Chapter 12: In the Heat of the Moment

Emily’s chest heaved as she leaned against the door, every nerve electrified from her wild flight through Bikini Week. The world seemed to spin around her, the surreal excess of the manor’s decor—a fountain gushing what looked like piña colada, walls adorned with framed speedos—tilting with the rhythm of her racing heart.

And then, she looked down at her outfit one last time before Blaine responded. It was so strange but of course in this mixed up crazy world it made sense why she was wearing it. It had all started when

Dodododolo

Doooodlooooo

Doloollodododooododood!

Emily’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she bolted down the rain-slicked streets of the surreal town, the grope coat still clinging to her like a second skin. The jacket’s invasive mechanisms pulsed and kneaded her body relentlessly, leaving her torn between frustration and a shameful, unwelcome heat that refused to be ignored. Every attempt to tear it off had been met with resistance—either by the coat’s unnervingly strong seams or by the way her own body seemed to betray her with momentary hesitation.

“Come on, come on!” she growled, her fingers clawing at the fabric as she ran. Finally, as she stumbled into a deserted alley, the coat’s mechanisms slowed, the pulses fading as if the thing had sensed it was being abandoned. Emily seized the opportunity, shrugging out of the wretched garment and tossing it onto the ground with a cry of triumph.

And then she froze.

The rain, still warm and strangely comforting, trickled over her now-naked body, highlighting every curve. Her nipples tightened against the cool droplets, and her skin flushed with the realization that she was completely exposed. She crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks burning as she glanced around for cover, but the streets were empty.

“I just need to find something—anything,” she muttered to herself, stepping carefully out of the alley and back onto the neon-lit main drag.

The music of the town’s ever-present saxophone faded, replaced by a low, rhythmic drumbeat in the distance. Drawn by the sound, Emily followed it, her bare feet splashing through puddles as she wound her way toward its source. The beat grew louder, more insistent, until she stumbled into an open clearing that looked like something out of a fever dream.

A massive bonfire roared in the center, casting flickering shadows across a crowd of people dressed in what could only be described as a some tired prop department assistant’s idea of tribal attire; Grass skirts, gaudy feathered headdresses, and painted patterns adorned their bodies, the bright colors made more garish by the firelight. Their skin was uniformly pale, their faces shining with sweat and enthusiasm, and they swayed in time with the drumbeat like participants in some absurd luau-meets-cult gathering.

Before Emily could back away, one of them spotted her.

“Behold!” cried a woman wearing a necklace of oversized shells, her painted face lighting up with a kind of manic glee. “She has returned!”

The crowd turned as one, their eyes locking onto Emily. She froze, caught like a deer in headlights as the crowd surged forward, their chants growing louder.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous! Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

Emily’s heart pounded. “Wait, what? No, no, I’m not—”

“Silence!” A man wearing an elaborate feathered headdress stepped forward, his hands raised as if to calm the crowd. “You cannot deny your divine form, oh Vol-ump-tu-ous. Your return was foretold in the sacred coconuts!”

Emily blinked, her mind racing as the crowd closed in around her. Their eyes were fixated not on her face, but on her chest, which she belatedly realized was larger than any of theirs. The intensity of their gazes sent a strange thrill through her, and she shook her head as if to clear it.

“I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” she tried, but her voice was swallowed by the crowd’s fervent cries.

The man in the headdress gestured to two women, who stepped forward holding an elaborate garment—a gleaming coconut bra. The women approached her reverently, their painted hands trembling as they reached out.

“Wait!” Emily protested, but her words were ignored as the women began their work. Their hands brushed against her skin as they adjusted the straps, their fingers lingering just a moment too long. Emily shivered at their touch, her cheeks burning hotter as the bra was fastened securely around her chest.

The crowd let out a collective sigh, their chants taking on a breathy, almost lustful tone.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous ... Vol-ump-tu-ous...”

The headdressed man stepped forward, holding a carved wooden chalice filled with a glowing, amber liquid. “Drink, O Goddess,” he intoned, his voice heavy with reverence. “Accept this gift, and bless us with your bounty.”

Emily eyed the chalice warily. “What is it?”

“It is the Nectar of Abundance,” the man replied, bowing his head. “It will awaken your divine essence.”

Emily’s pulse quickened. She knew better than to trust this bizarre cult of faux-islanders, but the crowd’s expectant gazes pressed down on her like a physical weight. She glanced at the liquid, its golden glow almost hypnotic.

In the end she didn’t have a choice as hands roughly began to spill the liquid down her throat. The crowd fell silent, their collective breath held as Emily gulped down the nectar to avoid choking. The liquid was sweet and warm, sliding down her throat like honeyed fire. A strange heat blossomed in her chest, spreading outward in slow, pulsing waves.

The effect was immediate.

Her breasts, already full and prominent, began to feel heavier, warmer. She gasped, her hands flying to her chest as the sensation intensified, her nipples tingling beneath the coconuts. The crowd erupted in cheers, their chants reaching a fever pitch.

“Vol-ump-tu-ous! Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

Emily stumbled, her knees buckling as the heat in her chest became almost unbearable. She looked down, her breath hitching as she realized her breasts were swelling, the coconuts struggling to contain her expanding curves. Her nipples throbbed, a strange pressure building behind them that left her dizzy and weak.

“What ... what’s happening to me?” she gasped.

The headdressed man smiled, his painted face glowing with triumph. “The Nectar awakens your gift, oh Goddess. Soon, you shall bestow upon us the sacred milk of Vol-ump-tu-ous!”

“What?!” Emily’s voice was high-pitched with panic, but the crowd’s cheers drowned her out. Hands reached for her, stroking her arms, her legs, her now-swollen chest as the pressure within her grew unbearable.

Emily’s mind raced. She needed to get out of here—now. Luckily the crowd’s fervent adoration was intoxicating, a heady mix of fear, pleasure, and power that made them hesitate.

And that hesitation was all she needed.

Emily’s bolted forward and managed to push through the chaos of the ceremony, her body slick with sweat, milk, and the faint sheen of oil from the earlier anointing. The chants and drumbeats of the “tribe” echoed behind her, growing louder with each desperate step. Her bare feet slapped against the polished stone as she darted toward the massive ceremonial vat at the heart of the ritual.

The vat loomed ahead, a gleaming monument to their milk-worshiping madness, filled to the brim with frothy white liquid. Emily’s chest heaved, her own absurdly adorned figure barely contained by the too-tight coconut bra they’d strapped onto her. She could feel every movement of her body in the ridiculous outfit, every jiggling motion magnified by the sheen of milk still dripping from her skin.

She didn’t have time to think. Gripping the edge of the vat, she threw her weight against it with a feral growl, tipping the massive container just as a roar of protest erupted behind her. Milk surged over the edge in a tidal wave, cascading onto the smooth floor in a slippery deluge.

Emily was swept along with it, her legs giving way as the force of the milk carried her down a shallow incline carved into the temple floor. The world blurred around her, milk spraying into the air as she slid on her back, her hands flailing for purchase but finding none.

The rush of liquid propelled her through an open archway and out into the open air. She crashed to a halt in a sprawling, bustling farmer’s beach market, the chatter of vendors and the scent of fresh produce an abrupt contrast to the humid intensity of the ritual site.

She lay there for a moment, drenched and trembling, milk pooling around her. Her chest rose and fell in sharp gasps, her coconut bra half-dislodged and barely clinging to her body. As she pushed herself up onto shaky elbows, she became acutely aware of dozens of pairs of eyes locking onto her.

The farmer’s market shimmered under the warm glow of a golden sunset, strings of lights crisscrossing above bustling booths and colorful tents. Everywhere Emily looked, cheerful people milled about, clutching oversized produce and sampling freshly baked pies. The air was rich with the scent of roasted corn, sweet strawberries, and churned cream.

It would have been idyllic if not for the fact that Emily was soaked to the bone with milk, her ripped coconut bra clinging to her heaving chest, and every single person in sight was now cheering as if she were a rockstar.

“She’s here! She’s finally here!” shouted a man with suspenders and a cartoonishly large straw hat, his voice booming through a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Dairy Queen herself, right in the nick of time!”

Emily’s lips parted in disbelief as two women in gingham dresses—matching down to their lace-up boots—descended on her like doting hens.

“Oh, bless her heart, she’s been working so hard!”

“Look at her! A true vision of bounty!”

Before Emily could muster a protest, the women grabbed her by the arms, guiding her up a set of wooden steps toward a grandstand that loomed above the crowd. The platform was adorned with garlands of daisies and sunflowers, crates of milk bottles, and a rustic throne draped with cream-colored velvet.

“Wait, I think there’s been a mistake!” Emily tried to explain, but the words were swallowed by the thunderous applause.

Someone thrust a glittering sash over her shoulders, the bold words “#1 Milkers” emblazoned across it in shimmering gold letters. The sash was gaudy, oversized, and utterly impossible to ignore as it settled against her milk-drenched chest.

Before Emily could process the ridiculousness of the situation, a microphone was shoved in her face. “Tell us, Dairy Queen, how does it feel to be so giving?”

“I—what—” Emily stammered, her face flushed as the crowd leaned in eagerly, hanging on her every syllable.

“Words can wait!” cried one of the gingham ladies, brandishing a silver contraption that gleamed ominously in the sunset. It was an elaborate hand pump, its polished cups attached to delicate, translucent tubes.

The crowd erupted into cheers and wolf whistles as the device was unveiled. Emily’s heart pounded as she eyed the contraption, her legs wobbling in protest.

“No, no, no,” she tried again, raising her hands in defense. “This is a mistake! I’m not—”

But her words were drowned out by the enthusiastic din. Hands guided her gently yet insistently toward the velvet throne, where she was seated with alarming efficiency. The chair’s plush cushions cradled her body, and as the gingham-clad women fussed over her, Emily realized with growing horror that escape was utterly out of reach.

“Now hold still, dear,” one of the women cooed, adjusting her sash. “This part requires a delicate touch.”

Emily flinched as the cool, rounded cups of the pump were pressed against her breasts. The slick suction settled into place, and her body stiffened as the first gentle pulse began.

A shuddering gasp escaped her lips.

The rhythmic tugging was warm and oddly soothing, each pulse sending jolts of sensation that made her toes curl against the platform’s wooden slats. Her protests dissolved into incoherent murmurs as the suction coaxed her body into responding, her nipples growing hypersensitive under the steady attention.

“Oh!” she whimpered softly, her back arching involuntarily.

The crowd’s cheers turned deafening.

“She’s perfect!”

“Such a natural!”

“Look at her go!”

Emily’s cheeks burned as she gripped the arms of the throne, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the rising tide of pleasure coursing through her. She wanted to be mortified, to fight the absurdity of the situation, but the constant wave of praise crashed over her like a drug.

“She’s so generous!”

“Now we can make all the ice cream the beach needs!”

Her chest heaved as the pump’s rhythmic pulls became more insistent, coaxing creamy white liquid into the tubes. The sight of the milk flowing was surreal, hypnotic, and maddeningly satisfying in a way Emily couldn’t quite process.

“You’re giving so much,” one of the gingham ladies whispered, her voice reverent as she adjusted the pump. “You’re a sight to see!”

Emily’s head lolled back, her breaths shallow and uneven. A faint moan slipped past her lips, her body betraying her completely as the pleasure of the suction mingled with the crowd’s endless adoration.

As Emily reclined in the chair, the rhythmic pull of the pump and the raucous cheers of the crowd washing over her like a warm tide, her mind wandered—back to the real world, the life she had tried so hard to hold on to.

There had been no cheers there. No applause. No signs proclaiming her the best at anything.

She remembered high school vividly—sitting in the back of the class during awards ceremonies, clapping politely as the same golden kids were called up to the stage for honor rolls, track meets, scholarships. No one ever called her name. Not for straight A’s, not for Most Improved, not even for Perfect Attendance.

College hadn’t been much different. She was smart—smarter than most, if she was being honest—but that only seemed to make people resent her. Group projects had been nightmares of thankless labor, Emily doing all the work while everyone else slacked off. The presentations would go off without a hitch, and her group would bask in the professor’s praise. But Emily? She never got the credit.

Her family, too, had been distant. Not cruel, just ... indifferent. Her achievements were brushed off with the same dispassionate acknowledgment as a weather report. “Oh, good for you.” “That’s nice.” Her parents were proud of her, sure—but in the abstract, vague way they might’ve been proud of a successful stranger.

Even her relationships—what few she’d had—had felt one-sided. She was the giver, the caretaker, the one always bending over backward to make the other person happy. And when she’d needed reassurance? Praise? It hadn’t come. “Why do you need me to tell you that you’re enough?” her last boyfriend had asked, his tone half-exasperated, half-condescending. “You should already know that.”

But she didn’t know. Not then. Not now.

The real world had been full of hollow smiles and muted approval. She’d spent her whole life chasing validation, working harder, striving for perfection, hoping that one day someone would notice, that someone would say, “Emily, you’re incredible. You’re special. You’re enough.”

It never came.

And now, here she was—drenched in milk, her skin gleaming under the lights, with a crowd of strangers shouting her praises like she was a queen.

“You’re perfect!”

“You’re amazing!”

Her heart ached with the sweetness of it, the unfamiliar thrill of being admired, of being celebrated. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, her lips parting in a soft gasp as the suction intensified slightly, drawing another wave of heat through her trembling body.

For once, they saw her. All of her.

And they adored her.

She could hear them chanting now, their voices blending into a euphoric haze.

“Dairy Queen!”

“Dairy Queen!”

The words wrapped around her like a warm embrace, drowning out her shame and replacing it with a heady sense of purpose. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t just enough—she was everything.

“You’re amazing,” someone whispered.

“Keep giving,” another voice added.

Emily’s lips parted, a soft, involuntary cry escaping as her body surrendered entirely to the sensation. Her chest swelled with pride and heat as the milk flowed steadily into the tubes, her mind swimming with the overwhelming mix of arousal and praise.

“Dairy Queen,” she murmured under her breath, her voice trembling with a strange, disbelieving awe.

And the crowd roared.

It was nice. Too nice.

For even as the warmth of their admiration wrapped around her, a chilling thought pierced through the haze. This can’t be real. It’s too much, too perfect. There’s always a catch. Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into the armrests of the throne as panic clawed at the edges of her mind. She glanced at the grinning faces surrounding her, their cheers echoing like a siren song. What if they’re not celebrating me? What if this is just another way to take and take until there’s nothing left of me? Her pulse quickened, the pleasure mingling with dread, and before she could second-guess herself, she tore the suction cups from her chest, milk splattering the platform. The crowd gasped, their shock a knife in her chest, but she bolted anyway—barefoot, sash fluttering, milk dripping in her wake—fleeing their applause before it could turn into something darker.

The milk crowd chased after her and was quickly joined by the “tribal people” who had finally caught up with her.

Emily’s heart pounded as she darted through the farmer’s market, her body still damp from the spilled milk fiasco, her mind swirling with the intoxicating praise she’d just escaped. The sash that proclaimed her the “#1 Milkers” hung loosely around her shoulders, catching in the wind as she fled. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath quickened—not just from running but from the memory of hands applauding, voices cheering, and the overwhelming warmth of being celebrated so openly.

She needed to get away. To shake off the praise that clung to her like the remnants of the milk still drying on her skin. The alley she darted into was dimly lit, its uneven cobblestones slick beneath her bare feet. The distant hum of voices and laughter grew louder the farther she ran. Her ears perked up at the sound of raucous music and a chorus of feminine giggles spilling out from a nearby venue.

Turning a corner, she skidded to a halt. The neon sign above the building blazed in pink and gold: “Bachelorette Bash HQ!”

Before she could react, the doors burst open, and a group of rowdy women tumbled out, their voices raised in drunken jubilation. The leader of the pack—a towering blonde in a rhinestone tiara and a sash that read “Bride-to-Be”—staggered forward, her glassy eyes landing squarely on Emily.

“There she is!” the bride slurred, pointing a bedazzled wand at Emily. “Our Maid of Honor finally showed up!”

“What?” Emily stammered, taking a step back. “I think you’ve got the wrong person—”

“Nope!” a second woman interrupted—a petite redhead with glitter smeared across her cheeks. “The Maid of Honor is Asian. You’re Asian. Boom. Logic checks out!”

Before Emily could protest further, a sea of hands dragged her inside, the noise and chaos swallowing her whole.

The party was in full swing. Streamers, balloons shaped like oversized anatomy, and a pole in the center of the room all screamed one thing: no inhibitions allowed. Emily found herself surrounded by women in fishnet bodysuits and stilettos, their outfits unapologetically risqué.

“You can’t be the Maid of Honor and not match us!” one of the women declared, holding up a fishnet bodysuit with a devilish grin.

“I really don’t think—” Emily tried, but they were already pulling at her sash, her makeshift milk-soaked top, and her coconut bra.

“Relax, girl!” the bride cooed, handing her a shot glass filled with something neon blue. “You’re one of us now. Bottoms up!”

The alcohol burned down her throat as laughter and cheers erupted around her. The group worked with alarming efficiency, pulling the fishnet over her shoulders and down her body. The mesh clung to her damp skin, outlining every curve with scandalous precision.

“Oh my god,” one of the bridesmaids squealed, running a hand down Emily’s side. “Look at this body! Our Maid of Honor is killing it!”

Emily squirmed under the attention, her protests swallowed by the music pumping through the room. The fishnet wasn’t even intact—ripped strategically across her thighs, her stomach, and the curve of her lower back, it left more skin exposed than covered.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the group decided she wasn’t “festive” enough. They added glitter to her chest, strategically brushing it over her skin in a way that felt both playful and far too intimate. Someone stuck a sash over her shoulder that read “Bad Decisions Captain.”

“This isn’t me,” Emily whispered to herself, but her voice was drowned out by the crowd’s chants of “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

She wanted to escape, but her legs felt like jelly—not just from the shots they’d poured down her throat, but from the rush of attention. The praise. The way they looked at her like she was the center of their world, the life of the party.

“You’re so hot!” a bridesmaid gushed, running her hands over Emily’s shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a rack like this?” another added, squeezing her chest through the fishnet with drunken enthusiasm.

Emily gasped, her cheeks burning. The laughter, the touches, the cheers—it was all too much. Too overwhelming. Too ... good.

But then, the bride grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the pole in the center of the room. “Alright, Maid of Honor! Show us what you’ve got!”

“No, wait, I can’t—” Emily began, but she was already being spun toward the spotlight.

Her bare feet slid across the polished floor, the fishnet catching the light as the women circled around her, chanting her name. The bride handed her a glittery pink whip, laughing maniacally as the crowd egged her on.

Emily raised her hands, trying to signal that she wasn’t playing along, but the sash on her shoulder slipped down, catching on the rip in her outfit and pulling the mesh even tighter across her chest. The room erupted into cheers.

She froze, the weight of the moment crashing down on her. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be here. And yet, a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered: You love it.

The praise. The adoration. The sheer ridiculous fun of it all.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted the sash, her mind a swirling storm of emotions. The fishnet felt like a second skin now, the glitter catching every curve, every dip. She was the center of attention, the focus of their energy, their laughter, their praise.

But they weren’t praising Emily ... Not really. They were praising Bunny.

Before the bride could shove her onto the pole, Emily twisted out of her grasp, bolting toward the nearest door.

“Where’s she going?” someone shouted.

“I think she’s going to get more drinks!” the redhead declared, and the room exploded in drunken cheers. “Let’s go after her so she doesn’t drink them all herself!”

The bachelorettes quickly gave chase and were soon joined by the milkers and the tribe. All chasing after her. All wanting her.

Emily didn’t look back. Her bare feet slapped against the cool tile as she burst out into the night, her breath coming in gasps. The fishnet clung to her, the glitter on her chest glowing faintly under the streetlights, her coconut bra clacking, and her “#1 Milkers” sash rustling.

She had to get away. Had to find somewhere, anywhere, that didn’t make her the center of everything.

But as she ran, the memory of their voices lingered in her mind, a seductive echo she couldn’t quite shake.

“You’re amazing.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Why didn’t we know you were this fun?”

The sound of revelry drew her forward, neon lights cutting through the night like beacons. She stumbled into a carnival, a sprawling beachfront spectacle that stretched along the sand, its energy crackling with a wild, unrestrained vibe.

The carnival was a riot of sound and color, everything turned up to eleven in its crude, lewd glory. Strings of neon lights hung haphazardly between oversized booths, casting the entire area in an electric glow. Signs screamed garish slogans:

* “WET T-SHIRT WATER SLIDE: All Thrills, No Spills!”

* “RIDE THE MECHANICAL BULL—Gals Ride Free!”

* “DUNK TANK: Get her nice and wet!”

The smell of deep-fried everything mixed with an undercurrent of coconut oil and alcohol, the air thick with the sounds of laughter, catcalls, and the occasional smattering of applause from gawking crowds.

The games were equally risqué:

* A ring toss where the stakes involved oversized inflatable boobs bobbing in a shallow pool.

* A photo booth promising “Your Wildest Polaroid—Clothing Optional!”

* A “Body Shot Bar” where patrons reclined on padded counters while strangers slurped tequila from their navels.

Performers roamed the sand, juggling flaming batons or sashaying in tiny sequined outfits. Every booth attendant, from the bartenders to the game operators, looked like they’d stepped out of a pin-up calendar, their uniforms either skintight or strategically missing pieces.

Emily darted through the carnival, hoping to find something—anything—that could help her cover up. Her fishnet bodysuit was doing her no favors; the mesh only seemed to draw more attention to her exposed hips and thighs. She pressed her arms down, trying to shield herself, but her colossal coconut covered breasts pressed enticingly against the netting, making her every attempt at modesty futile.

She stumbled into a booth marked “Body Art Fantasies: Be the Canvas!” before she realized what it was.

A trio of artists immediately lit up at her arrival. They were all young, tan, and dressed in paint-splattered smocks that barely covered their toned bodies.

“Oh, honey, you’re perfect!” one of them exclaimed, his gaze sweeping over her appreciatively.

Before Emily could protest, they surrounded her, pulling her toward a raised stool in the center of the booth. “We’ve been waiting for a model like you all night,” another chimed in, already mixing colors on his palette.

“Wait, I—” Emily began, but her words were cut off as gentle hands guided her onto the stool.

“Trust us, darling,” the first artist cooed, his voice smooth as silk. “You’re going to be worthy of being next to a masterpiece.”

Emily’s heart raced as they set to work. The first swipe of the brush sent a shiver down her spine, the bristles gliding over her bare shoulder in a way that felt far too intimate. Another artist crouched by her legs, his hand steadying her thigh as he painted intricate swirls that climbed toward her hip.

“This is ... a lot,” Emily murmured, her voice trembling.

“Shh,” one of them said soothingly, his breath warm against her ear. “Let us work our magic.”

The paint was cool at first, but as it dried, it seemed to meld with her skin, creating a tingling sensation that made her hyper-aware of every stroke, every lingering touch. They painted her torso in bold, curving patterns that seemed to accentuate her curves rather than cover them, their hands brushing her sides and stomach under the guise of perfecting the design.

When they reached her chest, Emily gasped as one of the artists cupped her breast lightly to steady his work. “Don’t move,” he said, his tone almost hypnotic. “This part requires precision.”

Her nipples stiffened under the cool paint and the subtle, possessive pressure of his hand. She bit her lip, fighting back a moan as another artist worked on her lower back, his fingers grazing the base of her spine.

“You’re a work of art,” one of them whispered, his eyes filled with admiration as he stepped back to admire their progress.

A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the spectacle. They clapped and cheered as the artists revealed their work.

“Gorgeous!”

“Stunning!”

“She’s perfect!”

Emily felt her cheeks flush, her body warming under the weight of their praise. The intoxicating sense of being seen, admired, and adored threatened to drown her again. She clenched her fists, trying to focus, but the feeling was too strong.

“You’re stealing the show, sweetheart,” one of the artists said, his hand brushing her cheek as he adjusted a strand of her hair.

“I-I need to go,” Emily stammered, sliding off the stool.

“Not yet!” the crowd protested.

One of the artists reached for her arm, his grip firm but gentle. “Stay a little longer, love. Let them admire you.”

But Emily couldn’t. The overwhelming attention, the sensual touches, the way the paint seemed to ignite her nerves—it was too much. She jerked free, her painted skin gleaming under the carnival lights as she bolted toward the exit.