Chapter Seven
News Conglomerates Collapse – Residents told to rely on Social Media for Latest News
Cathy Freeman Kills Lion with One Throw of Boomerang!
Blues Point Tower Goes Down in Flames, Witnesses Cheer
Fire starters – the New Terrorist Attack!
Religious Leaders Converge on Ayres Rock and Disappear, Dingo Blamed
“Three more,” said Esther, without looking up. She lay on the couch with her binoculars pressed to the window. She wore over-sized army fatigues and Tom’s unlaced boots dangled off her feet. She had smeared shoe polish under her eyes and through the ponytails on either side of her head.
“That’s twelve since nine o’clock,” said Tom, pushing Tuesday gently by the shoulders into an armchair.
Tuesday tried not to look at the group of framed photographs on the side table of Tom and Swan laughing, holding each other, and making faces into the camera. She averted her eyes.
Tom walked into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. “Anything from the bug while I was out, Esther?”
“That’s Tonto to you, Birdman, and no, the cricket didn’t sing. Honestly, get with the program.” Esther turned to Tuesday, caught sight of her face, lost her balance, and fell off the couch. She popped her head up and peeked over at Tuesday.
“Uh oh. Your face looks like Tom’s did when my fish hook got caught in his nipple. Or the time I ran over his foot with the lawnmower. Or the time I accidentally taped over his Inside Sport – The Making of a Supermodel video when he was thirteen after Mum had confiscated the Big Tits and Clits magazine she found under his bed, which I swear I never looked at once over the eight weeks I knew it was there, not even with a torch under my doona under the cover of darkness while I ate a packet of marshmallows. On July the seventeenth. At eight pm.”
Tom closed his eyes and sighed.
A wry smile came to Tuesday’s face.
“Or the time…”
Tom cupped his hand over Esther’s mouth and hauled her to her feet. Esther licked his palm.
Tuesday laughed. “So what’s been going on?” She asked, taking her camera out of its bag.
“Oots eeoon uh oo?” Asked Esther. She prised Tom’s hand from her face and leapt away from him. “What’s been going on with you?” She shuffled over in Tom’s boots and fell over at Tuesday’s feet. “I bet that’s much more interesting.”
Tom bent over his bug and pretended to be absorbed in the static.
Tuesday knew she had to give them something. When it came down to it, they really didn’t know a lot about each other. Tom and Esther were fishing for details and fair enough. Tuesday could choose to confide or she could choose to remain a stranger. And at this stage of the game, she needed all the friends she could get.
She shrugged. “There’s this guy…”
Tom bent closer to the bug and tugged a switch up and down loudly.
“…he wants me to make a commitment.”
Tom banged the bug up and down on top of the table.
Esther put her chin into her palms. “But Tom told me you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
So he’d been talking about her. “Well, it’s complicated.”
Tom seemed to be getting a little upset. He slammed his headphones over his ears, toggled his switch, turned the volume dial back and forth vehemently, and finished off by battering the bug against the wall. Esther and Tuesday stared at him.
“Er, anyway, that’s all there is to it. The rest of it’s private. What about you, Tonto, do you have a boyfriend?”
Esther looked down at her hands. “Not really.”
Tom seemed to calm down at the change of subject and took his headphones off. “Jeremy Newtpickle.”
Esther blushed. “I do not!” She stood up with her hands on her hips. “I do not like him!”
“I think his neon braces are the real drawcard.”
“They’re not neon!” Yelled Esther. “They’re…” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “…just very, very bright.”
Tuesday smiled and took a photo of Esther as she stood against the light. “Does he like you?”
Esther shrugged.
Tom grinned. “I’m afraid there’s another girl on the scene.”
Tuesday took a snap of Tom in his chair. He was more relaxed and it was a nice photo. He was leaning with his hands behind his head and his feet up on the table. He glanced back at them slyly.
Esther rolled her eyes. “Huh! She’s a dog!”
“Hey, come on,” Tuesday advanced the old camera’s film, “that’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“No, I mean, she is a dog. He wants to be a vet.”
“Oh.”
Tom laughed. “The traumas of being ten.”
“There’s another one,” shrieked Esther, running to the window.
They followed her and peeked out at Anthea’s house.
A tall man wearing a huge face filter strode up Anthea’s terrace steps with a golf bag over his shoulder. There were no golf clubs inside but the bag was bulging. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt from the 1980’s and he looked about him carefully before knocking on Anthea’s door.
Tuesday quickly took some photos. Anthea opened her ranch slider doors and the man disappeared inside.
“He’s the thirteenth man to arrive since this morning and all of them have carried packages or bags. Whatever we’re onto, we’re onto something big.”
“Look!” Whispered Esther. “Look down the street!”
A few metres away a carriage hid in the shadows of a dead bamboo grove and out of it rolled a giant Jaffa. Tuesday searched for it through Esther’s binoculars and focused the lens. It wasn’t a Jaffa at all of course, it was Mr G. An angry Mr G. An angry Mr G with a machine gun over his shoulder. He waddled as fast as he could towards Anthea’s house.
“He can’t just walk down the street like that!” Gasped Tuesday.
“He’s gone mad!” Said Tom.
“The fat man’s singing! The canary’s keeled in the mineshaft! The shit has hit the fan!” Exclaimed Esther.
The bug behind them crackled into life. There were jumbled voices, muffled echoes and approaching footsteps followed by the sound of something loud clanging in the background.
“The secret wall!” Cried Esther.
The voices became more distinct and then were clear. So clear it felt as if they were in the same room with them. Tuesday looked nervously over her shoulder.
Outside the window Mr G ambled up the footpath. He wore a black suit, black tie, black shoes, and very black eyes. He loaded the machine gun under his armpit. Behind him, tip-toeing from house to house, trying to look inconspicuous and sticking out like tip-toeing Mafia darting from tree to tree, wearing ill-fitting suits and dark glasses and Uzis in Vaucluse, were Mr G’s sons; the short vampire-like Weasel who had given Tuesday her money, and an ogre.
“Mr G’s got back-up,” whispered Tuesday. They slipped away from the window and crowded around the bug. Tom turned the volume up.
“Ssssssssssssssh,” Anthea ordered. Her voice came from directly beneath the bug in the light bulb. Her footsteps walked slowly about the secret room. She sniffed.
“What ith it, Anthea?” Asked a heavy voice with a lisp.
“I swear I can smell - porridge. And…” she hesitated. “The smell of two people in love!”
There was a mumble of horrified voices.
“Who in this room is in love?” Screeched Anthea.
A number of men spoke at once. “I’m not! No, not me! Never! Wouldn’t think of it. In love? Wouldn’t dare! No, never!”
A brave voice piped up proudly from the back of the room. “I am.” He stepped forward closer to Anthea. “I am in love with Abdul!”
There was a collective gasp.
“It’s true.” Abdul admitted in a deep voice. “Kevin and I are in love.”
“In love?” Hissed Anthea. “And how exactly does this fit in with your roles as suicide bombers? People who are in love want to live not die.”
“Hmmm.” Kevin shuffled his toe along the floor. “I suppose it is a bit of a contradiction.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Abdul brightly.
“There’s only one thing for it,” Anthea stated matter-of-factly. There was the sound of a gun cocking. “Let go of each other’s hand and face the wall.”
“Hang about,” said Kevin, “isn’t there some way we can still be in love and help out with your terribly secret evil plan?”
“I know,” suggested Abdul helpfully, “we could just plant the bombs and tip-toe away.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“YOU CAN’T JUST TIP TOE AWAY!” Screamed Anthea. “YOU ALL NEED TO DIE!”
“Can’t we just get away with a limp?” Someone asked from the sidelines. “I’ve always wanted a limp. Distinguished looking.”
“Or a broken nothe?” Lisped the man beside her. “I wouldn’t mind a broken nothe. I’ve needed to get it fixthed for ageth.”
There was a clamour of excited voices. “Singed eyelashes! A missing pinkie! A little scar on the cheek! Girls go mad for facial scars!”
“SHUT UP!” Anthea roared. “You have to die so that you never, ever tell anyone about it!”
“Ooh, I promise!” Squealed Kevin.
“So do I,” said Abdul, “I promise ever so much. Really.”
The room rang with agreement. “So do I! So do I! I’ll never tell, ever! Your secret’s safe with me! Not a word! What evil bomb plot? Do you know an evil bomb plot to destroy the most expensive over-priced city in the world? No! No!” There were shouts all around. “No! Never heard of it! I have no idea why there are eight tons of fertilizer and three boxes of dynamite and lots of little red and blue wires and a great big secret map with all the bomb sites drawn on it in this secret room!”
“Neither do I! Neither do I!” Shouted everyone.
Anthea sighed. “That’s very kind of you. But I am sorry, you are going to have to die.”
There were murmurs of disappointment.
“Now, Kevin and Abdul, turn around you two. I can’t have two people who desperately want to move to Rushcutters Bay and own two cats and wear black turtlenecks on my evil team.”
“Wait a minute,” piped up a voice. “I’m in love too.”
There was a shocked silence.
“I’m in love with…Brian.”
“Wot?” Said Brian.
“You know,” hissed the voice, “we’re in lurrrve. Like, it’s a bummer, I know. But there you go, sorry about that. Cause you know, like, wouldn’t it be funny if we were all in love, cause then like, poor Anthea here wouldn’t be able to kill us because then like, they’d be no one to carry out her evil plan. You know, wow, I mean, like, wouldn’t that be a bummer.”
There was a bit of a confused silence.
“I love you,” said Brian.
“I love Mohammed!” Thundered a deep-chested man.
“I love Stanley!” Squealed another.
“So do I. So do I. I love Stanley too!”
“SHUT UP!” Spat Anthea. “WHERE HAVE ALL THE EVIL MEN GONE? You couldn’t move for evil men a few years ago! Now, what can you find? A few disgruntled postal workers at best! A determined writer of letters to the Editor! Well, I GIVE UP, GODAMMIT! NO ONE IS GOING TO DIE!”
A cheer rose from the room.
Across the road from Tom’s house, Mr G lumbered up Anthea’s front steps, the sweat streaming from his face, his armpits wet.
“SOMEONE IS GOING TO DIE!” He thundered.
“Uh oh.” Said Tuesday, Tom, and Esther.
Mr G’s two sons hid behind a tree and a bicycle and scoured the landscape for witnesses. A woman walking her poodle strolled past without even noticing them. The men tiptoed up the stairs backwards.
“LISTEN UP!” Shouted Anthea. “We only have two days left before we set off the bombs that will make Mr G’s ugly city burn in hell so that my evil lover can build solar-powered sustainable housing for all!”
Tuesday and Tom glanced at each other in surprise. Perhaps Anthea just looked evil and was not so evil after all. Perhaps she was acting on the best for mankind.
“And we can charge millions of dollars for cheap faulty wiring and crap plumbing and dangerous structural defects and become rich! Rich beyond our wildest dreams!”
The men stamped their feet wildly. “Whoo-hoo!” They yelled.
“Well, at least I will,” snarled Anthea. “You lot are supposed to be dead!”
There was a bit of disgruntled muttering.
“Excuse me,” Kevin piped up, “but what do we get out of it again?”
“Yes, yes!” Everyone clamoured. “What do we get out of it? What do we?”
“Um…” Anthea tapped her handgun. “Let me see…”
The men were becoming more and more dissatisfied. The room buzzed with discontent.
“Well, it was supposed to be a hundred virgins waiting enthusiastically for you in heaven,” she muttered, “but since you want to live…I know! Guaranteed jobs on our building sites! There! What do you think of that?”
“Is there flexitime?” Asked Brian. “And overtime? And sick time? And ‘I don’t want to come into work cause the Australian Open is on’ time? And family time? And hangover time? And ‘one more bonk before work’ time?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Anthea impatiently.
“I’m a florist.” Said Mohammed. “Will you need florists?”
“And potato farmers?” Asked Stanley.
“And like, full-time unemployed surfers?”
Anthea ground her teeth. “IS ANYONE FORGETTING THAT I AM HOLDING A GUN! HERE’S WHAT YOU GET IF YOU PLANT THE BOMBS!” She screamed. “YOU GET TO LIVE! OTHERWISE I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN MYSELF AND RIP OFF YOUR TESTICLES WITH MY TEETH!”
There was a shocked silence. “I’m happy with that,” said Kevin.
“When you put it that way! Sounds alright to me! Fair enough!” The men chorused.
“Then let’s get these chemicals mixed!” Barked Anthea. “Move it!”
There was the hurried sound of water coolers being thumped along the ground, liquids sloshing from side to side in containers, heavy bags being dragged back and forth, and a myriad of noises they couldn’t identify; clanks and grinds and clinks and clatters and all amongst that, the low level hum of voices squabbling, complaining, and chatting. There was a rhythm to their movements and a groundswell of song floated up to Tom’s bug.
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
it’s off to die we go,
with acetylene bombs,
strapped to our thongs,
Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho!”
“Wait a minute - we’re going to survive now.” Kevin pointed out. “We need new lyrics.”
There was a ponderous silence. The sort of silence men making bombs might have when thinking up something delicate and poetic.
“Does anyone have something that rhymes with singed pubic hairs?”
“What about this one?” Snarled Anthea from the corner. “If we don’t get back to making bombs, Anthea will tie our penises to the dynamite, stick the wicks up our assholes and toss us a match. La. La. La.”
“It doesn’t rhyme.”
“The beat’s all wrong.”
“It would be better with some alliteration and onomatopoeia.”
Anthea was very quiet but for some difficulty breathing and then came the most awful sound Tom and Esther and Tuesday had ever heard. They screamed. The men screamed. Even Anthea screamed.
It was the sound of Anthea’s fingernails scraping down the blackboard.
“And if you don’t finish making the bombs I’ll do it again!”
There was a flurry of activity and this time the men were painfully silent.
Outside Anthea’s ranch slider doors Mr G was having no luck breaking in. Broken credit cards lay in pieces at his feet and his face was red with exertion.
Clearly enraged, he held his machine gun up to the glass and opened fire. The glass flew inwards in huge plates and splinters showered onto the carpet.
To Tom and Tuesday and Esther the noise was tremendous. But the sound from the bug inside the thick-walled secret room was simply a series of dull thuds, not unlike Anthea drumming her fingers on a blackboard.
The men shrieked.
“It’s not me, you idiots. Everybody listen!”
Across the road Mr G and his cohorts stepped between the stalagmite fingers of glass hanging from the ranch slider tracks and disappeared into Anthea’s living room.
The bug was silent but for Anthea sniffing. “I can smell someone,” she growled, “there’s an intruder in the house!”
There was a collective gasp.
“Pack everything into the horse and cart!” Anthea ordered.
The trap door thumped open. From its depths rose the sound of an uneasy whinny and the clip-clop of nervous hooves. It seemed the men had formed a chain gang and were hurriedly loading down the line.
Esther ran to the window. “Look!”
Anthea’s garage door was rising and there was no sign of Mr G to be seen. Four horse hooves pranced on the concrete and two men were already rolling out from under the garage door and sprinting away.
“She’s going to burn down the city!” Tuesday cried. We can’t let her get away!”
“Let’s follow her on the scooter!” Yelled Esther.
Tom grabbed hold of both of them. “Wait a second! Let’s make sure it’s safe. There’s an old Chinese saying – don’t get in front of a man and his machine gun.”
“What are you doing?”
“Gosh, that was clear,” said Tuesday, looking down at the bug. “It sounded as if it were coming from right over our shoulders!”
“It is, you idiots,” sighed Swan.
Tom and Tuesday leapt away from each other and turned around.
“Swan!” Tom exclaimed.
“Aren’t you dressed yet?” Swan asked him, looking at her watch.
“Dressed?”
“For dinner. With my father?” Swan shook her head. “Come on. Chip-chop. Stop playing with Esther. Daddy hates people who are late. Especially if he’s about to give them money.” Swan opened up her compact and rubbed her shiny pink lips with gloss.
“This is Tuesday,” said Tom. “Perhaps you remember her from the party at Bondi Junction?”
“I don’t think so.” Replied Swan, staring at her reflection and pouting.
“She was the cane toad.”
Swan looked up. “Oh, yes. How brave of you. Shouldn’t you be hurrying along?”
Tom blushed. “Actually, Swan, Tuesday and I might have to dash. You see, it’s very important that we follow Anthea Yialousis’ horse cart. She‘s got lots of bombs you see and…”
“Tom! This is my father! It’s your future. This might be your only chance to –“ she tipped back her head and examined her nostrils, “become something.”
“I can’t Swan, not tonight. Don’t you understand? This is more important! We might be able to save the city!”
“The city! What about me! Besides nobody cancels on Daddy! Not if they want to succeed in life. Now for god’s sake, please do something with your hair!”
“Er, Tom…” Tuesday was looking out the window. “I think we have a problem.”
“You bet we have a problem!” Tom folded his arms at Swan. “I’m not going!”
“Um, Tom…we have more of a Tonto kind of problem.”
“Look, Tuuueesday,” sneered Swan. “It’s so nice that you’re helping baby sit Esther, that little horror,” Swan threaded her arm through Tuesday’s and dragged her towards the door. “And I can see that you have quite a quaint crush on Tom, which is frankly a little embarrassing for you, but Tom and I have important family matters to attend to, things that don’t concern you and probably never will – like how to make something of yourself in life.” She thrust Tuesday away from her. “So why don’t you just toddle off?”
Tom glared at Swan. “I’m so sorry, Tuesday,” he said tightly, “I apologise on Swan’s behalf for everything she’s just said.”
Swan rushed up to Tom and pouted. “Pooky! It’s the stress! This terrible family money business. It’s making me so nasty !” Swan hugged Tom and turned her head to Tuesday. She narrowed her eyes out of Tom’s vision. “I’m so sorry. That was unforgivable of me. Please do…”
“Tom!” Yelled Tuesday. She pointed out the window. “Tonto!”
Tom pushed Swan away and turned his head just in time to catch Esther hanging desperately onto the axletree of Anthea’s horse cart, her legs wrapped around the crossbar, her boot laces perilously close to the revolving wheels, her walkie talkie clutched in her hand.
“Esther!”
Above her the cart’s tarpaulin was tied over the bombs and a number of hairy hands poked out between the ropes and grasped the sides. Lucifer galloped down the street towards the city, the cart bouncing up and down with its lethal cargo.
“Faster, Lucifer!” Anthea screamed, whipping the flank of the stallion furiously.
Mr G lumbered back between the stalactite ranch slider daggers like an enraged elephant and bellowed. He fired a volley of shots at Anthea’s cart but the bullets fell just short, hitting the road in a hail of dust like stones skipping across the water. Mr G’s two thuggish sons skidded over the broken glass and tumbled down the stairs in hot pursuit.
Tom snatched for his scooter keys but the side table was empty.
“Looking for these?” Swan dangled the keys from her fingertips.
Tom grabbed for them but Swan swung them out of his reach. “I’m not letting you waste the opportunity of your lifetime.”
“You mean your lifetime. And in case you’ve forgotten, that’s my little sister out there, alone, afraid, and in deep shit. And she will always be much more important than your petty concerns about my success.” Tom lunged for the keys but Swan ducked away from him and ran for the garbage disposal.
She dangled the keys above the sink. “I mean it, Tom!” She cried breathlessly. “You’re not leaving! This is just another one of Esther’s tricks to grab your attention! She’s been out to destroy us right from the start!”
“Destroy us! You’re doing a fine job of that all by yourself!”
“You’re staying here!” Swan screamed. “You’re going to be an architect! And you’re going to have a pleasant dinner with my father and accept his money so that we can have a decent future!” Swan tossed the keys into the garbage disposal and her finger hovered above the On button. Her mouth was set in a thin, hard line. She looked up at Tom triumphantly. “It’s for the best, sweetheart.”
Swan pressed the button and there was an ear-splitting sound of twisting metal, screeching garbage blades, and toots. A foul blue smoke rose from the plug hole. When the cycle shuddered to a squealing halt, the toots continued followed by the unmistakable rev of a scooter engine.
Tom glanced out the window and there on the parched dead grass Tuesday rode his scooter in wild circles with her hand on the horn. The front panel had been ripped off and wires dangled from the ignition.
“Whooaa! How do you steer this thing? Tommmmmmmm!”
Tom ran out of the front door with Swan at his heels.
“You can’t do this, Tom! Daddy’s expecting you! We’ll never get anywhere without his money!”
Tom leapt onto the scooter behind Tuesday and grabbed the steering with his hands. “We don’t need him, Swan. We’re happy as we are.”
Tuesday accelerated and they squealed away. Swan scrunched up her face and called out with her hands on her hips. “Well, guess what?” Her voice faded away. “I’m not happy, Tom!”
“How did you learn to do this?” Tom shouted to Tuesday as they hooned down the melting tarmac.
“What, are you kidding? Hot wiring is an ancient tradition. My grandmother taught me and her grandmother before that. Only for dire situations, you understand - like this one.” Tuesday bit her lip. “And maybe once or twice a week in the good old days when my neighbour took the train to work and left her Smart Car below my bedroom window – an open invitation really.”
Tom shook his head and laughed. “You’re outrageous.”
They bent their heads into the smoke and turned a blind corner. All the corners were blind. The street was blind. Any minute now they could rear end a camel.
Tom was eventually forced to brake and they rode more slowly through the smash.
“This is the worst it’s ever been!” Tuesday tightened her chador around her nose and mouth. They had left their face masks at Tom’s in their haste to leave. “There must be a fire close by. Do you think we can catch up to Anthea?”
Tom pulled his t-shirt over his mouth and leant his chin on her shoulder. “Have you got your walkie talkie?”
“In the bag.”
Tom removed it and held it up to his mouth. “Tonto, little buddy. Has the mouse held onto the cheese?”
There was no reply. “Come on, Esther! It’s Birdman. Is Lucy in the sky with the diamonds?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Came the muddled reply. “They’re on their way to…” Her voice broke off.
“Esther?”
“…tree…turn…bend…can’t miss it,” Esther’s voice bounced. “…men…lover…ooph…do you think?”
“What? I can’t make out what you’re saying!”
“Whatever you do,“ Esther shouted, “don’t –” The walkie talkie died completely.
Tom shook the unit. “Fuck, the smoke’s killed it! This is hopeless, we’ll never find them in this!”
As they sped up New South Head Road towards Edgecliff Station the smash darkened into a fiery red. It swirled around them and pulled at their clothes. Pockets of people ran past them in the gloom, their yells incomprehensible, their shoes slapping along the tar, the only part of them visible being their fluoro-gel face masks. Stationary camels moaned. Their swishing tails were covered in dead bush flies and exploding Christmas lights. A kookaburra fell from the sky with a thump in front of their wheels. The smell of smoke was overwhelming and the closer they rode to Woollahra, the more intense the heat.
“Where’s this coming from?” Tuesday shouted. Finding the source of the fire was impossible. The wind seemed to pivot like a ballerina in all directions. Embers shot into each other then fell back again like an ebbing tide.
“Hang on!” Tom veered the handlebars away from the chaotic main road and zoomed onto the unused footpath, zipping past the long shattered street lights.
“Look out!” Tuesday put her hands over her eyes. A black horse, its eyes crazed with fear, galloped towards them out of the smoke. The rider caught sight of Tuesday and Tom at the last minute and leant forward. The horse leapt over their heads in an enormous bound and cantered towards Centennial Park without breaking its pace.
Tuesday breathed a sigh of relief and dropped her hands from her face. “That was close.” But her words caught in her throat. Looming out of the wisps of smoke directly in front of them was an overweight donkey. A donkey sauntering contently along at a snail’s pace as if nothing in the world could worry it.
In the few seconds of thinking time left to him, Tom had the choice of crashing into a power pole or into the donkey’s jaunting belly. He chose the pole. Tuesday and Tom leapt off the scooter together into the impenetrable smash and bounced over and over the road with their arms cradled over their heads. The scooter collided with the post, wrapped around it like butter on a spoon and shattered into pieces.
Tuesday and Tom rolled to a stop in front of the donkey’s feet. The donkey paused, one hoof off the ground, and blinked at them distastefully.
Tuesday moved, dazed, and held her grazed hands up to her eyes. Superficial scratches. She’d be okay. She sat up. A tiny gravel pebble was embedded in her pinkie and hurt like the time she’d stapled her thumb just to see how the doctor was going to get it out.
Across the way, Tom nursed a scraped knee. It was raw and drips of blood crawled like ants down his shin. A flap of jagged denim fluttered from his jeans like a lid peeled from a tin can. “Shit, I’m sorry, Tuesday.” He crawled unsteadily over to her and examined her shaking hands. “They’ll be okay. Saliva’s the best thing for them.”
“It is?”
?