Page 5

“W hat are you doing up so late, princess?” Ronnie blinks at me when I emerge at one in the morning, startling him as he holds a tumbler of bourbon in his hand.

“Couldn’t sleep.” I’m not lying, but that’s far from the whole truth. I’m not asleep because I’m planning my getaway. Like, my actual getting away from this place, these people. I can’t marry some mobster who doesn’t even love me!

“Ah, you know what they say, Angie. Can’t eat, can’t sleep, it’s love. You barely touched your food at dinner.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” I’m choosing my words carefully. I’ve always seen Ronnie as a loving, gentle, sometimes quirky guy. Was it all a lie? If I tell him what I know, am I going to end up “sleeping with the fishes” in concrete shoes in the best pulp fiction tradition? I shudder.

“Vincenzo told me that you’ve won his heart. You can stop worrying, sweetie. The attraction is mutual,” Ronnie says softly, downing the rest of his drink, letting the ice shift and clink in his glass.

“Really? Because...” Every syllable could be the one that tips me from beloved stepdaughter to liability.

“What?”

“Because he told me that his dad is pushing him into this because you two are going into business together, and you want to uh... You want to be a big contender, and there’s a bigger rival company. But I guess Joey is paranoid, huh? And he’s worried you’ll sell him out or go to the other guys?” I don’t look at Ronnie while I talk, fiddling with items on the little bar in the living room, rearranging the remotes on the coffee table.

“Oh? He told you that, huh?”

“So he’s like the king of one kingdom, and you’re the king of the other. You have a daughter, a princess, to marry off to his son, the prince. It’s a political marriage in modern day, isn’t it?” I conclude in a whisper, taking one of the tiny glass bottles of club soda. I open it and listen to the hiss of the carbon escaping, listen to the crackling of millions of tiny bubbles in a tight space while Ronnie stares at ice cubes and says nothing.

“He doesn’t love me, Ronnie,” I finally whisper.

“I don’t— He might not love you yet, Angie, but a lot of people have marriages made by matchmakers who want what’s good for them. Your mom and I love you, and we want you to be happy with a man who’ll protect you and cherish you. And I know Vincenzo will do that, or he’ll answer to me.”

Smiling, funny Ronnie isn’t smiling now. His face is sad, dark, and haunted. “I have a cousin—in the same business,” he says quickly, “and he has a daughter. Sweet girl, Janine, but it’s like you say. I’m sort of the king. Don’t want to be. Didn’t start out to be. But kings rule kingdoms and take care of their people, and believe me, sweetie, Vincenzo will take such good care of you. You’ll grow into love, I know it.”

My arguments collect in my mouth, along with angry questions and pointless, incoherent screaming.

“I don’t have to marry him, though.”

Ronnie puts the glass down. “Not right away.”

“Ronnie, I...”

“Look, give it three more days. Better yet, spend another week in the city, go out with Vincenzo a couple of times. You’ll see what he’s like. He’s a good guy, gonna make a good husband. You know, if you two hit it off, Mom and I might rent a little place out this way. Come up and see you once a month. You could take classes at one of these campuses you’re interested in...”

Words ring hollow. As a child schooled in watching her biological father make empty promises that were never kept and listening to conveniently worded half-truths told to my mother, I know that’s all Ronnie is giving me. Half-truths. Well-placed lies.

“Okay. Another week won’t hurt. I like that he was honest with me,” I whisper, and slowly turn back toward my bedroom. “Oh. Ronnie?”

“What is it, honey?” His voice is tired, and the youthful face finally seems its full sixty-something years.

“Does Mom know how ‘political’ these dates are?” I ask, not sure which answer I want. If my mother knows about his mafia connections... I’m going to be so angry at her for putting us in the line of fire, line of crime, or retaliation, or line of whatever happens when your husband is in the mob. If she doesn’t, I’m going to be relieved and worried at the same time. How can she be so naive? She knows Ronnie better than I do. How could a wife not know her husband’s secrets? What does that say about either of them?

My head is going to explode.

“Joanne doesn’t know, no. I’ve always tried to keep my work from interfering in her life, but... But your mother isn’t as focused on clothes and shoes as you think. I get the inkling that she wants to ask questions sometimes, but she doesn’t.”

Why, Mom? Why?

Ronnie answers. “Who could blame her? Your father, no offense, honey, was such a loser, always involved in some scam, always in trouble with bad people. After what her first husband put her through, why would she want to burst her bubble and pry into my affairs as long as I kept you both happy and in the lap of luxury? God knows I don’t want that bubble to burst, either. If I could ‘retire’ and spend my life as a beach bum with Joanne, I’d be happy, Angie.”

My smile matches his, weary and uncertain. Is he lying to me? He’s not telling me any direct lies; he’s just not telling me the truth, and if his work could put us in danger, he has a good reason.

Except this whole thing is terrible.

He continues. “She thinks Mrs. Genovese is just a visionary matchmaker and that Vincenzo is ready to marry. That’s it. What exactly did Vinny say about his family business?”

“Just that you’re both looking to expand.” If he can lie, I can lie right back.

“Good. Good, because I don’t want you mixed up in my work. It can be pretty cutthroat sometimes, Ang.” There’s a hard note in his voice, and he looks at me with sad, tired eyes. “The Genovese family... Well, let’s say it’s better to be on their side than not. They’ll keep you safe. Keep your mother safe.”

Safe from what? I want to ask, but I don’t.

Just like your mother, huh, Angela?

No. Not like Mom. She stays and waits with her questions, letting her pampered life continue while she wonders.

Well, I know. And I’m going to get away. Get out. I know too much, and Mom’s ignorance is a happy shield right now.

“I guess I should hit the hay if I’m going to take your mother to have Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Did you know that’s a thing? All these years, I thought it was a movie title, but no, the second she found out about this business trip, she started going on about visiting Tiffany’s. Gonna buy her something pretty from there—let her pick it out herself. She’s always dreamed of going to Tiffany’s, you know.”

“I know.” And dad could never take her, and a divorced single mother working full-time and part-time on top of it could never afford that. Could barely afford to dream.

I go over to Ronnie and kiss him on the forehead as he puts his glass on the coffee table. “You go and spoil that woman, Ronnie. I’m glad you make her so happy, Pops.”

“Vincenzo’s gonna make you just as happy, sweetie.”

“I’m sure he’d try.” I give him a hug.

One last hug.

***

“J O, LET HER SLEEP. Come on. My gold card is burning a hole in my pants, babe. You know what we’re going to do after breakfast? Gonna get you something for every part of you. That pretty neck. Those sweet little wrists. Your earlobes—which will make ‘em hard to nibble, but I’m a man who sacrifices for his wife.”

“Ronnie, you’re wonderful—and so bad. Okay, okay, we’ll let her sleep. Probably would have to bump off someone to get a third seat, anyway. But we’re going to buy her a present.”

“Anything you want to buy her, honey. Just not a ring. I think that’ll be Vin’s job.”

In the midst of squealing, giggling, and some long pauses that are probably filled with R-rated whispers and kisses, my parents leave the hotel suite.

I’m next.

I’ve been awake almost all night, planning on the best way to do this, to make it look like something happened to me unexpectedly, not like I planned this.

My note is written on a torn piece of notebook paper.

Hi Mom and Ronnie,

Going to tour two campuses, one in the morning, one at two. Don’t let me interfere with your plans for dinner. I’ll text you, but my signal’s been spotty on the subway.

Love,

Angela

What would I take to go to two college campuses and be out all day in the city? My purse, my designer backpack, and maybe my laptop in its hard-shell case.

That’s good, because that’s enough to carry a couple changes of clothes, my wallet, my birth control pills, and allergy meds, which are always in my purse when I travel anyway, and some toiletries, but not enough to make it obvious I’m leaving.

They’re going to panic. They’re going to think you got killed. Kidnapped.

But if I tell them the truth, am I going to be hunted down and forced into marriage? If they knew where I was, would my parents be getting threats to talk and reveal my location?

No, no. It’s better to get away, then find a way to contact them.

“Okay, keys, phone, wallet...” I take the SIM card out of my older model phone, one that I refused to upgrade. I’m happy now, because later, I’ll just pop that baby into my new phone—once I get one. I’ll be passing a hundred corner shops and sketchy stands where I can buy a cheap pay-as-you-go phone. My phone is going to get “dropped” on a southbound subway train. My credit cards will stop pinging. My debit card...

Sigh. I’m glad Ronnie insisted on giving me an “allowance,” even though I never touched it. Every time I left the house for the past three years, he’s handed me anything from a few twenties to a wad of cash and said, “Have a good time, here’s money for gas.” He gave me California spoiled brat money, and since my idea of a splurge was a convenience store soda, a new novel from the bookstore, and a full tank of gas, I still have most of it.

How can such a kind man be involved in something so brutal as the mob? They move drugs and guns. They might even move people. I shudder.

No, I’m running. I grew up poor, I can go back to it. They can try to catch me, but I’m going to keep moving until they do.

I survey what’s left in my hotel room. Most of my clothes. Most everything. It looks like I’m coming back, and that’s the goal.

I remember when my mom grabbed me out of my bed in the middle of the night because my father had some “friends” over who wanted their money back. She scooped me up and put me in the car with a blanket and my sneakers.

“You can cry when we get to a safe place,” she whispered, driving away from my dad and the raised voices and thrown punches.

“I’ll cry when I get to a safe place,” I repeat her words and grab only what I need.

***

M Y PHONE GOES ON A southbound subway while my debit card hits ATMs at six different locations, one in each direction. I’m not chasing my tail, I’m leaving a trail in case they decide to follow it.

Would they call the police?

No. I’m counting on the fact that mafia capos (a word I looked up at the New York Public Library this morning) do not want the police to get involved in their business. Once they start digging, there wouldn’t be a way to stop them.

At four in the afternoon, I finally board a northbound regional rail train. I don’t know where I’m going. Somewhere cheap. I paid for my ticket in cash, and I can get off wherever I want.

My new phone is the kind they market to seniors, with big numbers and a tiny screen that doesn’t connect to the internet. It’s not going to be any help in researching where I’m going.

They’ll expect you to go somewhere you’re familiar with. California. Back to New Jersey.

Far away.

They’ll never expect you to stay in New York.

I take a seat up front, near a surly-looking man in a regional rail uniform, who glares at me and dares me to speak.

I dare. “You’re familiar with all the stops on this line, right?”

“Fourteen years on this line. What’s wrong?” he demands.

“If you wanted to recommend a cheap town with safe neighborhoods, where would you recommend?”

“Cheap and trashy would be easier.”

“Affordable, then. Looking at the ratio of average income to average housing cost,” I say, thinking about internet searches I want to make—and can’t right now.

“Affordable and nice. Well...” he scratches his head, the surly look fading (probably because I asked him a question that plays to his expertise and didn’t spout off complaints about things he can’t do anything about). “Well, Binghamton or Ogdensburg, I’d say. There are some little towns up in the mountains, too. Most of them don’t have stops on this line, but if you get off at Binghamton, you could get Susquehanna and Western Rail up to Pine Ridge, or even cross over into Pennsylvania and hit Antonia. Nice little college towns, both of them.”

College towns.

My directionless heart leaps, then falls. I can’t enroll in a college. Not yet. I have cash, but not enough to pay for graduate courses.

Someday. This is temporary. I’m not running and hiding forever, just until I’m no longer someone’s gift with purchase.

God, I hope I’m doing the right thing. The smart thing...

“Which one did you say was in Pennsylvania?” I ask.

“Antonia. Real small place. Surprised it has a train station, to be honest. Pretty sure they only put it in for leaf peepers and the college crowd. Ha. More like a college trickle.”

That might be too small of a place. Won’t I stand out?

“Can you tell me what time the train for Pine Ridge leaves Binghamton?”

He doesn’t even have to look it up. “Eight tonight. You have time to spare.” He gives me a stern look as he stops speaking. “Not a place known for its nightlife, though.”

“Oh. Darn.” Good. I don’t need to get mixed up with any sleazy guys or bad boys. And really, if he says there’s no nightlife in a college town, he probably just doesn’t know where to look. I’m sure there will be coffee houses and a few bars. I’ll find a hotel for the night and figure out what to do in the morning.

***

“W HAT THE HELL KIND of college town is this? Mayberry,” I grumble, happy I packed light, mentally already shopping. My feet hurt. There are no cabs to hail, I don’t have cell service up in the mountains with this stupid phone, and it’s very... rural. After walking all over New York, my cute but not very supportive sneakers feel like flat pieces of cardboard on my sore feet as I hike from the train station (a concrete platform with two benches) towards town.

Things rustle in the woods and swoop in the air. Big things. Like giant bats.

You’re going to get murdered by banjo-playing mountain men. Is that a thing? Or do I mean a bloodthirsty lumberjack?

No. If there were lumberjacks, there wouldn’t be so many damn trees in the way and I could see further ahead! I should have come in the daylight.

I sigh and stop tormenting myself. Well. I guess I have a choice of being murdered in the woods in podunk Pine Ridge or being murdered in some mafia shootout in my plushy mansion.

My feet stab me, and I’m leaning towards the plushy mansion.

Sure. Yeah. Where you get to watch your husband groping Carlotta and packing his bags for a weekend with Gabrielle? Where you wonder if there’s ammo in the pantry or poison in the soup?

The two-lane road that I’ve been walking on connects to a street, and I see signs of life up ahead! Cute little brick storefronts. A soft spring breeze, much cooler than California, much cooler than the city, for that matter, brushes my cheek.

My trudging feet become light and springy again as cars pass me, and I spot knots of people moving along the neat gray sidewalks ahead.

Clean and cozy. People are laughing and talking as they stroll, their body language relaxed and open.

This is clearly not a big crime area, or people would walk fast, with a purpose, their heads down, hands clasped on their bags.

Great, it’s cute. What’s that get you? Wide-eyed, I scan everything in sight, trying not to think about how my mother is panicking, what Ronnie is probably confessing to her right now.

Is he accusing the Genovese family of kidnapping me or worse?

Is my mother sobbing in some police station?

My eyes fill with tears, and I wipe them away with an impatient snap of my wrist.

“Ow!” My shout has a twin. Not only did I just walk into the large green sign that proclaims, “Pine Ridge: A Town With a Heart as Big as the Great Outdoors, but my angry arm flail connected with a pregnant blonde in paw print scrubs and scuffed black Doc Martens covered in silver studs.

“I’m so sorry!” we both cry out, turning to face each other.

“Pregnancy brain! I’m going to milk this excuse as long as I can,” she giggles, rubbing her shoulder.

“My fault, I... I don’t have a pregnancy to use as cover, I’m just new here.” I manage a smile and weak laugh, internally berating myself for admitting I’m new.

“Ooh, summer courses start in a couple of weeks, don’t they?” Pregnant with Paw Prints smiles. “I’m in the veterinary medicine program myself.”

“I’m...not. No. I’m not a college student. At the moment. I have a degree and I’m looking for work. For a fresh start.” What the hell? She opened up, and I kind of decked her. I guess I can be a little open, too. At least I didn’t say, “I’m looking for a fresh start so I don’t end up as some mafia moll in an arranged marriage.”

“Pine Ridge should seriously change its name,” Blondie sighs. “It should be called Second Chanceville or something like that. You’d be surprised how many people come here for a “fresh start.” There’s a lot of energy around this place. How you use it, positively or negatively, depends on the person.”

“Oh. Cool.” Great. Next, she’ll tell me to mosey on down and get my palm read. Maybe tell me my aura needs a cleansing.

“Where are you staying in town? Country Pines?”

“I’m not sure. Is Country Pines a good hotel?”

“It’s the only hotel—unless you want to rent a room at the White Pines estate. They usually only do that if you’re here for a work conference or something.”

“Which one’s closer? Or cheaper?”

“Is money an issue? Because—”

“No, I’m just trying not to spend my savings before I have money to replace them,” I wave off her concerned face with a laugh, but my insides suddenly hurt with a new layer of pain. Such genuine care and concern from a stranger makes me miss the relationship I used to have with my mom, when it was just her and me, alone against the world. Before she became the capo’s queen and stuck me in the role of confused-as-fuck princess.

“When you say fresh start, you mean like living here?”

I nod as we start walking toward the noisiest spot on the block. I don’t know if I’m just stopping for the night or for the foreseeable future, and it’s probably smart to keep my plans close to my chest. A harmless fib or two is in everyone’s best interest. “I’m staying if the rent isn’t too steep and work is available.”

“Work is usually available.”

Her sentence hangs, like there might be an explanation as to why work is so easy to come by, but she doesn’t add any other information.

“I’m Libby Angelakis. My husband works at the Night Market. He makes the coolest things out of metal. See?” She lifts a pendant from her neck and shows me an intricately forged anchor on a silver chain. “He made this for me before we got engaged. Because he’s my anchor—and this place is my safe place.”

Apparently the “energy” around here equals oversharing.

Apparently it’s catching, too. “A safe place sounds amazing. I’m not on the run because of anything I’ve done! Just... I need to get away from someone who wants me to do something,” I conclude with a hopeless shrug. “Running away doesn’t solve any problems, does it?”

“You’d be surprised. Sometimes you have to run in order to fight. It’s called a strategic retreat.” Libby slips a protective arm through mine. “Country Pines is a few miles out of town, but I’ll drop you off there if you want to stay in a hotel for the night.”

“Oh, I can walk—” The words hang.

“Sure, but I wouldn’t recommend walking in the dark. It’s hard to see, and if you don’t know the area... Yeah, why don’t you let me drive you? Or we’ll find you a ride.”

I hesitate. Sure, she has a point. I don’t know the area, and it’s dark, even with a bright moon in the sky. Women walking alone at night on the highway... Hello, horror movie.

Don’t trust overly friendly strangers.

Don’t walk alone in the dark. Don’t go to isolated little towns in the mountains, idiot.

“Um. Why don’t we go to the Night Market first?” Libby asks. “I have to drop off my husband’s dinner and pick up our cats. You can meet some of the folks around here, get a feel for the place, see if anyone is hiring. What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Wish I knew,” I mutter, wriggle my blistering toes, and let myself be led toward the bustling center of the avenue. Up ahead, half hidden by the shops in front of it, is a large lot covered in stalls and vendors and lit by strands of fairy lights. Behind the lot is a solid mass of pines, a black-green strand standing between civilization and the rising hills that lead toward small, rocky peaks in the distance.

“I see why it is called Pine Ridge.”

“I’m taking this history course at the library with Milo—that’s my husband—and we learned that pine trees are symbols for birth, renewal, life, longevity, and even immortality.”

“That’s cool.” It is, and my miserable insides perk up a little. “I love facts like that. Too bad you can’t major in obscure trivia or plant parenting.”

Libby chuckles. “No, but you could get a job at Onyx Farms or Kane Landscaping and Garden Center.”

Is that what I want? A life on the run, in hiding, working around lawn mowers and potted plants?

“Maybe.”

***

T HE NIGHT MARKET REMINDS me of the St. Anthony’s Christmas Bazaar. My mom, grandmother, and I would go every year, at least twice, because it ran for the whole first week of December. The same good vibes—everyone knowing everyone else. Libby’s husband is a huge dude in the biggest Metallica hoodie I’ve ever seen. His stall is flanked by two gray cats who sit among daggers and necklaces like living bookends. All the men in Pine Ridge are tall—at least the ones who Libby hails with a friendly smile. Before I know it, I’m holding a 20% off coupon from Chloe’s Curiosities (a secondhand stall), a fudge sample that rivals the copper kettle fudge sold in Cape May, a cup of lemonade, and a bag of buttery, salty popcorn.

“Why are people so nice here?” I finally crack and ask the crowd that’s now tagging along with Libby, Milo, and me— two hulking men who hang back and talk trash about each other’s canasta skills, and their wives, Claire and Melinda.

“You have to rely on each other around here. The town sees some harsh weather,” Genesis says.

“College kids come and go, you get close with your neighbors,” Georgie, the third tall drink of water, shrugs, his deep voice gruff.

“There aren’t any big department stores in the town itself, just on the highways leading out of it,” Milo adds. “So everyone has to shop in the same little places, get to know the same servers and staff...”

“Because nice people live here,” Melinda says firmly, tossing her long red waves. “Honey, we have a date night to get back to,” she hooks Genesis by the elbow, and even though he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to look at his dark, craggy features, he practically simpers and follows like he’s on a leash. “Welcome to Pine Ridge, Angela! You’ll love it here.”

I hope she’s right.

***

L IBBY DROPS ME OFF at the motel and shows me how the place works. Vacant rooms accept cards in slots, and you get your room at the touch of a button. In my case, the room’s pin pad has a cash slot, and I insert three twenties and get a ten-dollar bill spit back at me.

“That’s new,” she mutters. “I thought they just accepted cards. Oh, well. The Country Pines Motel has a local legend around it.”

“Not haunted?” I ask, suddenly aware that there are no other cars in the lot but hers. Oh, yep. If this were a horror movie, the ax murderer would be emerging from the woods right about now...

“No, no. But whoever spends a night here gets just what they need.”

“A million bucks and a plane ticket under my pillow?” I joke. I realize I could have had both things, probably, if I’d gone along with the idea of being someone’s princess plaything. “How’d the legend get started?”

Libby shrugs. “Something about the owners being kind people, I think.”

I push open the door, half-wincing. For fifty bucks a night, I’m expecting something squalid. Hell, I’m still half expecting to turn around and see Libby’s giant of a husband with a chainsaw and a ski mask.

But the room is beautiful—softly lit with beige and pink accents, and complimentary slippers that look like cotton clouds are just inside the door. With a little cry, I peel my sneakers off but pause when I get to my socks, realizing I still have an audience.

“I’ll leave you to it. In the morning, you can get a ride to town with your rideshare app.”

I waggle my “dumb” phone at her. “No apps.”

“Oh, man. A classic,” Libby giggles, and then rummages in her purse. She pulls out a veterinarian office’s business card and writes a number on the back. “That’s my cell. Let me know if you need a ride tomorrow.”

“Libby, thank you, but I—”

“It’s not a big deal,” she waves me off. “I moved here a couple of years ago, and people took me right under their wings. The least I can do is return the favor. Have a good night. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Libby drives off, and I hear my mom’s voice in my head. You can cry when you get somewhere safe.

This seems safe. And there are slippers waiting. And a big comfy bed...

Exhausted sobs slip out of me, but they’re mixed with relief.

Safe for now.

***

A FTER A LONG, HOT BATH in the way too big for one person tub and raiding the basket of snacks the motel left out (I don’t see a sign saying how much I’m going to be charged, so I assume they’re free), I open my laptop and connect it to the internet using the guest password posted above the nightstand.

My head feels clearer, even though my eyes and feet are puffier. I’ll get in touch with Mom via email and tell her not to find me. Tell her to keep it a secret. Can I do that? Can they trace my location through an email? I mean, you can send an email from anywhere with internet, right?

I chew my lip and open my email, breath catching when an email from my mother is sitting right at the top, simply labeled “Hi Honey.”

My insides freeze. I was stupid to leave her behind, wasn’t I? What if they’re forcing her to send this email? What if...

I open it and read it a few times, confused, and then hopeful.

Sweetie, Ronnie told me everything. You were right to leave. Joey Genovese is furious and thinks this is some kind of power play. I can’t say much here, but big shake-ups are coming, and I might not be able to get in touch for a while.

I’m going to tell you three things, and I want you to promise to do them.

If you’re safe, write me back and say Okay, Mom . Tell me the name of grandma’s cat in the subject line of the email so I know you’re really safe. Based on how furious Joey is, I know he doesn’t have you. I think you ran off. Now that I know what I know, I’m glad you did.

After that email, give me a month before you try to get in touch. I will reach out first, but it may not be from this email. That’s all I can say.

Take precautions. Stay in safe places with witnesses around you. Genovese has bad, bad men in his operation and he’s not all there up top. Don’t underestimate him. That can make him more dangerous. He’s looking for you. Tell the local police you need protection.

I’m so sorry all this happened, Angie. I should have seen the signs, but I turned a blind eye because I was in love and I was happy. For the first time, I didn’t have to worry about money or giving you the lifestyle you deserved, my sweet little princess. I could finally offer you a happy fairytale life after we were stuck in the cinders for so long. Ronnie’s sorry, too. No matter what he’s done, I believe he has a good heart, and he’s on our side with this.

We’ll be together soon. I promise.

Love, Mom

With blurry eyes and shaking fingers, I type in Murgatroyd, the name of my grandmother’s stubborn old tabby, and write my note back.

Okay, Mom. I love you. Stay safe, too.

Flopping back on the bed, I close my laptop and slide it to the side.

Bad men are looking for me?

Well, yeah, I thought that might happen.

Tell the local police. Stay where there are witnesses...

At least a real princess has knights and a tall tower to protect her from the bad guys. I have a pregnant vet student and her overgrown husband, who makes weapons to sell at a flea market.

Hm. Maybe that’s not a bad place to start.