Time Stops With You

Chapter 1

One

CULLEN

The team of A-list software engineers squirm inside my computer screen. Pixelated sweat glides down pixelated faces.

“C-Cullen?” my AI technician squeaks.

“Did his video freeze?” another inquires.

Thus begins a wave of frantic head-bobbing and mouse-jangling. World-class technicians brought to their knees by, what they believe, is an internet connectivity issue.

If only it were that simple.

“I’m here,” I say quietly. After all the radiation treatments, my ability to yell is gone. But silent wrath is still wrath nonetheless.

The team swallows loud enough that the computer mikes pick up the gulp. There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence. Then the engineers speak, overlapping over each other as the lines around their videos shine neon.

“It was ninety-nine percent accurate in the projections.”

“We keep meeting the same parameter block.”

“We did all the calculations twice.”

The more I see the bright green signatures, the more my frustration grows. Do they not understand my urgency? Fate isn’t on my side. My body slowed down, and death is slowing down to keep up with me, proving how ravenous it is for my blood.

Time is an even bigger villain.

Or more accurately, it’s my scorned lover.

The more I chase it, the more it despises me.

I can’t afford to make a single wrong move, not when the days are slipping through my fingers like sand.

The ever present knot in my stomach tightens. Gritting my teeth, I move toward the monitor. The gaming chair creaks as if I’m still my original one hundred and eighty-five pounds.

“Only twice?” I repeat.

The silence is deafening.

“And only ninety-nine percent?”

No one dares to say a word. I can smell my team’s fear through the computer screen.

“It’s been eight months. Eight months. And we can’t get over this one hurdle.” My eyes flash from one monitor to the next. “Why are all the projections failing?”

To my left, a video feed lights up neon.

I lift a swift hand. “Don’t answer that.”

The neon goes dead.

“Our planes are dropping out of the air.” I feel a tweak in my chest. A warning from my body that I’m speaking too loudly. Adjusting the volume, I continue while tapping my finger hard against the table. “We can’t even solve the connectivity issues between the drones and the controller. Our investors are expecting a simulation at the end of the quarter. Your excuses are meaningless.”

“If I may interject here,” Dr. Killick Young, the oldest engineer on our team, speaks hesitantly, “engineering pilot- less planes is already an enormous task. We joined this project excited for the possibilities, but the timeframe is a bit unmanageable.”

“Unmanageable? You were aware of the timeframe when you signed the contract and you didn’t seem to have a problem when your performance fee landed in your bank account.”

Dr. Young cringes.

One of the engineers speaks up, eager to join the mutiny, “I agree with Dr. Young. Planes have been around for decades. If pilot-less flights were feasible, it would have been done by now.”

“We need more time,” another adds.

The engineers bob their heads in unison, a silent agreement to overthrow me, but I can’t be swayed. A ravaging illness in my lungs couldn’t knock me down. Doubts and fear aren’t enough to stop me.

“Are you asking me to readjust my timeframe?” I growl, staring head on at the camera. “ Me? ”

Dr. Young’s eyelashes flutter a bit in discomfort. “Reality is what it is. It would be faster to invent time travel than to code this.”

I inhale deeply through my nose.

In. Out.

So many people take for granted that subconscious ability. To breathe. To exhale. But the air rushing through my lungs—that’s liquid gold to me.

“Go back and look at your contracts. Go back and read the transcripts from our interviews. Do I look like I give a damn about reality?”

The chair creaks even louder, moaning and protesting as I crouch closer to the monitors.

“I don’t care how many hours you work. I don’t care how late you stay up at night. I don’t even care if you get a divorce and your kids abandon you in your old age. When I chose you, each of you ,” I glance between the faces, “it was because you were pushing the boundaries of your respective fields. It was because you believed in this project, you believed in the impossible.”

“But Cullen?—”

“So,” I interrupt heatedly, “get those planes to remain airborne or it’ll be hell on earth…”

The threat fades as a strange tingle runs up my neck. I’m attuned to my computers like a mother to a sick infant and I know immediately that something’s wrong.

I swivel around to take account of the code I’m running in the background. Goosebumps prickle up my arm and the hair on the back of my neck stands to attention.

The code’s been interrupted.

For a moment, I assume that it’s a trick of the light or that I’m losing my mind after taking strong meds while sleeping only two hours a day.

But no.

The entire monitor has turned green.

What the…

Eyes latching onto the computer, I push my chair to the left. The wheels squeak against the cold floors, turning in all directions despite my sharp and intense push down a sure path.

“Cullen, what’s wrong?” Asad, an engineer I scouted from a giant tech company, peers at me from his video feed.

I ignore him, my entire being focused on the interrupted code.

Unbelievable.

Someone just broke into our mainframe.

I’m on the move. Fingers to keyboard. Line after line. I build a defense and the hacker keeps tearing it down like an expert in a game of whack-a-mole.

“Cullen, I got an alert! Someone hacked into the mainframe!” Asad yells, his delayed warning an annoying buzz in my ears.

Dr. Young gasps. “I saw the notification too.”

“Did anyone leave a backdoor open in the code?” I rasp.

Everyone shakes their heads. Not that they’d openly admit to a mistake that would cost them millions in damages and lawyer fees.

My eyebrows tighten until they meet in the middle of my forehead. Who the hell barged into my program uninvited?

Error message after error message pops up. Each time I find a way to trap him, the hacker slithers out of my grasp like a wiry snake. The war rages for what feels like hours, but the clock only shows a two minute difference.

And then it’s over as abruptly as it began.

The hacker disappears into thin air, leaving a bread crumb that fizzles out to a dead end.

I scroll through the code, bewildered and mesmerized. This programming language is unlike anything I’ve seen before.

“What was that?” Asad asks, breathing hard as if he just ran a two-hundred mile marathon.

“The Russians!” Dr. Young barks.

“Wasn’t them,” I grumble.

“How are you so sure?” Dr. Young challenges.

The man has a brilliant mind that is easily swayed by conspiracy theories. His eccentricity is the sole reason I could convince him to join this project.

“Look here. And here.” I point to the backward slash in the lines of the code the hacker left behind. “Coding is binary and universal, but every country has a slightly different language. The Russians don’t use this symbol.”

“Maybe it was an American working for the Russians,” Dr. Young counters.

I don’t bother answering him. My mind whirs with fresh concern. “Whoever the hacker is, their approach is far too imaginative and unusual to be an organized attack. This felt…”

“What?” Asad hangs on my every word.

“Like a… game.”

“Who plays games at this level?” Dr. Young bellows. “Check again. I bet they left a ransom notice.”

“They didn’t.”

“Did they steal anything?” Asad asks, rubbing his neck in concern.

“No. They didn’t erase anything either.”

Murmurs of ‘that’s so strange’ break out from the team.

“Whatever that was, at least it’s over now and we didn’t lose years of progress,” Asad declares, pushing up his glasses with a thick finger.

Everyone seems reassured.

Except me.

Something still feels off and I can’t put a finger on it.

Dr. Young’s video lights up neon. “Cullen, if I may, I think now would be a good time to remind the team of programming fundamentals. Especially in times like these, we should have a back up of our back ups…”

Dr. Young begins a lecture on security protocols, while I continue to scroll. I read the code line by line until...

There.

I stop cold when I see an unexpected string of code introduced at the very start of the hacker’s attack.

There are two simple words.

HELLO WORLD.

I’d missed it when the computer first glitched since I hadn’t been watching this particular monitor at that time, but it’s right there. In ones and zeroes. Plain as day.

My heart beats wildly. I share a screenshot with the team. “Are you guys seeing this?”

Asad’s jaw drops until it’s out of range of the camera.

Dr. Young’s bushy grey eyebrows hunker low over eyes narrowed to concentrated slits.

The others scratch their heads.

Asad trembles. “Who on earth are we dealing with here?”

A strange wave tugs at my chest. It’s not of anger or fear. The wave carries with it… something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Asad shakes his head. “This must be some sort of prank.”

“Who breaks into a billion-dollar simulation for kicks and giggles?” Dr. Young counters.

They’re all good questions. Great questions.

And the answer is…

I don’t know.

But I want them.

Whoever they are.

I run a hand over my buzzcut, letting the prickly sensation of new growth soothe me. My thoughts are rushing and I keep turning the string of code over and over in my mind. ‘HELLO WORLD’ is the first lesson that beginner programmers learn.

Beginner?

Is it even possible for a beginner to do this?

At that moment, a light bulb goes off in my brain.

“Asad,” I say, “let’s host a competition.”

“Right now? Between us?”

“No.” My lips curl up ever-so-slightly. “For all programmers. Open it up worldwide. We’ll expose the interface of our simulation and invite competitors to solve the connectivity problem we’ve been facing.”

Immediately, the engineers erupt in disapproval.

“That’s insane!”

“We all signed NDAs and now you want to expose the simulation!”

Asad trembles from the monitor. “If we share this with the world now, other people might copy the idea.”

I scoff. “We can’t even solve it ourselves. Who’s going to copy it and solve it ahead of us?”

Dr. Young scrambles to change my mind. “Cullen, I’ve been a part of big projects like this before and there’s another reason we keep these simulations under wraps. People are resistant to change. They get uncomfortable when they see things they don’t understand. And getting into an unmanned commercial airplane? The masses will shut us down before we have a chance to prove ourselves.”

“Just because someone’s afraid of change doesn’t mean change will stop coming,” I argue. “I’m not afraid of the public.”

Asad chews worriedly on his bottom lip.

Dr. Young clears his throat. “Cullen, why don’t you take a deep breath?”

I scowl. His cajoling tone reminds me of the nurses who used to catch me on my laptop when I was stuck in the hospital.

“Let’s take a day to think about this and investigate properly before making rash decisions, hm?”

“We are. Hosting. A competition,” I slow my words down, leaving no room for argument.

The frown lines increase around Dr. Young’s wrinkly mouth. “I don’t think the investors will like this.”

“The investors trust my judgement,” I fire back. But the doctor has a point. The company—and thus the pilot-less plane simulation—were bought by Richard Sullivan, a second-generation billionaire.

Although Sullivan isn’t a programmer, the many zeroes in my bank account that turned me into a nine-figure CEO are his contribution to the project.

“Even if Sullivan has a problem, I’ll move now and ask forgiveness later.”

“I know why you’re doing this,” Asad calls me out.

I lean back and the creeaaak of the chair sounds like bubble wrap popping directly in my ear drums.

“You’ve got stars in your eyes for that hacker.”

I don’t deny it.

“But do you really think a programmer who doesn’t follow the rules will want to work with us? And would they even be trustworthy enough not to stab us in the back and sell our simulation to the highest bidder? When all is said and done, skills aren’t enough in this business. Discretion is also necessary.”

The team grumbles their agreement.

Who’s the boss here? Me or you? The thought lingers in my head, but I don’t voice it. I’ve been out of commission for months on end and, many times, the team had to carry on without me. My position as leader and CEO is now weak as a consequence. That’s my fault and nobody else’s.

“These are all valid concerns, but if we don’t move now, the hacker might not…”

The doorbell rings at that moment. I’ve programmed the sound to Beethoven’s Für Elise and the staccato classical piece fills the room.

“Did you order something?” Asad asks, squinting at me.

I shake my head. Not many people know my address, so I assume it’s either someone who wants to sell me their religion or a vacuum.

There’s a doorbell app on my phone. I power the device on and notifications come flooding in. There are ten missed calls from the hospital.

I swipe them away. Ignore.

Navigating out of the call logs, I tap my door bell app and a live video fills the screen.

Uh-oh.

I immediately push away from my desk. “Asad, you’re in charge of the competition. Put together a short scene from the simulation. Don’t mention anything about the connectivity issue.”

“But…”

“The office manager will work with you. Have them write up the competition rules and handle the PR and marketing side of this. We’ll also invest a few thousand dollars into advertising in all the online communities. I want this on every social media platform. Everywhere programmers hang out online. I want this competition blasted across the web today. ”

Asad, who’d been sipping a glass of tea, spits out his drink. “Did you say… today? ”

“Yes.”

“Why the rush?” Dr. Young mumbles. “It’s not like you have a chance of finding that hacker. Why come back to the scene of the crime?”

“I guarantee you…” I pause and stare at each of the monitors. “We’ll have him in less than an hour.”

Dr. Young lifts a finger, ready to debate me.

Asad looks like he’s on the verge of a heart attack.

I cut off the video meeting just as another round of Beethoven fills my ears. The unwelcome visitor on my porch keeps stabbing my doorbell button.

I make a mental note to install a mechanism so that anyone who presses the damn thing more than three times will receive the shock of their life.

Holy crap. I’m turning into the Grinch.

Oh well. It’s not like I’ll be around to terrorize people for long. The Ghost of Christmas Past and the Ghost of Christmas Present are already on my doorstep.

And as for the Ghost of Christmas Future? Well, it’s obvious that he won’t be hovering around any time soon.

Do the ghosts belong to the Grinch or the Scrooge story?

I’m mixing up my grumpy Christmas villains, but the point remains. I don’t like people, so it’s a bonus when they don’t like me back.

I force myself to swing the door open and face the giant man standing on my doorstep.

“Hello, Mr. Cullen,” Darrel Hastings says and I immediately want to shut the door again.

Thankfully, I’m smart enough to know that would be the wrong move. Hastings is a close friend of my investor, Richard Sullivan. The two are members of a billionaires-only club, along with a few other prominent businessmen in the city.

They meet at this place called ‘the farmhouse’. I assume it’s a luxurious underground bar that serves caviar and flecks of gold in their drinks.

“Can I help you, Mr. Hastings?” I ask gruffly.

Darrel peers at me with probing green eyes and I eventually look away. While some people are freaked out by robots and their unblinking eyeballs, I find human eye contact far more disquieting.

“Would you be offended if I told you I’m here to help you ?” Hastings answers.

My unease grows. “If you’re here to tell me about your Lord and Savior?—”

“I’m not,” Darrel says with a chuckle.

“Oh.” My eyes shift to the scenery over his shoulder.

It’s a beautiful day with a startlingly blue sky and fluffy clouds rolling by. Trees bend their branches ever so slightly from the rough winds blowing from the west.

Huh. Since when did those trees start bearing fruit? Has it really been so long since I left the house or looked up at the sky?

“You have a very nice place,” Hastings says. I notice he hasn’t invited himself in. Is that on purpose? Is he waiting for me to offer him a drink or something? Do I have to? Crap. I really don’t want to.

“Yes, I like it,” I say succinctly. At least that’s the truth. The first thing I did when I got my payday from Sullivan was buy an acreage miles away from the city.

Now, instead of living in a cramped apartment where I’m forced to exchange small talk with people in the elevator, I have nothing but trees and grass for company.

A housekeeper comes in once a week to deep clean and set everything the way I like it. She delivers groceries and sets pre-cooked meals in the fridge too.

I have no idea what her name is and I highly doubt she even knows mine. She never asks me questions or seems that interested in my life. As long as I pay her, she stays out of my way.

Unlike some people…

I eye Darrel again.

He stares back at me frankly. “You seem uncomfortable, Mr. Cullen.”

“I’m trying to understand why you’re here.”

“Can I come in?”

That wasn’t an answer to my question.

My fingers tighten on the door knob but, because I know Hastings’ visit probably has something to do with my investor, Sullivan, I step back and allow him to enter.

His gaze darts around my living room, bouncing from the high chandelier to the sweeping staircase to the floor-to-ceiling windows always covered by heavy, black-out curtains.

“This isn’t what I imagined a programming genius’s house would look like,” he comments.

I don’t bother asking him what he imagined. People’s opinion of me ranks at the bottom of my list of interests.

“I think I expected at least one robot,” he adds with a smirk.

“I have two.” I point to the robot vacuum zooming around in the large kitchen. The robots have names, but I’m not obliged to share that information with the therapist.

Hastings’ mouth quirks up. I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a grimace. He walks forward, his back ramrod straight. There’s something about the way he carries himself, like he’s a general in the army? Was he in the military?

No, I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, he walked away from a lucrative career on Wall Street to study neuropsychiatry. He’s not a soldier but a scientist. The man knows brains like I know code.

When is he leaving? I don’t want him parsing through my thoughts or trying to unearth my deepest secrets.

Hastings takes a seat in the luxurious brown sofa where I sometimes eat and game with my video game creator friends.

I guess he’s not leaving any time soon.

“You want a drink or anything?” I offer reluctantly.

He shakes his head and then changes his mind. “Oh, actually, just a water please. Thank you.”

I offer him a bottle and take the seat across from him. He says nothing for a moment and just watches me.

It’s unnerving.

Nothing against him. I find humans in general wildly difficult to understand. Fake politeness. Unnecessary social conventions. Dishonesty. Backstabbing. They’re all a part of the human experience.

A computer, on the other hand, can only be programmed to do what it’s instructed or trained to. It’s far more predictable, accurate and trustworthy.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” Darrel says.

I nod and wait.

“Dare,” Hastings says and, at my look of utter confusion, he amends, “I mean Richard Sullivan is a good friend of mine. He’s been trying to connect us both for a very long time.”

“I’m aware.” The amount of times Sullivan’s tried to get me to see a counselor can’t be counted. Were he not very obviously a man and married to a famous deaf social media influencer, I’d have wondered if he were my mother in disguise.

Hastings looks at me as if he expects me to say more. When I don’t, he adds, “Mr. Sullivan thinks very highly of you.”

“Not me. He thinks highly of my abilities.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”

“Of course there is.”

“What kind of a difference?”

“Is this a therapy session?”

“I’m only asking questions, Mr. Cullen.”

“Are you? It feels like I’m under arrest.”

Hastings changes the subject. “Are you aware that the hospital has been trying to reach you?”

A flare of annoyance rises in my chest. I don’t know this man and he doesn’t know me, so why is he acting like he’s trying to save me from myself?

“Mr. Hastings?—”

“You can call me Darrel.”

“Mr. Hastings,” I speak sharply, “if Sullivan sent you here because he’s afraid I’ll off myself before he gets his money’s worth, he doesn’t have to worry. You can let him know that I have no plans to die before this project is complete.”

Hastings studies me with a hint of pity in his eyes. “Most of us don’t control when or how we die, Mr. Cullen.”

“But some of us are more friendly with death than others.” I inhale. Exhale. Again, a small miracle for me.

“Can I ask why you’ve been avoiding the hospital?” Darrel asks pointedly.

My mouth spreads into a thin line. “How is that any of your business?”

“It’s not. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t even know me.”

Exactly what I’ve been thinking.

“How often do you have visitors here, Mr. Cullen?”

“Why do you ask?” I grunt, still on guard.

“This place looks very clean. Very big.” He glances around. “Very grand. The chandeliers,” he pauses and, for the first time since he entered, I see a genuine smile cross his mouth, “my wife, Sunny, would make a lot of high-pitched, squeaking sounds if she saw the design.”

“I didn’t know you were married.” It’s more like I didn’t know someone would marry him. Darrel Hastings seems kind of… stiff.

Not that I can judge.

As a computer nerd for most of my life, I’ve had little experience with women. What little I’ve encountered of them has completely baffled me.

Women demand a man who ‘understands’ them, but they set arbitrary and constantly shifting parameters for what should be understood. They desire someone who ‘listens’, yet are never open for feedback or solutions when the listener is ready to speak. They complain constantly, chat incessantly, and always want something, whether it’s attention, affection, or time—of which I have very little.

Darrel lifts his ring finger proudly. “I married my high school sweetheart. Well, it was more of a one-sided crush. On my end. I pined for Sunny the moment I saw her and she didn’t even know my name. She called me ‘The Hoodie Guy’ and, in senior year, she humiliated me in front of the entire student body.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well. She thought I was a creep, so the humiliation was justified in her eyes.”

“How did you end up marrying her?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“It started off rocky. As you can imagine.” Hastings leans back in the chair, grinning broadly. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her again, but no matter how much I told myself I disliked her, I couldn’t get her out of my head. Finally, I gave up and admitted that I couldn’t live without her. She was, is ,” he amends, “as bright, warm and beautiful as her name.”

I leak a tiny smile. How can I not? As much as I love robots, I’m not made of metal. Darrel Hastings loves his wife. And she must be something special if he’s here in a stranger’s couch, waxing poetic about how much he adores her.

“What about you?” He gestures to the house. “Did you purchase this place with someone in mind?”

“No.”

“You’re single?”

“Yes.”

“Because you like your space or…”

“Yeah, I like my own space. I do things my own way.”

“Like having the curtains drawn in the middle of the day?”

“I sleep at odd hours. It’s inconvenient when the sun is too bright.”

Darrel narrows his eyes ever so slightly, taking me in. If he had a notepad and a pen, I’m sure he’d be jotting something down right now.

Possibly a vampire.

Lacks warmth and welcome.

Uneasy with prolonged eye contact.

Maybe I’m overthinking. Everything is a bigger deal in my head than it is in real life. Or so my mother used to tell me before she passed.

There’s a lot more things to enjoy in this world than there is on those computers, Ronnie. What are you so afraid of?

If mom were alive today, I’d tell her that it’s not fear that keeps me locked in my computer room, building toward the future I won’t live to see. It’s just preference. Not everyone has to like or want human connection.

I check my watch.

Whoa. We’ve been talking for fifteen minutes.

“Are you interested?” Hastings asks.

“In?”

“A relationship.”

“No.”

“That was quick. You didn’t even think about it,” Darrel observes.

I check my watch again. Has Asad gotten in contact with our team? We’ll need to hire a graphic designer too.

I speak distractedly, “While I admire the people who can make a relationship work, I don’t have the time or the interest in adjusting or compromising with anyone. I have bigger things on my mind.”

“You’re married to your purpose. Is it fulfilling?”

“It’s not like I don’t get lonely but…” I stop abruptly. What the hell am I saying? I’m oversharing. Darrel told me about his wife, creating the illusion of a friendship between us. And I fell for it.

The guy is wicked sharp. No wonder he still makes a killing as a neuropsychologist. If I didn’t catch myself, I would have sat there, spilling my guts about losing both my parents, my general mistrust in relationships, and how much I’m afraid of dying.

I rise to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hastings, I have a lot to do today.”

“Of course.” Hastings rises too.

“And tell Sullivan that I don’t need a psych eval. I just need his trust and some time.”

Hastings walks to the door and turns back. “No one is saying they don’t trust you, Mr. Cullen. This is a big undertaking. One that could take decades to perfect. It would probably help if you alleviated some of the pressure you’re putting on yourself.”

I laugh darkly. “I know the board is still breathing down Sullivan’s neck about it. I know we haven’t been able to show much progress since the start. Can you look me in the eyes and say that has nothing to do with your visit today?”

Hastings lifts his chin imperceptibly. “I need to make one thing very clear, Mr. Cullen. I don’t do house calls. I only work with people who seek me out first. It’s my philosophy that there’s little I can do to help someone who refuses to help themselves. I only showed up today because Dare made a desperate request. That is how much he respects and cares for you.”

I hold back the scoff.

“It may feel like you’re alone in this world, it may feel like you have no one to rely on, no one who’d care if you were gone, but I bet there are more people like Dare. More people who want you to keep going.”

“My parents are dead and Sullivan will move on to another coding genius the moment I lose my value to his company. I’m sure you’re great with delusional patients, Mr. Sullivan, but I assure you that I am not one of them.”

Hastings pops an eyebrow, like maybe he expected something else from me. I don’t know what. I still don’t know why he’s even here, what he even hoped to accomplish.

I gesture to the door, silently nudging him out.

He pushes the door open and then lets it slam shut. Swiveling, he stares me head-on. “What about legacy?”

Legacy?

“We’re all only on this planet for a short time, but have you considered what you’re preparing to leave behind? A business can be bought or sold. Technology can become obsolete. People?—”

“I know what you’re trying to say.”

“And?”

I clear my throat. “I do have a plan for that.”

“I’m not just talking about donating all your money to charity when you’re gone,” Hastings points out and I wonder if he read my mind. “I’m talking about someone who can accept your baton and run with it. Someone who’ll impact the world long after you’re gone because you impacted them. Do you have a legacy like that?”

No. Definitely not.

And I’ve never been interested before.

But now…

I think about the interrupted simulation and the ‘HELLO WORLD’ hidden deep beneath my code.

Do you have a legacy like that?

“Not currently,” I say. “But I will very soon.”

My phone chirps.

Asad sent a text message. It’s just words on a screen, but I can still hear his voice dripping with disbelief.

ASAD: He took it. The hacker took the bait.

The next message is an IP address.

A slow, knowing smile builds, tugging at my lips. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I look up at Darrel Hastings and say, “Now, if you’ll excuse me… my legacy is waiting.”