Chapter 14

I returned to an empty apartment. The living room was cluttered with record albums—Trip was probably making a mix tape—but that was the only sign of him. Luke and Jeff’s bedroom was quiet and empty, which was also strange. I wondered where they could be at ten o’clock the night before registration, but then I found a note on my bed.

Hey, welcome back. Hope you had a good break. Luke’s birthday was yesterday, so we’re going to get him drunk. Ha ha, like that will be hard. Come down to the Strip when you get in. We’ll be at OCI’s. Signed, Trip.

I thought about blowing them off—I wasn’t really in the mood to go drinking—but then I thought about Wren. If I wanted to let her know I was serious about a relationship, what better way than a date?

So I changed into a fresh shirt, checked myself in the mirror, and headed downstairs. As I waited for her to answer my knock, I rehearsed what I wanted to say. I had to strike the right balance between cool and funny, without being goofy. Or geeky. Or eager. Or nervous. Or—

The door swung open.

“Oh ... hi, Paul,” Zoë said. “I thought you were with Trip and the others.”

“Nope. I just got back. Is Wren here?”

“Uh-uh. She’s with Trip. But...” Her brows knitted in confusion. “Hold on ... you know about them, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “he left me a note.”

“A note?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You mean he didn’t tell you in person?”

“I guess he had to leave before I got home,” I said, a bit confused myself. “Anyway, I know where they are. So I guess I’ll head down to the Strip.”

She said goodbye and closed the door. I tried to laugh off the weird conversation, but it had been like we were talking about two different things.

I never found Trip and the others. I checked the Old College Inn, but they weren’t there. Then I hit three other bars and the video arcade, without any luck. I thought they might have headed home already, but the apartment was dark and empty when I returned after midnight.

I tried to wait up, but I’d had a long day, so I finally went to bed. I heard them come home later, drunk and laughing, but I was too sleepy to even open my eyes, much less say anything.

When I woke in the morning, Trip lay sprawled on his bed. He was still fully dressed, and his clothes stank of cigarette smoke. He even had a hickey!

Oh, he’ll never hear the end of that, I chuckled to myself. Making out with some random girl in a bar ... ha!

I thought about waking him, but he looked dead to the world, so I did my morning workout in relative silence. It felt good to get back into a routine, and I used the time to think about what I wanted to say to Wren at breakfast. Afterward I showered and shaved, and put on my favorite sweater.

Downstairs, I knocked at Wren’s apartment door, but no one answered. I figured they’d left early (or were all hung over), so I walked to the dining hall by myself. I got in line and filled my tray absentmindedly, my thoughts already on Wren.

My heart sank when I glanced into the dining room—Christy was the only person at our usual table. She was staring out the window, her chin on her fist. Something about her seemed different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

And then someone slammed into me from behind. I stumbled into someone else, and my tray tipped up, spilling dry cereal and very wet orange juice down my front. The milk carton hit the floor with a wet plop and immediately started leaking.

“Hey!” the guy behind me protested. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.” He was a frat rat, and he sounded utterly insincere. He gave me a once-over and decided I wasn’t a Greek. With a smirk he said, “You’d better get that cleaned up.”

I had a sudden vision of Rod Fortner, and I wanted to punch the guy. Hard. Repeatedly. In the face. But I kept my cool, and wiped orange juice from my sweater. The guy’s friends kept laughing and horsing around, and I had a fantasy of beating them senseless too.

One of the cafeteria workers handed me a wad of napkins and then swirled a mop through the mess on the floor. By the time I cleaned the worst of it off my sweater, the frat rat and his friends had disappeared. I got a new tray of food and joined Christy.

Despite the noise and commotion less than thirty feet away, she looked like she hadn’t even noticed me. “Oh, hi,” she said.

“Morning.” I paused. “Are you okay?”

“What?” She smiled, but she still looked distracted. “I’m fine, thanks. How’re you?”

“Sticky.”

“Oh? Why?”

“You honestly don’t know?”

She shook her head.

“Some asshole was goofing around in line, and I’ll give you one guess who he bumped into. So I’m covered in orange juice.”

She looked surprised.

“You really didn’t notice?”

“Sorry. I guess I was distracted.” She gave a little shrug and changed the subject. “What happened to you last night? We thought you were going to join us.”

“I couldn’t find you,” I said, annoyed. “I lost count of the places I looked.” It was an exaggeration, but I was still a little miffed.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. We went to a party at this girl’s apartment. Luke knew her. Sorry. I guess I was kind of out of it last night.”

“Then why aren’t you hung over like everyone else?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really get hung over. My metabolism.”

“Ah,” I said, and thought of Sean—not a good thing. I nodded at her untouched food. “Aren’t you eating?”

“Not in the mood, I guess.” She shrugged. “Happy New Year. How was your break?”

“It was good,” I said, and told her a sanitized version of the ski trip. “How was yours?”

She sounded subdued as she told me about her Christmas break: she’d flown to England and then returned to San Diego. She perked up when she told me about a gallery show in Los Angeles for Siobhan, but then her voice died away.

“So, how’s Simon?” I asked. Before she could answer, I thought I saw Wren in line. Christy was staring at her hands, so I craned my neck and tried to see into the serving area. My whole attention focused on the girl, until I realized it wasn’t Wren. The excitement drained out of me and I sat back with a sigh.

Christy was looking at me expectantly, so I tried to hide my disappointment. But then I realized that I hadn’t heard what she’d said. Worse, I couldn’t even recall her tone. She’d seemed a bit down before, so I bluffed: “Sounds like you had fun anyway.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Um...”

“I thought you’d understand. You, of all people.”

Time to fess up. “Sorry,” I said. “I ... um...” How do I explain this delicately? But she was already leaving. I shook my head in annoyance, more at myself than anything.

I tried to finish breakfast, but was thoroughly disgusted with the day so far. I left my tray on the table and headed for the door.

Things only got worse when I returned to the apartment to change clothes. I tripped over Luke’s jacket—which he’d left on the floor—and twisted my knee on the way down. When I finally managed to stand, I kicked the jacket across the living room and almost collapsed from the pain.

I wanted to strangle Luke, but I hobbled back and forth while I let my temper cool down. I couldn’t put my full weight on my knee, but at least I could walk.

When I finally calmed down, I grimaced at the irony: I’d skied for a week on some incredibly difficult slopes, but a leather jacket and a level expanse of carpeting had done me in.

I changed clothes and imagined killing Luke in his sleep. Then I discovered that someone had taken the last of the aspirin, and I thought about killing for real. I snarled in frustration as I threw away the empty bottle. I was tempted to slam the front door when I left, but I reluctantly decided I wasn’t a ten-year-old anymore.

The morning was bitterly cold as I limped across campus to the line for registration. It had only been open an hour, but it stretched around the side of the building. Since I couldn’t put much weight on my knee, I stood on my left foot and tried to drown the pain with my Walkman.

The music helped until my batteries started to die, because I’d forgotten to change them after the ski trip. I sighed in disgust and jabbed the stop button. The distorted music faded away, and I stuffed the Walkman into my backpack.

I tried having an imaginary conversation with Wren, but the pain in my knee made it hard to focus. I even tried to imagine sex with her, but that didn’t work any better. So I was thoroughly bored and frustrated by the time I reached the window to get my schedule.

With the printed green card firmly in hand, I limped toward the financial aid office to pick up my scholarship check. I kept an eye out for someone I knew so I could strike up a conversation to pass the time. Unfortunately, my wish came true: Kendall glared daggers at me as she joined the line several people back.

Peachy. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore her. Just peachy.

By the time I reached the counter, more than an hour later, my knee had started throbbing. My good leg didn’t feel much better, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more problems. The girl behind the desk had other ideas, and apologetically told me she couldn’t find my scholarship.

“What do you mean you can’t find it?”

The girl’s supervisor frowned and came over. “Is there a problem?”

Of course there’s a problem, you sour old battleaxe! Would I be yelling if there weren’t?

“I can’t find any record of his scholarship, Mrs. Halberstam,” the clerk said nervously. “I see where he got a check last quarter, but we don’t have anything for this quarter.”

“Are you sure it was for the entire year?” the older woman asked me.

I took a deep breath and told myself that her job was to help me. “It was a full scholarship,” I said, as calmly as I could. Then I made the mistake of glancing down the counter. Kendall smirked at my predicament. My blood boiled. “Oh, fuck you.”

The women helping me blinked at the venom in my voice. Even the other clerks turned to look. Mrs. Halberstam regained her composure and frowned.

“That kind of language will not be tolerated.”

“I wasn’t talking to you!” I snapped, but immediately regretted it. I took another deep breath and supported myself on the counter. It took the weight off my knee, which made it a little easier to think rationally. “I’m sorry,” I said at last. “It’s ... it’s been a long morning.”

“And it will only get longer with that kind of attitude.”

I smiled frostily, but didn’t tell her where to stick it.

“Very well,” she said, “what’s your social security number?”

I told her, and she searched a thick computer printout.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have anything for you.”

I caught a motion out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see Kendall wave her scholarship check at me. She walked out with a smug smile, and I felt my face go rigid. You petty, vindictive, mean-spirited—

Mrs. Halberstam interrupted my silent tirade. “And you’re sure it was a full scholarship?”

“I’m sure,” I said, my face tight in a rictus of a smile. “I got a letter. And I got a check last quarter.” I lost it and stabbed the air in front of her. “You have the information right in front of you.”

“I know what I have,” she shot back, “and there’s no record of a scholarship for this quarter.”

I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. As respectfully as I could, I asked, “Could you please check again?”

She dutifully checked again, and came back with the same answer. “Do you have your original acceptance letter from...”—she checked the file—”the Hyatt Foundation?”

“Somewhere.” I hope.

“Then you need to bring it here.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She smiled insincerely. “Why would I do that?”

My temper flared, but I suppressed it by clenching my teeth and taking a deep breath through my nose. “Do I need to stand in line again, or can I just come back to the counter?”

“Come back and ask for me,” she said with a nod toward a side area without a clerk.

“Thank you,” I said tersely.

“You’re welcome.”

I walked out of the office and immediately regretted it as my knee started throbbing again. Kendall was long gone, thankfully, but I spotted Gracie Fisher in the line outside. She saw me at the same time, and her face changed when she saw my expression.

“What’s the matter?” Her nose was red from the cold, but her dark eyes looked sincere. She was a welcome change from Mrs. Halberstam, Dark Mistress of Denial, and a very welcome change from Kendall, Queen of Spite.

“They lost my damn scholarship,” I said.

Gracie frowned in sympathy. “What happened?”

“They don’t have any record of it. None. Zero. Zilch!”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“They told me to get my original acceptance letter, wherever that is.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Somewhere, yeah, but I have no idea where.”

“I can get mine,” Gracie said, “if it’ll help.”

I smiled, but felt drained from all the pain and frustration. “Thanks, but I’ll find mine.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I’ll find it,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“Do you want some help? I don’t mind coming back later.”

“Nah, that’s okay. Thanks, though.” I said goodbye and limped off.

Luke was still asleep when I returned to the apartment, but Trip and Jeff were gone. Trip had left a note.

Sorry about last nite. We went to a party and things got a little crazy. I need to talk to you, though. It’s important. Want to meet for lunch? Signed, Trip.

“Not really,” I said aloud. I wasn’t in the mood for food, so I grabbed a pen and wrote a reply.

Sorry I missed you. Been one of those days already. Problems with my scholarship. I’ll tell you later. The way things have been going, it’ll take all day to sort out.

He probably wanted to talk about our houses for the summer, and I already had some ideas. So I added to the note.

Let’s meet back here at 5:00. We can talk then. Cool?

I signed it and set it on his bed. Then I gimped out to the hall and started rummaging through papers on my desk. I found the letter an hour later, stuffed into one of the books I’d been reading over the summer. The phone rang as I lurched to my feet, and I winced as I stumbled to the foyer to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Paul?”

My heart raced for a moment as I thought it might be Wren, but the voice was wrong—too low, too sultry. “This is he,” I said.

“Hi. It’s Gracie. Did you find your letter?”

“Yeah.”

“They had the same problem with my scholarship.”

“Then I’m not going crazy,” I said. “It’s probably just a screw-up.”

“I talked to Professor Joska already, and he said he’d call them.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

“Anyway,” she continued, “we still need to take our letters to Mrs. Halberstam. She was really helpful.”

Um ... did you deal with the same woman?

“So I was wondering...,” she said, “um ... do you want to walk over together?”

“I guess. Where do you want to meet?”

Fifteen painful minutes later, I met her at the Torchbearer statue in Circle Park. She frowned when she noticed my limp.

“I saw you limping earlier,” she said, “but I didn’t realize it was serious. What happened?”

“One of my idiot roommates left his coat on the floor.” I was too embarrassed to admit that I tripped on it, but that much was obvious.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.” She laughed nervously.

“I’m okay. It’s just a little tender.”

“Do you want me to carry your backpack? I don’t mind.”

“It’s not heavy,” I said. “But ... do you have any aspirin in your purse?”

She nodded. “How many do you want?”

“Four. Please.” I chewed the tablets and grimaced at the bitter taste, but anything was better than the pain in my knee.

“I talked to Professor Joska again,” Gracie said as we made our way back to the financial aid office. “He talked to Mrs. Halberstam, and she said...”

Mrs. Halberstam was an annoying mixture of helpful and indifferent—helpful to Gracie and indifferent to me, of course. I knew I’d rubbed her wrong, so I kept my mouth shut and let Gracie do all the talking. Then we took a seat on the bench to wait.

Gracie and I made small talk, and answered questions when Mrs. Halberstam needed information, but I was too preoccupied to relax.

Two hours later, we still didn’t have any news. Mrs. Halberstam promised to look into things. Actually, she promised Gracie, although she couldn’t solve one problem without solving the other. In the meantime, we couldn’t pay tuition and fees, or even buy books.

“I need to call my parents,” Gracie said gloomily. “If Mrs. Halberstam can’t find the scholarship, they might have to get a second mortgage or something.”

“They’ll find the money,” I said. “It’s probably just some bureaucratic snafu.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I nodded, more confident than I felt. Then I wondered how long it would take to transfer money from my savings account to checking. Would the bursar’s office take an IOU? The bookstore certainly wouldn’t. Did I have enough money in checking to buy books and supplies? I doubted it.

Gracie interrupted my train of thought. “We should probably tell Professor Joska.”

I nodded, and we set out for the A&A building. The pain in my knee had eased off when the aspirin set in, but “eased off” was a relative term.

Professor Joska was busy with his own problems. He ran the advising center for Architecture students, so he and his minions were busy fixing people’s scheduling conflicts. Apparently, the new mainframe computer system had screwed things up, especially with the first-year classes.

Since freshmen were the least familiar with UT’s bureaucracy and the most likely to panic when something wasn’t right, Joska had his hands full. Still, he noticed us as soon as we walked in, and quickly finished what he was doing. He straightened to his full height and walked toward us, an island of calm in the middle of the chaos.

“Is your problem resolved?” he asked with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“No, sir,” Gracie said.

“They’re clueless over there,” I griped, and he shot me a level look. I locked eyes with him but then looked away.

“I’m sure they’re doing their best,” he said. “The new computer system is ... less than optimal.”

“You can say that again.”

“The new computer system is less than optimal.”

I shot him a look.

“It was worth repeating,” he deadpanned, but his eyes actually twinkled.

I managed to smile, but Gracie still looked bleak.

“Cheer up, Miss Fisher,” Joska said. “Your attendance at UT is assured. At least, as long as I have anything to say about it. Your scholarships aren’t gone. They’re just ... misallocated.”

One of his minions got his attention, and Joska motioned for him to wait a moment.

“Mrs. Halberstam promised to call before the end of the day,” Joska told us. “I’ll speak to her then, and make temporary arrangements if need be.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Yes,” Gracie said, still distracted, “thank you.”

“Now,” Joska said, “I need to attend to another less-than-optimal computer schedule.”

I almost laughed at the irony in his voice, but he was already walking away with the advisor.

“What are we going to do?” Gracie said.

I shrugged. “Nothing we can do, really.”

“I need to call my parents.”

I wasn’t ready to transfer money from one account to another, but I needed to think about my options. And I needed to get off my knee. The aspirin was starting to wear off, and I could already feel the ache returning.

Gracie and I walked through the atrium in silence, but someone called my name before I made it through the door. I turned and spotted Siobhan.

“I’ll catch you later,” I told Gracie.

She waved, lost in thought. “Okay. Call me.”

I turned back to the atrium.

“Oh, I’m glad I caught you,” Siobhan said breathlessly. “How was your break?”

“Good. How was yours?”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I had a gallery show in Los Angeles.”

“I heard. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said, but then turned serious. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have much time. I have to get to Circle Park. The new computers...” She shook her head ruefully. “Oh, they made a right hames of the job.”

I didn’t understand the Irish slang, but I knew what she was talking about. “Yeah, they screwed up my scholarship, too.”

“The Eames Scholarship?” she said, surprised. “Christy was so proud of you for that.”

I blinked.

“I’m sure they’ll fix it, though.” She fell silent and tried to remember why she’d stopped me. “Oh! Could I ask you to model for me this quarter?”

“Of course.” I’d already been planning on it. “When?”

“Only one class. Tuesday-Thursday at 9:25.”

I knew I was free then. “No problem.”

“You’re a dear,” she said, but then looked harried. “What time is it?”

“Almost 3:30.”

“Oh, no! I’m sorry. I have to go.” She hurried toward the door. “Stop by my studio and I’ll give you the modeling schedule. We do the female model for two weeks, and then—”

“Don’t worry, I remember.”

She waved and disappeared through the door. I followed at a more sedate pace. Despite the pain in my knee, I decided to stop by Wren’s apartment to see if she was there.

After the day I’d had, I wanted to talk to someone who actually cared about me and my problems. Gracie was nice enough, but she wasn’t my type. Well, she was, but I was more interested in Wren. So I got off the elevator on the fourth floor and limped down the hall toward her apartment.

My spirits lifted with each step, especially when I imagined Wren’s smile at seeing me. I reached her apartment and took a moment to straighten my clothes. Then I rehearsed a couple of opening lines. They all sounded cheesy, so I decided to wing it.

I knocked and waited, but then did a double take when the door opened. “Trip?”

He looked surprised to see me.

“What’re you doing here?”

Before he could answer, I heard Wren call from down the hall.

“Who is it, Magic Man?” She ducked around him and came up under his arm. Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Oh.”

“Magic Man”? Trip? Why would she—?

I looked from one to the other and slowly took in details. His open shirt collar. Her mussed hair. His hickey. Her flushed cheeks. His eyes, furtive and guilty. Hers, fearful.

I didn’t believe what I was thinking at first, but then my conversation with Zoë suddenly made sense. “She’s with Trip. I thought you knew.”

With Trip...

The words echoed in my mind, and my emotions suddenly blazed white-hot. I forgot about my knee and felt the heat of anger instead.

“You...,” I rasped at Trip.

“We can explain,” Wren said hastily, but then recoiled as I swung my burning gaze to her.

“And you,” I hissed.

“We were going to tell you,” Trip said.

But I already knew. “Tell me what? That you fucked her?”

“Hey, watch it,” he shot back. “She wasn’t your girlfriend. You made that perfectly clear.”

“So you thought it was okay?”

“She wasn’t your girlfriend,” he repeated. “Besides, you treated her like shit.”

I mocked him savagely, “And you’ll treat her better? You wouldn’t know what to do if she told you!”

“Hey, fuck you, pal.”

“No, fuck you, buddy.”

Wren reached out. “Paul, please...”

“Don’t touch me! I can’t believe I wanted anything to do with you.” I glared at her, too furious for words. “You ... two-faced slut!”

Trip grabbed my collar and shoved. We crashed into the door across the hall, and it echoed with a hollow boom. I caught him in a bear hug and lifted. My knee protested, but I ignored the pain. Then I dropped him in a perfect wrestling takedown. Old reflexes die hard.

He grunted in surprise when we hit the floor. He’d done a bit of wrestling himself, so he grabbed me and tried to roll. He was taller and had a longer reach, but I was inside his guard, and far more experienced.

We lost all semblance of wrestling and began trying to inflict real pain. The day’s frustrations finally boiled over—the frat rat, Luke’s coat, my scholarship, Kendall’s taunts—but they didn’t compare to what Trip had done.

So I punched. I gouged. I jabbed. Trip did the same, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I simply wanted to kill him.

The crowd eventually pulled us apart. A fight always draws a crowd, but I hadn’t even noticed until several hands gripped me and lifted. Trip and I glared at each other across a gulf of a few feet, although it might have been miles for all the friendship we felt.

His lip was bleeding, courtesy of a vicious head butt, and I tasted my own blood. We were both panting, and I could feel the heat radiating from me in waves. Wren tried to see to his lip, but he brushed her away, his eyes locked on me. Christy made a move toward me, but I stopped her with an angry stare. She shrank back, and I glared hatred at Trip.

Neither of us moved.

“Man, fuck you,” he said at last.

I snorted in contempt.

“Paul, please...,” Wren said. “We wanted to tell you, but...”

“But what? You were too busy stabbing me in the back? I thought you were my friends.”

The crowd murmured, uncertain but drawn by the spectacle.

“You two deserve each other,” I said at last. “Rot in hell for all I care.”

I’d lost my backpack in the fracas, so I cast about for it. Christy picked it up from the floor by the wall. She held it out, her eyes full of unshed tears.

“Thanks for nothing,” I snarled, and jerked the pack so violently that she staggered. “You knew about them, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t really a question, but she nodded anyway.

“Thanks for telling me. I guess I know whose side you’re on.”

She stepped back, wounded by my nastiness.

I turned and walked away. My knee hurt like hell, but I’d be damned if I’d show weakness in front of Trip. And if he wanted to jump me while my back was turned, I’d beat him to a pulp without a second thought, bad leg or no.

I made it to the elevator on willpower alone. I couldn’t feel the pain yet—I couldn’t feel much of anything—but I knew it was coming.

“Are you okay, dude?” someone asked, and I realized that one of the crowd had followed.

“Yeah,” I sneered, “just fucking peachy.”

“Dude, I’m tryin’ to help.”

“Then go find someone who needs it.”

I stumped into the elevator and jabbed the button for the lobby. With a sense of detachment, I noticed that most of my knuckles were skinned. My mouth hurt, and I felt a lump on my forehead from Trip’s jaw. In fact, my whole body had begun to ache, but I hobbled out of the building and into the cold January air.

Outside, I looked at the world through a watery film of bewilderment. How could people go about their lives when everything had changed? Didn’t they know what had just happened?

I didn’t know where to go or what to do, so I went to a place where no one would find me. It was a long, cold walk, but I eventually reached the big non-commuter parking garage.

The adrenaline high finally wore off, and I shivered as the real pain set in. Exhausted, I sank to the cold concrete next to my car. I clutched my battered ribs and tried to hold in my emotions, but I simply didn’t have the energy.

Tears stung my eyes and dripped to the ground as I sobbed in silence.

I’d never felt so alone in my life.

I jerked awake in the predawn darkness, cold and stiff from sleeping in my car. I’d driven away from campus so no one would find me, and I rubbed my eyes as I tried to remember where I was. I looked around and slowly remembered. I was parked behind a grocery store. A milk truck had woken me.

I stared through the frosty windshield and recalled the scene at Wren’s apartment. Then I felt a wave of humiliation so crushing that I wanted to die. For real. I could drive my car into the river, I thought. Or jump off a bridge. Or just slit my wrists and go to sleep in the bath.

How would Trip and Wren feel when they found out? I wanted them to hurt as much as I did. I wanted them to suffer for the rest of their lives. I lapsed into a dark fantasy of how they’d react to my death, but the feeling eventually passed.

Why should they win? If I killed myself, they’d eventually live happily ever after. They might have twinges of conscience once in a while, but they’d get over it soon enough, and I’d still be dead.

So no, I wasn’t going to kill myself. I wanted to enjoy seeing them suffer. I wanted to rip out their hearts and make them understand a tenth of what I felt. I wanted to humiliate them in front of everyone. I wanted to take away everything they cared about.