that's why..." "Yes," Karen says, voice heavy. "It's not something he can just turn off, or ignore." Sandy nods slowly, aching for her friend's husband. She had always known Plankton as a bit of an introvert, but never thought it was mostly because of something like this. Karen's sad, but firm. "It's not your fault for not knowing," she says. "But you have to be mindful." Sandy nods, throat tight. "I do," she whispers with regret. Together, they make their way to the bedroom, the game forgotten in the wake of Plankton's pain. Karen's hand is a gentle guide on Sandy's arm as they tiptoe, steeling herself for what might be on the other side. She opens it slowly, the hinges whispering in protest. The bedroom is dim, curtains drawn, and Plankton is there, lying on the bed, his eye closed. The anger and frustration that had etched lines into his face moments ago are now eased by sleep. His chest rises and falls with rhythm of breathing, the only sound in the room. Sandy feels a pang of guilt as she looks at him. She had never meant to cause pain, never intended to make life more difficult. She just wanted to bring a little joy, whimsy into their lives; instead, she had unleashed a storm. Karen's hand tightens around Sandy's arm, a silent reminder of the unspoken bond between them. "Let him rest," Karen murmurs. Sandy nods. "Give him space," Karen says gently. "He needs to recover." Sandy nods, gaze lingering on Plankton's face, features now in sleep. She feels a pang of guilt, knowing she was the cause of distress. They retreat to the living room. Karen sighs heavily, her eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and resignation. "Why didn't you tell?" Karen sighs. "It's not something we talk about," she says softly. "Plankton's been self-conscious about it." "I didn't mean to make things worse," Sandy says with remorse. "I know, yet you have to understand, Plankton's condition is part of him. It's not something that can be fixed with a band-aid; his brain damage is irreversible." "I'll talk to him when he wakes up," she says, her voice a mix of determination and sorrow. "I want to make it right." Karen squeezes her hand, offering a small smile. "Thank you," she whispers. "But let him come to you. He needs time." Sandy feels the weight of her mistake heavily. "Part of Plankton's condition includes mood swings," Karen explains softly. "When overstimulated, it's like a dam breaks. It just floods." Sandy's heart squeezes with understanding and regret. "I didn't know," she whispers, eyes filling with tears. "I never meant to—" "It's ok," Karen interrupts gently, her voice soothing. "But it's not just about the game. Plankton's condition makes it hard for him to handle sudden changes or unexpected situations." Sandy nods, the gravity of the situation settling in. "I didn't realize," she says, her voice thick with guilt. "I just..." Karen squeezes her hand. "It's alright," she says, her voice calm and soothing. "You couldn't have known. But now that you do, it's important to stay calm around him." Sandy nods, eyes wide with the realization. "How do I make sure not make things worse?" Karen looks at her with a mix of affection and weariness. "You just need to be patient and understanding," she says. "Let him know you're there for him, without pushing." Sandy nods. Finally, Plankton emerges from the bedroom, eye red-rimmed. He looks at them both, his gaze uncertain, and then to the game. Sandy's heart clenches as she watches him. Plankton's gaze lingers on the game for a moment before he looks at them, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin everything." Sandy's heart breaks at his words. "You didn't ruin," she says quickly, filled with compassion. "I should have been more considerate." Plankton looks at her, still guarded. "I just want to be normal but I just can't handle it, like you said I’m broken.." Sandy feels her heart ache at his words, the pain in his voice resonating deep within. She shakes her head, her own eyes now filled with tears. "You're not broken," she says fiercely. "You're just... different. And that's ok. I’m sorry." Karen moves to Plankton's side, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle embrace. "You are more than ok," she whispers. "You're perfect, just the way you are." Sandy watches them, feeling the depth. "I didn't mean it, Plankton," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "You're not broken, you're just... you. I know that now." Plankton nods, his mind a tumult of thoughts. "But it's hard to hear." "I'll be more careful," she promises, her voice sincere. "I don't want to make you feel like that again." "You didn't know," he says, his voice a bit softer now. "But it's important that you do now." "I do know," she says, her voice firm. "And I'll make sure to be more mindful." Karen squeezes Plankton's hand, filled with love and compassion. "We all have moments," she says gently. "What matters is we learn from them." Sandy nods, gaze never leaving Plankton's. "I will," she says solemnly. "I promise." Plankton's expression softens. "Thank you," he murmurs, the first signs of forgiveness seeping into his voice. Karen's gaze shifts to Sandy, filled with a gentle resolve. "Don't be afraid to ask, next time," she says, a quiet command. "Don't assume you know what he can handle. Just talk to us, and we can tell you." Sandy nods, feeling the weight of her friend's words. "I will," she says, voice a solemn promise. "I don't want to make him feel like that again." The three of them stand in the living room, the game pieces on the table a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Sandy takes a step closer to Plankton, her hand reaching out tentatively. He looks up at her, the anger and pain in his eye slowly being replaced with something resembling understanding. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, hand hovering in the air between them. "I'll do better." Karen nods with a mix of sadness and love. "We're all learning," she says, her voice a gentle reprimand. "But it's important that Plankton needs to be part of this conversation too." Sandy swallows hard, her hand dropping to her side. "I'm sorry," she says again, looking down at her feet. "I didn't mean to make it about me." Plankton nods slowly, eye still on the game board. "It's not," he says, quiet and measured. "It's about understanding limits." Sandy nods, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm here for you, for both of you, any time." Karen gives her a sad smile, still on Plankton. "We know," she says softly. "But sometimes, the best thing you can do for Plankton is to just... let him be." Sandy nods. "I'll take it home," she says, her voice thick with regret. "I don't want it to be a reminder of what happened." Karen nods, her gaze never leaving Sandy's. "Thank you," she whispers. Sandy moves to the coffee table, her eyes on the game. She gathers the pieces, the bright colors seemingly dulled by the events of the evening. Each piece feels heavier than it should, as if carrying the weight of Plankton's pain. "I'll put it away," she says, her voice quiet and remorseful. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen." Plankton nods, his eye not leaving the game. "I know," he says, his voice still raw. "But you can play it with Karen on one of the Gal Pal nights out when I’m not around, like at your treedome." Sandy nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she scoops the last of the game into the box. She closes it with a soft click and looks up at Karen. "I'm sorry," she whispers again. "I'm just... I'm sorry." Karen sighs, her gaze filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "We all make mistakes, Sandy," she says gently. "What's important is that we learn from them." Sandy nods, her eyes never leaving the game box. "I will," she whispers, her voice thick with regret. "I'll be more considerate next time." Karen's gaze softens, and she squeezes Sandy's hand. "Thank you," she murmurs. "It means a lot."
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( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Karen's arms wrap around him, her hands gentle on his back as she whispers words of comfort, her voice a balm to his frayed nerves. "You're safe, baby," she says. "You're safe with me." Plankton's sobs slow, his body relaxing marginally in her embrace. His antennae still thrash, but with less urgency, when Plankton's main dentist comes in. Dr. Musselman, Plankton's main dentist, rushes into the room, his eyes wide with concern at the sight of his patient's distress. Karen quickly explains the situation, her voice tight with emotion. "He's having an autistic shutdown," she says, her hand on Plankton's trembling back. "He's sensitive to sensory overload." He nods. "You can come into my exam room, follow me." The doctor's exam room is dimmer, the air cooler, and the smell less intense. The change in atmosphere is like a gentle caress against Plankton's overstimulated sensors. He lets out a shaky sigh, his antennae unfurling slightly. Dr. Musselman's eyes are kind, his voice a soothing balm. "Hi, Plankton," he says, his tone gentle. "Remember me?" Plankton's gaze flickers to him, his antennae stilling. "You're my other dentist," he whispers, his voice hoarse from the sobbing. The doctor nods, his smile reassuring. "That's right. I know you don't like surprises, so I'm sorry for that, for Jill. But we're going to take it slow, okay?" Plankton nods, his antennae twitching slightly. "We need to finish your cleaning," Karen says, her voice gentle. "But we'll do it with Dr. Musselman. He'll always work here, and can be your dentist instead of Jill from now on!" "Okay," Dr. Musselman says, his voice calm and measured. "We're going to take some x-rays now. It's quick and painless." Plankton's antennae perk up slightly at the mention of painlessness. He nods, his eye searching the doctor's face for any sign of deception. The doctor leads them to a small, enclosed space, the whirring of the x-ray machine a soothing constant. Karen holds Plankton's hand, her grip firm but gentle, as he sits in the chair. The doctor explains the process, his words clear and concise. Plankton nods, his breathing slowing slightly as he tries to comfort himself. The x-ray machine's cold metal touches his jaw, and he jolts. "It's okay," Karen whispers, her hand on his shoulder. "It's just a little picture of your teeth." Plankton's eye closes, his antennae stilling. He nods, his trust in his wife a beacon in the storm of his fear. Dr. Musselman's movements are careful, his voice calm. "Open wide," he says. Plankton's mouth opens slightly, his teeth clenched. The x-ray film slides into place, cold and slightly sticky. He tastes the metal, feels the pressure. But it's not the same as the probe. It's bearable. The machine whirs to life, the sensation of the x-rays a gentle buzz against his skin. His antennae quiver, but he doesn't pull away. Karen's hand squeezes his, a silent promise of support. "Good job," she murmurs, her voice a warm whisper in the cool air. The doctor's voice is steady. "Almost done," he says, his eyes on the machine's readout. Plankton nods, his breaths shallow but even. The fear has receded to a dull throb, a distant echo of the panic that had consumed him. The x-ray machine clicks off, the buzz of its operation silenced. Dr. Musselman gently removes the film, his movements careful not to startle Plankton. "Good boy," he says, his voice a warm caress. Plankton's antennae twitch in response, a tentative sign of trust.
CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS i (Autistic Author) Karen went to the park. Her husband, Plankton, sat by her. Karen glanced over and saw the soft smile on his face, a smile that had greeted her every morning for the past twenty-five or so years. The park was alive with laughter, the distant sound of a ball bouncing off the pavement and the occasional squawk from a seagull. Plankton's eye were closed, his breathing slow and steady. He was enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. Suddenly, their adopted son Chip burst into their peaceful scene, his cheeks flushed from running. He was holding a frisbee that had strayed from its intended path, and he called out to them with the enthusiasm of a young boy who had discovered something wonderful. "Look what I found!" he exclaimed, oblivious to the delicate moment he was interrupting. Plankton jolts. Karen's notices her husband's sudden movement. His eye open wide, and he stares into the distance unseeing, unblinking. She knows the signs all too well. Plankton is having one of his shutdowns. But Chip's dart between the frisbee and his parents, sensing something amiss. "Dad?" Chip says, tentatively. Karen jumps up and grabs Plankton's arm, gently squeezing to bring him back. "It's ok, honey," she whispers, her voice steady. Chip's smile fades as he sees his father's unresponsive state. He drops the frisbee, forgotten in his grip, and takes a cautious step closer. "What's happening?" he asks, his voice cracking. Plankton's body remains eerily still, like a statue. The only indication that he's alive is the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Karen's eyes dart around the area, checking if anyone has noticed. She doesn't want to draw unwanted attention. "It's ok, Dad's just taking a little break," she murmurs, setting the frisbee aside. He's never seen these before, nor knows the drill. Chip takes in Plankton's unblinking gaze. Karen feels a pang of guilt for keeping this part of Plankton's condition hidden from their kid. But it's a dance they've been performing for years, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst Plankton's condition. Karen focuses solely on Plankton, willing him to come back to her. She feels the warmth of his hand under hers, but there's no response, no squeeze, no recognition of her touch. Karen's gaze is fixed on her husband's face, searching for any hint of life, any flicker of consciousness. She whispers his name, a soft mantra, trying to anchor him to reality. But Chip doesn't understand. His eyes are wide, full of fear and confusion as he watches his dad frozen in place. "What's a 'little break'?" he asks, voice trembling. Karen's heart tightens; she's always shielded Chip, hoping to spare him the worry and fear. "It's like when you zone out," she explains gently, hoping to relate it to something he might have experienced. "Remember when you were playing video games and I had to call you for dinner three times before you heard me?" Chip nods slowly, still glued to Plankton's unmoving form. "It's like that," Karen continues, "But for Dad, it happens without warning." Chip nods again, trying to process this new information. He's always known his dad was different, but seeing him like this is something he's never had to face before. He takes a deep breath and tries to hold back his tears, not wanting to scare Plankton when he wakes up. "What do we do?" he whispers, his voice shaky. Karen squeezes Plankton's hand gently, never leaving his face. "Just wait," she instructs Chip calmly. "These usually don't last long. But if you need to, you can tell anyone who asks that he's okay, just deep in thought." Chip nods, trying to mimic his mother's calm demeanor, but his eyes betray his anxiety. He's never seen his dad like this, never knew that these moments of stillness were a part of him. Plankton's condition, a form of autism, can leave him with anger issues and overload. Karen feels the weight of the secret they've kept from Chip all these years. Plankton's autistic neurodivergence had always been a part of their lives, but they had shielded their son from the full extent of it. They had hoped he would understand when he was older, but now the moment had come unplanned, and she wasn't sure if ready. "Why does Dad zone out?" Chip asks, his voice small. Karen sighs, deciding it's time for the truth. She sits down next to Plankton, keeping her hand on his arm. "Dad has something called 'neurodivergence', Chip. It's like his brain works differently than ours. Sometimes it helps him see the world in amazing ways, but it can also be hard for him. These little breaks are his brain's way of processing." Chip stares at her, trying to grasp the concept. "So, he's not just ignoring us?" "No, sweetie," Karen says. "He's not ignoring us. It's like his brain needs a time-out, like when you play for to long and your phone heats up and/or dies, but will still work eventually." The wind picks up, rustling through the leaves above them, and a chill runs down Chip's spine. He nods slowly, watching his dad's chest rise and fall in the silence. It's strange to see someone so still, so quiet, yet so obviously alive. "But why haven't you told me before?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's eyes well up with tears she quickly blinks away. "We wanted to protect you," she admits. "I didn't want you to be scared and he doesn’t want you to think of him differently." "But it's okay to think differently," Chip argues, his voice growing stronger. "Dad's always been there for me, even if he doesn't hug me a lot." Karen smiles sadly, stroking Plankton's arm. "It's not just about thinking differently, Chip. It's about how his brain processes things. Sometimes, too much sensory input can overwhelm him. That's why he might seem distant or not as affectionate as other dads. It's not because he doesn't like you," she reassures him. "It's because hugging or loud noises can be really intense for him." Chip's eyes widen with understanding. "So, that's why he doesn't like it when I jump on him?" "Yes," Karen nods. "But it doesn't mean he loves you any less. He just shows it in his own way. Like when he spends hours helping you build that Lego castle, or when he makes those amazing sea creature sculptures that you love so much." Chip's shoulders slump, and he sits down on the bench beside his mother, staring at his dad with a newfound curiosity. "Does he know I know now?" "I don't think so, honey," Karen says, her voice still low and soothing. "These episodes usually last just a few minutes. It's like he's somewhere else, but he'll come back to us." The park's sounds swirl around them, muffled by the tension that has settled in the air. Karen watches Plankton's expression, waiting for the telltale twitch of his antennae that signals his return to the present. Finally, Plankton blinks and looks at Karen, his gaze momentarily unfocused before recognition floods back into his eye. He looks around, startled by his surroundings, and then at Chip, who is staring at him. "What happened?" Plankton asks, his voice groggy. Karen releases a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "You had one of your zoning-out moments," she says, her voice calm and gentle. Plankton looks at her, then at Chip, who is watching him with a mix of curiosity and fear. "I did?" Plankton's antennae twitch, and he rubs his head. "Yes," Karen says, her hand still on his arm. "Chip found a frisbee, remember?" Plankton's gaze shifts to the frisbee lying forgotten on the ground, then back to his son. He nods slowly, piecing the moments before together. "Ah," he murmurs, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face. Chip's curiosity outweighs his fear as he looks at his father. "Can I ask?" he asks tentatively. Karen nods, her heart swelling with pride at his bravery. "Of course, Chip." Chip looks at his dad, filled with questions. "Why’d you zone out?" he asks, his voice still hushed. "It's none of your business Chip," Plankton snaps, his eye flashing with a sudden fury that takes both Karen and Chip aback. His voice is harsh, the words cutting through the stillness of the park. Karen's heart sinks as she sees the hurt on Chip's face. Plankton's anger, a common side effect of his overload, surfaces without warning. She knows he doesn't mean it, but the sting is real for their son.
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PATRICK PLANKTON 2/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Yet Plankton was beyond listening. He was in the throes of a full-blown meltdown, his body quaking with anger and fear. His usually tiny form looked monstrous in the dim light of the lab, his eye wild and his antennae twitching erratically. Plankton's shaking grew more intense, his tiny body trembling. His eye darted around the room, looking everywhere except at the starfish who had just tried to offer him comfort. Karen's heart ached as she watched her husband's silent panic attack unfold. She knew the signs all too well. The erratic antennae movements, the clenched fists, the sudden need for personal space - it was all part of his condition. Plankton had always been so private about it, but she had hoped that with time and trust, he'd learn to open up. Patrick, however, remained oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He had never seen his friend this way, and the fear in Plankton's usually beady eye was more than he could bear. "What's happening to him?" he whispered to Karen, his voice shaking. Karen took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton's trembling form. "It's his condition," she said softly. "He gets like this when he's really overwhelmed. He needs us to be calm for him." Patrick looked from Karen to Plankton. He didn't know what to do, but he knew that he couldn't just stand there. Carefully, he reached out a tentacle and wrapped it around Plankton, pulling him into a gentle embrace. "It's okay, buddy," he murmured. "You don't have to be scared." But Plankton's panic only seemed to worsen. His tremors grew more pronounced, his tiny body convulsing in Patrick's arms. Karen's eyes grew wide with alarm, and she rushed over to her husband's side. "Patrick, let go!" she urged, her voice firm but filled with urgency. "You're making it worse!" Patrick's eyes grew wide, and he released Plankton as if he'd been holding a live wire. The tiny plankton crumpled to the floor, his body going limp. "Plankton?" Karen gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. She checked his antennae for a pulse, her face a mask of panic. "Plankton, can you hear me?" There was no response. His single eye had rolled back into his head, and his antennae had gone still. Panic gripped Karen and Patrick. "What's happening?" Patrick's voice was barely a whisper. Karen's filled with a mix of fear and determination as she checked Plankton's pulse again. "It's a severe episode," she said, her voice tight with concern. "He needs to calm down, and fast." Patrick hovered over them, his heart racing in his chest. "What..." "He's passed out," Karen said, her voice tight with worry. "We need to get him to his bed." Patrick's eyes grew rounder, and he nodded frantically. "Okay okay," he murmured, reaching down to help Karen lift Plankton's unconscious body. Together, they carefully carried him to the bed. Karen laid Plankton on the bed and began to check his vitals, scanning his tiny form with a medical precision that belied her usual robotic demeanor. "His pulse is steady." Patrick hovered at the edge of the room, his heart racing. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice quivering. "Just stay here," Karen instructed, her focus solely on Plankton. "And keep talking to him. Sometimes hearing a familiar voice helps." Patrick nodded, his tentacles clutching at the edge of the bed. "Plankton?" he called out softly, his voice filled with a mix of fear and concern. "Buddy, can you hear me?" There was no response. Plankton's tiny body remained still and lifeless, his antennae drooping like wet noodles. Patrick felt his own body go cold with fear. He'd never seen anyone faint before, let alone a friend. He didn't know what to do, so he just talked hoping his voice could reach Plankton through the fog of unconsciousness. "Hey, Plankton," he said softly, "Just rest up, buddy." Karen looked up from her ministrations, her expression grim. "Patrick," she began, voice low and serious, "you need to know something about Plankton." Patrick leaned in, his worry for his friend clear on his face. "What is it?" he whispered. "It's his brain," Karen said, her voice tight. "Plankton has a traumatic injury." She paused, her gaze never leaving Plankton's still form. "It's from an accident a long time ago, before I was even built.." Patrick's eyes grew wide with shock. "What kind of accident?" Karen took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "It was a... a car accident," she said finally, her voice thick with unshed emotion. "A runaway boat hit him, actually." Patrick's tentacles drooped in horror. "Oh no!" he gasped. "Is that why he gets like this?" "Yes," Karen nodded solemnly. "The injury causes him to have these episodes when he gets too stressed or overwhelmed. It's why he's so obsessed with the Krabby Patty formula. The pursuit of something so constant and unchanging helps him cope with the chaos in his head." Patrick's eyes widened. "But why didn't he tell me?" he murmured. "Because he's ashamed," Karen said softly. "He thinks it makes him weak. But it's just a part of who he is." Patrick looked at her, his eyes filled with sadness. "But he's not weak," he said firmly. "He's the smartest person I know." "Patrick," Karen said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "his mind is brilliant, yes. But he's also fragile, in ways you can't even imagine." Patrick nodded, his eyes never leaving Plankton's pale face. "I won't tell anyone," he promised, his voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly, Plankton's antennae twitched. A soft groan escaped his mouth and his eye fluttered open. He looked around the room, blinking in confusion. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was a whisper, filled with hope. The tiny plankton's antennae twitched slightly, and his eye blinked open focusing with difficulty on the concerned faces hovering over him. The room was spinning, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that made him nauseous. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of jelly. "Take it easy," Karen soothed, gently pushing him back down. "You've had a rough time." Plankton's eye focused on Patrick, who was still standing by the bedside looking as though he'd just seen a ghost. "What's he doing here?" he croaked. "You fainted," Karen said gently. "Patrick was just trying to help." Plankton's eye darted around the room, trying to piece together the puzzle of what had happened. The last thing he remembered was reading, then Patrick yelling, then Patrick's overwhelming embrace... A chilling sensation washed over him, a sense of dƩjƠ vu so strong it was almost tangible. He looked at Patrick, who was hovering over him like a giant, concerned balloon, and suddenly it clicked. "I remember now," Plankton murmured, his voice still shaky. "You tried to... hug me." He cringed at the thought, his antennae curling inward. "Don't ever do that again.." Patrick looked down at his tentacles, which had instinctively reached out during Plankton's episode. He pulled back. "Sorry, buddy," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable." Karen's gaze softened. "It's okay, Patrick. You couldn't have known." She turned her attention back to Plankton searching his for any signs of further distress. "How are you feeling, Plankton?" He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "T-terrible," he rasped. "But I'll be fine." His voice was laced with the stubbornness that Patrick had come to expect from him. Plankton pushed himself into a sitting position, his antennae still trembling slightly. Karen's gaze remained on him. "You sure?" she asked, voice a gentle murmur. Plankton nodded, his antennae quivering slightly as he tried to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he had to grab the bedframe to steady himself. "Just... need a moment," he murmured, his voice shaking as much as his body. Patrick watched with a heavy heart as his friend struggled to regain his composure. He knew that Plankton was trying to put on a brave face, but the fear in his eye was unmistakable.
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