Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    “Girl, I swear to all that is sacred, if you skip breakfast again I will take ove your body and make you eat hospital cafeteria eggs.”

    Clarke Griffin chuckled quietly, tucking her phone into her coat pocket and adjusting her single earbud as she strode through the glass double doors of Arkadia General. “Good morning to you too, Eliza.”

    “Eliza’s threatening possession again,” said a younger, breezier voice. “She’s so dramatic before 9 a.m.”

    “I’m always dramatic,” Eliza responded coolly. “I’m just also correct.”

    Clarke rolled her eyes, the corners of her lips lifting. She passed the reception desk with a nod and slipped into the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor. Around her, scrub-clad residents and nurses buzzed like bees, but Clarke walked with practiced calm, perfectly used to the chaos.

    A nurse in her early thirties gave Clarke a grin as the elevator doors closed. “Conference call already, Dr. Griffin?”

    Clarke shrugged good-naturedly. “Eliza and Josie start their day with verbal sparring, and they had too much free time. I’m just the unwilling moderator.”

    “Family, huh?” the nurse laughed. “They sound like a handful.”

    “You have no idea,” Clarke replied, smiling just enough to be polite.

    Her first stop was Room 508, where Mr. Lee was recovering from a nasty fall and hip surgery.

    “How are we feeling today?” Clarke asked, checking his chart.

    “Like a truck hit me, doc.”

    Josie piped up in her ear. “Technically, it was gravity.”

    Clarke coughed into her shoulder to cover the laugh. “You’re healing well. I’ll adjust the pain meds slightly, but you’re on track. Physical therapy starts tomorrow, so brace yourself.”

    “Eliza says you better stretch beforehand,” Josie added. “She’s big on preparation.”

    Clarke hummed under her breath, scribbling notes. “Anything else bothering you?”

    “Just the food,” Mr. Lee grumbled.

    “You and me both,” Clarke said, and moved on.

    By mid-morning, Clarke had seen six patients, been handed three cups of coffee she didn’t remember asking for, and had argued silently with her cousins about the ethical viability of tuna salad sandwiches.

    “I’m telling you, there’s something vaguely threatening about that mayo,” Josie insisted.

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliza snapped. “It’s a condiment, not a crime scene.”

    Clarke took a bite and made a face. “Honestly? You both might be onto something.”

    She made her way to the trauma wing. Nurses and residents greeted her as she passed, most used to the earbud by now. Some still glanced curiously, but no one really questioned it anymore. Clarke Griffin was brilliant, efficient, and always on the phone with her “family," or listening to some music.

    People didn’t poke too hard when someone saved lives on the regular.

    At noon, she finally collapsed into the break room chair and sank into a too-small sandwich. Her phone buzzed.

    “Don’t forget Dr. Munch wants to review yesterday’s abdominal case,” Eliza reminded her, voice low and firm.

    “I wasn’t going to forget,” Clarke muttered around a bite.

    “You would have,” Josie sang. “You were halfway to a sandwich coma.”

    “You’re both exhausting.”

    Josie giggled. Eliza sighed. Clarke smiled.

    Her rounds continued. The hospital hummed. Another life saved, another wound stitched, another headache avoided thanks to a well-timed mindfull interruption.

    No one questioned the way Clarke sometimes tilted her head like listening to someone no one else could hear.

    No one noticed the way she paused outside the surgical ward just long enough to let Eliza’s advice sink in, or the way she whispered thanks to Josie after a good outcome.

    To them, she was just Clarke. Smart. Compassionate. Slightly eccentric.

    To herself…

    Well. That was a longer story.

    By the time Clarke got off her last shift, the sun had dipped below Arkadia’s skyline, painting the hospital in burnt orange. She tugged off her coat as she stepped into the elevator, earbud still snug in place.

    “—if he tries to touch the IV again, I’m stitching his hand to the mattress,” Eliza was muttering in her best war-nurse growl.

    “You are not allowed to stitch patients into furniture,” Clarke hissed under her breath.

    “Not yet, anyway,” Josie added. “But when we take over a hospital someday, all bets are off.”

    Clarke closed her eyes and counted to three. “Just… behave. Please.”

    “Define behave,” both voices said in chorus.

    Home was a fourth-floor walk-up with a leaky radiator, mismatched mugs, and Raven Reyes in a grease-stained tank top, juggling a pizza box and a tablet full of engine blueprints.

    “Well, well,” Raven called from the kitchen. “If it isn’t Dr. Griffin and her eternal family Zoom call.”

    Clarke dropped her bag by the door. “They say hi.”

    “Tell Eliza to stop bullying people through you,” Raven said, popping open the pizza box. “And tell Josie I still want my playlist back.”

    Clarke slid onto a stool, pulling the earbud out and letting it hang loose. “They heard you.”

    “Oh, I know. You always have that creepy twin telepathy thing going on.”

    Clarke heard a hum of laughter in her ears, “Josie says you’ll get your playlist back when you admit K-pop is superior to death metal.”

    “Rude,” Raven snorted. “She knows I’m fragile.”

    Later, they sat on the couch with plates balanced on their knees and an old movie playing in the background. Clarke scrolled through messages. Raven tinkered with a mini drone on the coffee table, tongue poking out in concentration.

    “You know,” Raven said lazily, “people at the hospital still think you’re on the phone with actual human cousins, right?”

    Clarke arched a brow. “I am.”

    “Sure, sure,” Raven replied. “And I’m holding weekly game night with my imaginary pet crow. His name’s Reginald. He sucks at poker.”

    “I bet Josie could beat him.”

    Josie let out a delighted snicker in Clarke’s head. “Reginald sounds like a fun time.”

    “Eliza thinks he cheats,” Clarke added blandly.

    “Classic Eliza.” Raven smirked. “She still disapproves of my dating life?”

    “She disapproves of everyone’s dating life.”

    “Except yours. Oh wait. You don’t have one.” Raven gave her a sly side glance.

    Clarke shoved a pillow in her face. “Shut up.”

    “Make me.”

    Night deepened. The city softened into silence.

    Clarke sat on her bed later, brushing her hair, the soft drone of Josie humming something old and sweet in her mind. Eliza sat metaphorically at her desk, reading through a surgery journal Clarke had left open.

    It was quiet. Familiar.

    In the mirror, Clarke looked… tired. But whole.

    “Big day tomorrow,” Eliza murmured.

    Clarke nodded. “You’ll be ready.”

    “We all will,” Josie added.

    Clarke smiled, turned off the light, and slipped under the covers. Outside her window, the city slept on.

---

Chapter Text

    The operating room was already humming when Clarke entered, gloved hands tucked behind her back, earbuds in place, surgical cap tugged low.

    The team looked up briefly. Nodded.

    “Dr. Griffin,” the anesthesiologist said. “Patient's prepped and under.”

    “Vitals?”

    “Stable.”

    Clarke exhaled slowly. “Let’s begin.”

    Eliza's voice was a smooth, steady current beneath the music barely whispering in her right ear.

    “Clamp to your left. Suction ready. And for god’s sake, reposition the light, it’s glaring off the field.”

    Clarke didn’t react to that. She just nodded once, sharp and precise. Clarke told the nurse the light was off the field, and the nurse moved to adjust the lamp.

    Inside her mind, Eliza continued, "You’ll need to go slow—this artery has a tendency to curve left when the body’s this dehydrated. Use the lateral approach."

    The scalpel moved like it knew the dance already.

    Josie was silent, but her energy wasn’t. She hovered on the edges of Clarke’s mind like sunlight through fog—gentle, watching. When one of the monitors beeped sharply, a pitch just a hair too high, Clarke’s heart stuttered.

    "Focus," Josie murmured gently. "You’ve got this. He’s fine. Keep going." 

    Clarke blinked once. Then the scalpel steadied again.

    She was in the zone. Not alone. Never alone.

    Two hours later, the last stitch was placed, and the OR slowly exhaled as one.

    “Surgery successful,” Clarke announced.

    Her team relaxed visibly. The anesthesiologist gave a thumbs up. Someone in the back muttered, “Told you she’s half machine.”

    Clarke stripped off her gloves and mask, fingers trembling with the after-buzz of adrenaline. Eliza’s voice, warm with approval, filtered in through her mind.

    "You handled that perfectly. I’d trust you with my brain."

    Josie chimed in, finally, "Or my spleen. Which you still owe me from the cadaver lab in uni, by the way."

    Clarke snorted softly, adjusting her earbud. “Not happening, Josie.”

    The nurses exchanged grins. One nudged the other. “Was it Josie again?”

    Clarke chuckled. “When is it not Josie?”

---

    In the corridor, Clarke walked with a clipboard tucked under her arm, her coat flapping behind her.

    As they passed a new intern—a petite redhead with sharp eyes and nervous energy—Josie let out a low whistle.

    "Ten bucks she’s crushing on you already. Bet she has your trading card."

    “She doesn’t even know my name,” Clarke murmured under her breath.

    "Exactly. Wink at her. Just for science." 

    “No.”

    "Wink, wink, wink—"

    Clarke sighed... and did it. Just a flicker of mischief in her smile as she passed the intern.

    The poor girl turned beet red and fumbled her tablet.

    Josie howled like a teenager at a boy band concert. Eliza just sighed in that long-suffering, deeply fond way she had.

    Clarke shook her head, biting down a grin.

    Back at the nurses' station, one of the techs grinned at her. “Did Josie say something unhinged again?”

    Clarke gave a one-shouldered shrug and smirked, “Doesn’t she always?”

    On paper, Clarke Griffin was everything a hospital could want—composed, precise, brilliant under pressure. She never missed a beat, never lost her cool.

    So no one questioned the earbuds. No one questioned the quiet smiles, the subtle nods, the occasional mutter under her breath.

    She said it was music. It was music sometimes. But it wasn’t just music.

    It was company. It was voices. It was guidance.

    It was Eliza and Josie.

    Her cousins. Her sisters.

    Her secret.

---

    The vending machine offered no comfort. Clarke stood in front of it with a dull stare, debating between a protein bar that tasted like compressed dust and chips she’d regret in twenty minutes.

    Eliza's voice hummed through her mind. "You're running on fumes." 

    “I’m fine,” Clarke muttered, stretching her neck. “Fifteen more minutes, then I’m out.”

    Josie was quieter now, likely dozing somewhere in the back of Clarke’s head, but Eliza stayed alert—she always did when Clarke’s hands trembled from fatigue.

    The breakroom door creaked as Clarke turned to leave.

    BEEP BEEP

    Her pager screamed.

    All three of them groaned.

    Clarke yanked it off her belt. “Trauma incoming. Gunshot wound. ER.”

    And just like that, the fatigue vanished. Her body remembered—muscles tensing, heart rate rising, focus sharpening. The long shift evaporated under pure adrenaline.

    She sprinted toward the ER.

---

    The emergency bay was chaos incarnate.

    Flashing lights. Shouting. Blood. The wheeled gurney burst through the doors like a battering ram, paramedics barking out vitals as they ran alongside.

    “Female, early 30s, GSW to upper abdomen, conscious at the scene, losing consciousness en route. BP’s crashing—she coded for a second in the rig but came back. Name's Detective Woods.”

    Clarke barely glanced at the monitor.

    “Trauma One! Let’s move!”

    The team snapped into motion.

    Scissors shredded the woman’s shirt, revealing the entry wound—a red, angry mess high on her right side. Her breathing was labored, shallow, bubbles forming at the edge of her lips.

    “She’s drowning,” Clarke snapped. “Get suction ready. We need to intubate now.”One of the nurses moved to comply while Clarke prepped for a chest tube. Her fingers worked on muscle memory alone.

    “Chest sounds?”

    “Decreased on the right,” the resident answered.

    “Bullet nicked the lung. We’ve got a bleeder.”

    Clarke grabbed for the scalpel, slicing in clean and fast. Blood sprayed, the kind of deep arterial pulse that meant they were already racing death.

    “Prep for OR. Now!”

    The operating room buzzed with frantic hands and sterile chaos. Clarke was in.

    Eliza murmured, tight and focused, "You have five minutes before she goes into full arrest. That lung’s not holding. Find the bleed."

    The bullet had torn through the upper lobe of the right lung and clipped an artery. Blood poured faster than they could clear it. The suction line whined. Clarke’s gloves were soaked.

    “Clamps! Now!”

    She was shaking. Her eyes stung. Her vision narrowed.

    Her hands wavered.

   "Clarke,"  Eliza warned gently. "You need to focus." 

    “I am focused,” she whispered, jaw clenched.

    "No, you’re tired." 

    Josie stirred faintly, concern curling behind her words. "Let us in." 

    And then—

    The shift was subtle.

    It was like a veil dropped. Like Clarke inhaled something electric.

    Her back straightened. Her eyes sharpened. Her posture stilled.

    The nurses around her recognized it instantly. The switch. The other Clarke, more focused.

    She didn’t bark or growl. Her commands came cold, calm, precise. A tempo, not a storm.

    “Retract deeper. There’s another vessel—there. Clamp it.”

    “Done, doctor.”

    “Seal that tear. I need 4-0 Vicryl, now.”

    Every movement flowed from her like second nature. Like she wasn’t human anymore, but a conduit of something sharper. The air in the OR shifted with her.

    She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink.

    And when the bleeder was finally contained, when the wound was clean, when the monitor stopped screaming and settled into its steady beep… beep… beep—

    Clarke exhaled.

    The switch flicked back

    She blinked once. Then again. “Eliza?” she muttered under her breath,

    "You did well," Eliza whispered softly.

    Josie just exhaled in relief. "I thought you were gonna pass out on the suction machine."

    Clarke managed a small, tired grin hidden behind her surgical mask.

    The patient—Detective Woods—was alive.

    
    The OR was quiet now. Clarke sat on a stool in the corner, shoulders sagging, gloves stripped, her eyes distant.

    A nurse handed her a water bottle. “You okay, Doc?”

    Clarke nodded. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

    But even as she said it, she felt their presence hovering—Eliza at her right, Josie to her left.

    Watchful. Steady. Always there.

    And to everyone else, Clarke Griffin was still the composed, unstoppable trauma surgeon with a strange habit of talking to herself under her breath and smiling at things no one else could hear.

    But no one suspected.

    Because she was normal.

    Except… she knew she wasn’t.

---

Chapter Text

    Clarke didn’t leave the hospital until nearly midnight, after making absolutely sure her patient was stable and in the capable hands of Nurse Helen—a woman who doted on Clarke like she was her own blood.

    “Go home before you pass out in the hallway,” Helen muttered, shoving a cup of tea into Clarke’s hand.

    “I’m fine,” Clarke said, smiling faintly.

    Helen only raised a brow, and Clarke knew better than to argue.

    By the time she walked into her apartment, Raven was waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in one hand and a tired grin on her face.

    “You look like you got hit by a truck,” Raven said, pressing the glass into Clarke’s hand.

    “I feel like I reversed the truck, fixed its engine, and then got hit again,” Clarke mumbled, but Raven was already guiding her toward the bedroom like a sleepy toddler.

    “I can walk, you know,” Clarke protested, but her voice was too hoarse to sound convincing.

    Raven raised a brow. “I know Eliza agrees with me. You're basically a child when you're sleep-deprived.”

    “Eliza should mind her own business,” Clarke grumbled.

    “I am in my own business,” Eliza chimed in Clarke’s ear, sounding smug.

    Josie cooed, “Aww, someone needs a nap and a juice box.”

    “Shut up,” Clarke mumbled, tugging the earbuds out with a dramatic sigh.

    Raven smirked. “Good night to all three of you.”

    Clarke barely managed to roll her eyes before she collapsed into bed.

---

    She woke the next morning recharged, showered, and halfway through a protein bar as she adjusted her earbuds. Josie chirped to life the moment she stepped out of the apartment.

    “Ready for Round Two, Doctor Clarke?”

    “I feel human again,” Clarke murmured.

    “Perfect. Let’s go check on the hot cop you saved last night,” Josie added with suspicious cheer.

    Clarke blinked. “What?”

    “The detective. Bleeding all over the place. But still—hot,” Josie said as if listing lab results.

    “She was unconscious,” Clarke said, adjusting her coat.

    “Eliza, back me up. That bone structure? Bet she’s hotter awake.”

    Eliza sighed. “Or insufferable. Could go either way.”

    Clarke shook her head. “It’s too early for this nonsense.”

---

    At the nurses’ station, Helen handed Clarke the chart.

    “She’s stable. Woke up for a bit after midnight. Vitals are improving.”

    “Thanks, Helen,” Clarke said, offering a grateful smile.

    Helen looked over her glasses. “Say hello to the peanut gallery.”

    “They hear you,” Clarke said, tapping her earbuds.

    Helen chuckled. “Then tell them to behave.”

    “Good luck with that,” Clarke muttered as she walked down the hall.

---
    Room 214.

    Detective Lexa Woods. Age: 33. Gunshot wound to upper abdomen. Status: stable.

    Clarke slipped in quietly. The monitor was beeping steadily. Helen had already replaced the IV, and Clarke made a note of it in the chart. She checked the patient’s pulse, gentle and professional.

    And then—

    The eyelids fluttered open. Emerald green eyes, sharp even in their sluggishness, blinked up at her.

    Clarke’s hand stilled. Her breath caught.

    Her thoughts—silent.

    No Josie. No Eliza. Just stillness. Presence. A strange, electric moment.

    Then, Josie screamed.

    “Oh. My. GOD.”

    Eliza muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, damn it, but in the tone of a woman forced to admire something despite herself.

    Clarke swallowed, composed herself, and spoke gently.

    “Detective Woods. I’m Dr. Clarke Griffin. You’re at Arkadia General. You were brought in with a gunshot wound.”

    Lexa blinked slowly, but there was recognition behind her eyes. Her lips parted, as if to speak—but the door opened.

    A woman in a sharply tailored suit stepped in. Confident. Commanding. And Clarke instantly straightened.

    “I’m her sister,” the woman said, striding over. “Anya Woods.”

    Josie whistled. “That’s not a walk. That’s a power move.”

    Eliza hummed. “Detective, most likely. Or maybe a lawyer.”

    Clarke coughed into her hand and turned back to Lexa. “She’s stable. We removed the bullet, stopped the bleeding. Her lung was nicked but is healing. No permanent damage expected.”

    Anya exhaled. Then gave her sister a long look that could curdle milk.

    “Honestly,” Anya said. “You keep having accidental dates with bullets. At this point, you two should just get engaged.”

    Lexa groaned weakly. Clarke fought the laugh climbing her throat.

    Josie howled in her ear. Eliza chuckled, dry and amused.

    Clarke simply smiled. “She’s going to be just fine.”

    But as she turned to leave, she felt it—the faint hum under her skin. Like static. Like something waking up. Eliza and Josie didn’t say anything, but Clarke could feel them watching closely too.

    Something was different.

    And they all knew it.

---

    Clarke’s rounds were mercifully light that day—no code blues, no grumpy residents, just routine checkups, notes, and hydration reminders. But while the hospital halls were quiet, her mind was an entirely different battlefield.

    She sat in the breakroom with a cup of lukewarm coffee, half her brain cataloguing meds, the other half trying to ignore Josie’s fourth monologue on The Divine Structure of Detective Woods’ Jawline.

    “You could land a plane on that cheekbone. I’d build a national monument there. Eliza. Back me up. You see it, right?”

    Eliza’s mental sigh practically echoed through Clarke’s skull. “Josie, for the love of sanity, this is not a thirst forum. And Clarke’s drinking coffee, let her live.”

    Clarke visibly twitched. She looked to her left, eyes narrowing at the air beside her. A nurse walked in just in time to catch it and gave her a concerned glance. Clarke covered quickly with a tired smile. “Just...remembering something dumb,” she muttered.

    “You mean the time Josie tried to quote Shakespeare to a coma patient?” Eliza snarked.

    “I stand by that,” Josie shot back. “You never know what unlocks a soul connection. Also, rude.”

    Clarke took a slow sip of coffee. “I don’t even know how you two became my personal hype squad-slash-chaos goblins.”

    “Fate. And a severe lack of filters,” Josie said proudly.

    “God's punishment,” Eliza countered. “For you not taking a proper nap in the last three years.”

    Clarke didn’t argue. Mostly because she was still thinking about those green eyes from earlier. She didn’t say it, but Josie picked up on it anyway.

    “Ohh, she’s thinking about her. The emerald-eyed enigma. Detective Tall, Dark, and Tense. Clarke, you didn’t even blink when she looked at you.”

    “I blinked,” Clarke mumbled.

    “You did not,” Eliza confirmed. “I counted.”

    Clarke rubbed her temple. “She was just waking up and confused. That was a patient-doctor interaction.”

    “That was cinematic tension,” Josie corrected, practically bouncing. “You two shared a moment. Eliza, back me up!”

    “No,” Eliza said flatly. “And stop asking for backup. It’s pathetic.”

    Clarke buried her face in her hands, groaning quietly. “Is this what it’s like being haunted? Because you two are the worst ghosts.”

    “We prefer the term ‘spiritual freeloaders,’” Josie said cheerfully.

---

    Clarke didn’t talk about it. Not with anyone outside the circle that already knew. Raven, who'd grown up with her and knew how to read between her silences. And Luna—her therapist, her steady anchor, and probably the most emotionally intelligent person Clarke had ever met.

    To everyone else, Clarke was just a slightly quirky doctor who occasionally smiled at nothing, occasionally muttered under her breath, and maybe had a deeper relationship with her earbuds than the average person. But the truth was—

    She wasn’t like most people.

    It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t ghosts. It wasn’t madness. Though she'd gone through enough nights as a kid curled up under the blanket wondering if it was.

    Josie and Eliza had been with her for as long as she could remember. Not voices exactly. Not imaginary friends—though that was what the school counselor wrote down in second grade. They were people. Real, to her. As vivid and loud and opinionated as anyone outside her head.

    Some days it felt like a blessing. Some days it was just noise.

    Luna never tried to "fix" that. She never used words like hallucination or delusion. She used words like coping mechanism, trauma response, and Clarke’s favorite—companions.

    Today was her monthly session, the one protected hour Clarke never skipped.

    She was curled into Luna’s gray couch, arms tucked around a pillow, her body finally letting go of the hospital pace. Luna sat across from her in a loose, soft blouse the color of spring fog. Clarke had barely walked in before Josie started commenting.

    “Ten out of ten. That neckline? Powerfully soft. Ethereal therapist vibes.”

    Clarke smirked. “Josie likes your outfit.”

    Luna chuckled, scribbling something down. “Of course she does. Josie always has excellent taste.”

    “She also said you looked like you walked off the set of a Scandinavian murder mystery.”

    “I do love a moody coastline,” Luna replied without missing a beat.

    Eliza sighed. “Tell her to sit properly. She’s going to throw her back out.”

    Clarke rolled her eyes. “Eliza says hi. And that my posture is a crime.”

    “She would say that,” Luna said, smiling. “So. How was your week?”

    Clarke inhaled deeply. “Had a surgery. Emergency. Eliza helped.”

    Luna tilted her head. “Helped how?”

    Clarke stared at her fingers. “Just… kept me focused. Steady. Talked me through it. Took over when things got too tough because I was exhausted.”

    Luna nodded. No surprise, no concern. Just acceptance. “That’s good. She’s always been grounded.”

    Clarke nodded. “She’s tired of Josie, though. I think everyone is.”

    “I’m not!” Josie piped in, clearly offended. “I’m delightful!”

    “You’re a walking disaster with good cheekbones,” Eliza said flatly.

    “And Clarke,” Luna asked gently, drawing her back, “how did you feel?”

    “Scared,” Clarke admitted. “But okay. I knew I could handle it. Because… they were there.”

    Luna gave her a small, warm smile. “Then that’s enough for today.”

    They spent the rest of the session just talking. Clarke told her about Josie’s ongoing obsession with the green-eyed detective in Room 214. Luna teased her, asking if Clarke was interested too, but Clarke only flushed and changed the subject.

    Toward the end, Clarke reached into her bag and pulled out a small sketchbook, flipping to a dog-eared page. “I drew them,” she said softly, handing it over.

    Luna took the sketchbook and studied it. The woman on the page was sharp and mischievous, chin tilted, hair swept up, eyes bright with wicked delight. 

    “She looks ready to pick a fight and flirt with a cop while doing it,” Luna mused.

    “That’s Josie.”

    Clarke turned another page. Eliza. Strong jaw, short hair, eyes that looked like they could see too much and carry it anyway. Like a soldier in civilian clothes.

    “She looks like you,” Luna said softly.

    “She’s what I wish I could be,” Clarke replied.

    There was a pause. Not heavy. Just full.

    And then, as if on cue, Josie whispered, “You are, you know. You’re just taller on the inside.”

    Eliza sighed. “That was actually poetic. Dammit.”

---