The Catcher in the Dream

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that Stephen King kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

My family is rich—so rich that I don’t even know how to describe it. We have properties in Long Island and Manhattan, Spring Valley in Washington, Beverly Hills in Los Angeles, and Honolulu, where our private beach stretches for 1.2 miles. In my private school, my classmates had bodyguards, butlers, and trust funds that started at fifty million dollars. Some of them were crazy about studying. I remember an Asian girl in high school who cried over getting a 99 in literature, even though her parents were already more than satisfied with her grades. She was interesting—her dream was to win a Nobel Prize, and we once joked about pooling together ten million dollars to donate to the Nobel Committee on her behalf. I never understood what they were thinking. We were all rich; we could live any kind of life we wanted, but becoming a tenured professor or a world-famous forensic scientist? That was never on my radar, and probably not on any of my friends’ either. Back then, our biggest discussions were about whether to go to Monaco or Dubai for the weekend.

This kind of life was dull. No one really cared what we learned, and no one cared what we thought. The family business? It was just there—we could start as board members or do nothing at all, and the professional managers would handle everything. So, we spent most of our time looking for entertainment. Don’t get me wrong, miss. Our idea of fun wasn’t drugs or street racing—those are things for petty thugs. We wanted to do something eye-catching. Personally, I enjoyed sponsoring archaeological digs and studying the occult.

Yes, you heard me right—I’m very interested in the occult. The fastest cars, the longest yachts, submarines that dive thousands of meters deep—you can buy or at least rent all of those. But the occult, miss, I assure you, is a different world. Money doesn’t play much of a role there. That’s why I’m obsessed with it—if I can achieve something in this field, at least the experts won’t just write off my success as being due to that damn flaw of mine: being rich.

My childhood? Yeah, I’ve been avoiding that. My childhood was terrible—not in the material sense, and not because my parents weren’t around. On the contrary, I was like many kids—I both loved and resented their presence. They were always restricting what I could and couldn’t do, treating me like I was fragile. But every biannual checkup proved that I was the healthiest and smartest among my peers. Their excessive concern for my health only stopped when I turned twelve—probably because they finally accepted the judgment from Johns Hopkins: my health didn’t belong to the average 70%, I was in the top 1% nationwide.

Their expectations for me? Hah, that’s a complicated topic. Don’t get me wrong, miss, it’s not that they didn’t care about my future; they just kept changing their goals. When I was six or seven, just starting elementary school, they wanted me to be a politician. How ridiculous is that? A six-year-old future politician? By high school, they wanted me to inherit the family business. Like I said earlier, they wanted me to become a board member at twenty. I refused. It was simple—I didn’t want to spend my life in meetings with a bunch of fat old men. You get me, right, miss? By my junior year in college, they thought I should be an artist. For heaven’s sake, I only learned guitar because I liked Aerosmith, and I couldn’t even play a barre chord. If I could become an artist, it would be purely because of money, not talent.

So yeah, that’s pretty much how it was. My family’s expectations always had some problem or another. They didn’t really care about what kind of person I became; they only cared if I became what they wanted. I disappointed them again and again because my biggest interest was in the occult.

Why do I like the occult? Good question. To be honest, miss, you’re one of the few people who’ve ever asked me that, and I’m kind of happy about it. Since childhood, I’ve always been extremely healthy—I ate well, slept well, picked up sports quickly, and healed fast from injuries. But one thing always unsettled me: my recurring nightmares. They weren’t bizarre, but there was always this kid, my age. Now he’s a young man, just like me. No matter what I did, he just stood there, silently watching me. Never spoke. Not a single word. But he had expressions—a whole range of them. I know, people say you can’t see faces clearly in dreams, but in my nightmares, I could see his face in detail. He would smile, frown, look angry, sad, envious—even furious at times. It was like I was Truman, and he was the audience beyond the fourth wall. I could see through it. I knew that whatever I did, he would react accordingly… No, I never tried to provoke him. He’s been in my dreams since I was a kid. He felt like an old friend—one who never spoke but was always there. And you wouldn’t mess with an old friend, would you?

I never told my parents about him. At least, I don’t remember telling them. Maybe I’m just strange, but I’ve always believed that the boy in my dreams was real. I even studied art partly because I wanted to draw him… but no matter how clearly I remembered his face, I could never draw it.

What? Your forensic sketch artist? Miss, I think you misunderstand. If I wanted someone to help me recreate his face, I could hire the best sketch artists and CG experts in all of Europe—and I did. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t do it, and neither could they. Every time they followed my description, the result was never him. I found that fascinating. I was sure he existed, but I couldn’t find him, couldn’t draw him, and the descriptions I gave were completely off. Isn't that interesting? Mysterious, right? That’s what drove me into the study of the occult.

I’m not making this up. I swear, miss. I firmly believe he exists.

Crow stepped into the federal building in Portland once again, at the invitation of Shawn Calder. As the head of the FBI in Oregon, Calder was someone Crow owed a big favour to, and he was here to repay that debt. Of course, he also missed Abigail Durrell a little, so this visit was a convenient blend of business and personal matters.

What he hadn't expected, however, was that the case in question was one Abby was handling.

Calder handed Crow a cup of coffee. “Try it. I heard you had quite a few complaints about our breakroom coffee last time.”

“Sometimes, I wonder which coffee is worse—what you serve here at the FBI Oregon headquarters, or Starbucks.”

“And? What’s your conclusion?”

“Starbucks. Because you have to pay for it.”

Both Crow and Calder burst into laughter.

“Speaking of which, how’s Dave doing?” Crow asked.

“We talk on the phone every now and then. He’s busy taking cases—cheating spouses, missing persons, and, believe it or not, people trying to hire him as a hired gun. Do these people think they’re still in the 19th century? That private eyes are just modern-day Pinkertons?”

“Sounds like our good old Dave is doing just fine.” Crow chuckled. “I should probably head down to Mississippi and check in on him sometime.”

“If you do, take me with you.” Calder nodded. “He left me with quite a mess to deal with.”

“Including Abby?” Crow’s tone turned serious. “What kind of strange case do you need us for this time?”

“Widespread memory distortions and injuries caused by memory loss.”

“Widespread? How widespread are we talking?”

“Three weeks, twenty-two cases. Nine in Portland alone. Twenty-two across all of Oregon—and that’s just what we’ve been able to count.”

“Abby’s the lead on this?” Crow exhaled silently. “That does sound weird.”

“Isn’t that exactly the kind of thing the NSAA handles?”

“I’ll go over the details with Abby myself. But first, let’s talk about fees.”

“Crow, you owe me a favour.”

“So I’ll help personally, free of charge. Room and board are on mine, too. But if you need NSAA’s field teams or other agents, you’ll have to pay up.”

“Is Jen in charge of that?”

“Sorry, she doesn’t handle finances. You’ll have to talk to Morgan directly.”

“That’s a shame. Jen’s really gorgeous. Morgan? Yeah… no thanks.”

Crow laughed and got to his feet, extending a hand. “I’ll do my best, Shawn. Looking forward to working together.”

Calder stood up and gave Crow’s hand a firm shake. “Likewise. Oh, and one more thing—stop trying to poach my people. Got it?”

“We’ll see.”

Abby didn’t look great—she was exhausted, mentally drained, like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a long time. She was just about to leave her office when she suddenly noticed Crow strolling in.

“Not bad, Abby. You’ve got your own office now—private space and all,” he remarked.

A genuine smile spread across Abby’s face. “Hey, Crow.”

“Hey, Abby.” Crow opened his arms. “It’s been a while.”

Abby hugged him briefly. “Good to see you still in one piece—haven’t been chopped into eight, I see.”

She pulled out a chair that wasn’t covered in case files and gestured for him to sit. “So, what brings you to Portland all of a sudden?”

“Your boss asked me to come. You know, after what he did for Jacqueline, I owe him big time. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about coming, but then he said it involved you. Those changed things.”

“I’ll take that as the truth… damn bastard.”

“You should’ve told me about this.” Crow extended his hand. “Case files.”

“Actually, I was just about to question a suspect. Want to sit in?”

“You do your thing, I’ll do mine.” Crow considered for a moment. “Do you need extra hands on this?”

“Listen first, then decide.” Abby’s smile was noticeably lighter now, and as they stepped out, there was a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before.

Crow stood behind the one-way mirror, watching as Abby spoke with the twenty-nine-year-old trust fund kid named Michael. This wasn’t an interrogation—it was a conversation. Michael hadn’t even bothered to call a lawyer. In fact, he had outright refused legal counsel and seemed completely at ease talking with Abby.

Crow took quick notes. Interesting guy. An actual interest in the occult? What had he gotten himself into?

A dream figure? Now, that was intriguing. Something indescribable, untraceable, with no physical counterpart. This was already bordering on the unspeakable.

“Ask him,” Crow said through his earpiece. “Has he ever given this dream figure a name?”

Abby gave a subtle nod and posed the question.

“Of course, I named him,” Michael said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I called him Brian.”

Crow immediately took off his earpiece and turned to the FBI agent beside him. “You guys must have Michael Meyer’s full records. Check everything from the days surrounding his birth.”

“Agent Crow, what exactly are you looking for?”

“The hospital where he was born. Cross-check if there were any babies named Brian or with the last name Brian born in that area within a month of his birth. Look up different spellings too—Bryan, Blaine, Brian. Even Bryant might be worth checking. Also, while you're at it, see if there was an exceptionally smart but overly emotional Asian girl in his school years.”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at.” The agent turned and left, leaving Crow and another agent to continue listening in.

“Let’s talk about the assaults, Michael,” Abby said. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a lawyer present? We’re more than willing to arrange one for you.”

“I really don’t need a lawyer, ma’am.” Michael spoke with absolute sincerity. “I could get someone like Gerry Spence, someone with a lifetime achievement award in law, to defend me if I wanted. And I’m fully aware that every word I say here can and will be used against me by you and the prosecution. But I still don’t need a lawyer.”

“Alright then, Michael. Looks like you know your rights well enough. Let’s continue. Tell me—why did you attack your father?”

“He killed someone who was very important to me,” Michael answered.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

“He killed Brian.”

“Brian? The dream figure?”

“Yes. He killed Brian.” Michael’s voice was disturbingly calm—devoid of doubt, as if stating a simple equation. One plus one equals two.

“But Brian was just someone you imagined, wasn’t he? He only existed in your dreams.” Abby tried to push back.

“No, ma’am. With all due respect, you and my psychiatrist are making the same mistake—trying to explain the occult with common sense. Brian was real. And my father really did kill him.”

Crow let out a quiet sigh. “Abby, if you don’t mind, I’ll take over from here.”

“Michael,” Abby said, half asking, half instructing, “I have a colleague who’s an expert in paranormal cases. Maybe you two can have a more detailed conversation.”

Michael simply shrugged, looking indifferent.

Crow wasted no time walking to the interrogation room door. He knocked, and Abby got up to open it for him.

“Hey, Crow,” she said.

“I’ve got this now. But stick around—I’ll need you for a few things.” Crow spoke evenly, then took the seat Abby had vacated.

“Michael, nice to meet you. My name’s George, but you can call me Crow. Just so we’re clear, I’ve already requested an investigation into the hospital records from around the time you were born. Whether it’s someone named Brian, a family named Brian, or even a Bryant—we’ll find out.”

A flicker of admiration crossed Michael’s eyes. He looked genuinely excited, as if he wanted to shake Crow’s hand, but the restraints prevented him.

“Mr. Crow, you’re one of the few people who actually gets what I’m saying.”

“Has anyone before me ever tried to confirm Brian’s origins?” Crow bluffed without hesitation. He was good at this—Abby knew it all too well.

“Two, maybe three people. They were into the occult, just like me. So I guess it’s not that surprising, right?” Michael smiled. “Now, tell me, Mr. Crow, if I said my old man murdered Brian, what would you think?”

“I’ve worked plenty of cases like this before. Dead victims appearing in dreams, giving clues to their families, leading them to real evidence—it's not common, but it happens.” Crow’s tone was firm, decisive. “So, whether Brian visited you in a dream or is out for revenge, I’m not dismissing it outright. But I do need solid evidence to prove your case.”

“If there was evidence—if I could actually prove it—do you think I’d have taken matters into my own hands?” Michael countered, his frustration slipping through.

“You’re not us. Gathering evidence is our job.” Crow shot back. “Just because you watched a few episodes of CSI doesn’t make you a forensic expert.”

"Fair enough, Mr. Crow," Michael said. He wasn’t the most stubborn trust fund kid Crow had encountered. After a brief moment of thought, he asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Has Brian recently been able to communicate with you?"

"We’ve been able to communicate for a long time, actually. He never speaks, but he always manages to make me understand what he wants to tell me."

"Has he ever shown jealousy? I mean, when you’re happy in your dreams—if Brian appears—does he seem jealous?"

"Occasionally, yes. But it’s more admiration than envy. No negativity, just… pure admiration."

Abby sat beside them, listening, feeling like she was eavesdropping on a conversation between two lunatics—lunatics who were speaking with unnerving conviction.

She kept telling herself: Crow is a professional. Crow is a professional. A goddamn professional lunatic, right? He was a professional at dealing with lunatics—a lunatic for lunatics.

Stay calm, Abby. Stay calm. She kept repeating the mantra to herself.

"As you can see, Michael, I’m Taiwanese-American. Do you know much about Taiwan?"

"Not really, aside from the fact that you guys are constantly being threatened by China. Oh, and Taiwanese people make great computers—Acer, ASUS. Pretty solid stuff."

"Taiwan has a deeply ingrained religious culture," Crow explained evenly. "Let me put it this way—you can probably find a temple on nearly every street."

Michael’s face showed a mix of disbelief and excitement, but he remained silent, clearly waiting for Crow to continue.

"There’s a ritual in Taiwanese folk religion called borrowing luck." Crow’s voice was calm, deliberate. "It’s exactly what it sounds like—borrowing someone else’s luck for a while."

"Then… what about borrowing life?" Michael asked eagerly. "As in, lifespan?"

"There is." Crow nodded. "You actually know a thing or two, kid. I’ve got to give you some credit."

"Do you know of any real examples?" Michael was growing more animated.

"If I’m not mistaken, you yourself are the fucking perfect example," Crow said, his voice steady. "And Brian… was the cost."

His gaze locked onto Michael’s. "And the price you paid was memory distortions, memory transplants, and memory gaps. Am I wrong?"

Michael let out a long breath. "Finally, someone who understands me. Mr. Crow, you’re absolutely right. Other than being rich, I have no idea how much of my memory is real."

"All of your memories are likely real—but the order and the details? Those are probably all wrong." Crow smiled slightly but didn’t answer any further. Instead, he turned to Abby.

"Abby, I think that’s enough for today. We need to talk."

The case files were extensive—each one occupied at least a full document box. With twenty-two cases in total, there were close to forty boxes stacked up.

Crow sifted through them at his own pace, occasionally asking questions and quickly jotting down both the FBI agents’ answers and his own analysis notes. It took him nearly ten hours to get through most of the material. When he was done, he stepped outside the building, stretched his stiff back, and found a quiet corner. Shrinking into the shadows, he pulled out his phone and started dialling.

“Crow? What’s up? It’s eleven at Dallas.” Taft sounded a little uneasy.

“I need to consolidate several cases. I’m requesting at least one tactical unit and an intel team to come to Portland.”

“Give me the details.” Taft was immediately alert.

“The FBI has linked together twenty-two cases. I suspect a cult is involved.”

“Twenty-two?”

“There’s probably more. These are just the ones the FBI has been able to connect at the local level. If the Oregon State Police and other local departments dig deeper, I’d estimate at least forty or fifty cases.” Crow’s tone was unexpectedly grim. “Leo, I can’t handle this alone. I need backup.”

“A cult… Damn it. Crow, what makes you think these cases are connected to a cult?”

“All the perpetrators—except for one trust-fund kid—are low-income individuals, people no one really keeps track of. Most of them have a history of addiction—alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, eating disorders… You name it, they’ve got it. On top of that, they exhibit severe memory gaps, distortions, delusions, and in some cases, clear signs of dissociative identity disorder. I’m convinced there’s some form of organized psychological manipulation at play—possibly a cult.”

“What’s your plan?”

“No idea yet. I’ll figure it out as I go. I need to start narrowing it down. Could be the Yellow Sign, Dagonists, or some mutation of an existing religion. I don’t know yet.”

Leo Taft let out a sigh. “I’ll talk to Jen in the next couple of days, see if we can pull some people from somewhere and send them your way.”

“I’m in Portland. Make sure Jen knows not to send anyone who doesn’t belong here.”

“Got it.”

Crow ended the call and slowly made his way back inside the federal building.

The second floor housed a shared cafeteria, open 24/7. As he reached for his ID badge to swipe in, he suddenly remembered that wouldn’t work. He quickly fished out the temporary badge the FBI had issued him, and that finally got him through the doors.

He grabbed a bowl of oatmeal, two pieces of fried chicken, a big plate of salad, and a brownie. For drinks, he went with a can of diet soda. At the cashier, the worker swiped his temp badge.

“Hey, there’s no money on this.”

“It’s not that there’s no money—it’s that they never loaded any onto it.” Crow sighed, pulling out his wallet. “You take credit cards?”

“Cash or debit only.”

Crow muttered something under his breath, fished out a twenty, and handed it over. He didn’t bother waiting for change.

Tray in hand, he made his way to a quiet corner, took a few bites, and then started dozing off mid-meal.

Portland, Portsmouth.

A middle-aged man in his forties, dressed in a priest’s black cassock, carried a briefcase in one hand as he walked at an unhurried pace. Behind him followed a woman in her early thirties, wearing a backpack.

As they strolled through the streets, they would stop single women they encountered, handing them a church flyer.

Some of the women accepted it with a puzzled expression. Others took it without reaction, stuffing it into their bags. A few discarded the flyer almost immediately.

The priest and the woman continued for several blocks before eventually growing tired. They sat casually on the edge of an abandoned flowerbed, handing out more flyers to anyone passing by.

Not far away, a young Black woman, looking hesitant, approached them cautiously. In a soft voice, she asked, “May I have one?”

The priest smiled warmly and held out a flyer to her. “Of course. May I ask your name?”

“My name is Stephanie, Father.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Stephanie. I’m Paul, and this is my assistant, Louise. Our church is not far from here. You’re always welcome to stop by, sit for a while, and read the Bible.”

“That sounds wonderful, Father Paul. I’d love to visit this weekend.”

“The Lord’s doors are always open for you, Stephanie. May God bless you.”

Father Paul watched as Stephanie walked away. “Poor child.”

“She’s pregnant,” Louise stated flatly, her voice devoid of emotion, almost mechanical.

“Is she? I didn’t notice.”

“She was holding her stomach the entire time she spoke to you.” Louise let out a small sigh, as if disappointed in the priest’s lack of observation skills. “She’ll come to the church, won’t she?”

“I hope so. She might need our help.”

Father Paul placed both hands on his knees and slowly got up. Picking up his briefcase, he retrieved another handful of flyers. “Let’s go two more blocks, shall we?”

“As you wish, Father.”

Louise followed as Paul stood, quickly handing a flyer to a weary-looking white woman—one who seemed both dejected and anxious.

The woman watched them walk away, glanced at the flyer in her hands twice, then tossed it onto the ground before continuing on her way.

As the autumn breeze stirred, the flyer flipped over, revealing bold printed words:

Single Mothers’ Support Group – In cooperation with St. Francis Church.

Abby handed Crow a cup of coffee. “I heard you slept in the cafeteria last night.”

“To be precise, I was back at it around three, going through the case files again.” Crow took the coffee. “Honestly, Abby, you guys were right to bring us in on this one. I need to consolidate these cases.”

“The big case you’ve been following? Does it have to do with the Yellow Sign Brotherhood? Or the Dagon cult?”

“You already know plenty about cults. Right now, I can’t be sure who’s really behind these cases. Even if I find out, I have to report it upstairs first and then decide what to share with the FBI. Unless…”

“Unless I switch to the NSAA?”

“Looks like you’ve got it figured out.” Crow took a sip of his coffee. “So? Want to know more?”

A voice came from the doorway. “You goddamn ghoul of a Crow—I told you to stop trying to poach my people.”

Crow smirked. “Everybody wants the best agents, don’t they?”

At that, Abby’s face flushed slightly.

Calder walked in and dropped a stack of files in front of Crow. “Director Morgan went straight to the Attorney General. These cases are officially yours now.”

“Hey, Shawn, I need someone.”

“I know. Abby, right? But let’s get one thing straight—she’s only assigned to help you for now. Don’t go trying to steal my best agent, got it? Or you’ll regret it if you ever end up in my hands.”

“The last guy who threatened me like that was Dave. You know how miserable he’s doing these days?” Crow shot back with a grin.

“I’m starting to see why Dave hated you so much. What was it he used to say?”

Crow put on an exaggerated impression. “‘Breakroom’s that way, restroom’s over there, now get the hell out of my sight before I have to look at your sorry ass again.’”

Calder chuckled. “Alright, enough of joking. Have you gone through all these files?”

“I have. Shawn, this case is deeply tied to the one I’ve been working on. And this time, the scale is unprecedented.”

“You guys aren’t planning to take out another senator, are you?”

“The ones with blood on their hands are always the Europeans—Léon, give it root, ‘Is life always this hard, or is it just when I am a kid?’ It’s always like this. None of that concerns me.” Crow grinned. “Relax. I don’t think this case leads up to the government. But you know our policy—when a cult is in too deep, we sanitize it.”

“Yeah, yeah, my boss has told me a dozen times already—stay out of your way.” Calder sighed. “Can you at least give me something?”

“A preliminary assessment—human experimentation.” Crow’s tone was flat. “That’s all I can tell you for now.”

“Well, have fun with that.” Calder left without another word.

Crow turned to Abby. “You’re the pro when it comes to solving cases. What’s your take?”

“Psychiatric disorders, low income, addiction, violence… The memory issues—if they weren’t happening so frequently, no one would have even noticed. The only case that doesn’t fit the low-income pattern is Michael Meyer’s. He nearly killed his father.”

“How rich is he? I mean, how rich exactly?” Crow asked.

“A few hundred million. He wasn’t bluffing about that. Over the past twelve years, he’s seen psychiatrists and specialists in multiple states. He’s practically untouchable in court—he’ll just end up in some high-end mental institution, living out the rest of his days in comfort.”

“That explains why he didn’t bother calling a lawyer. He’s too smart for that.” Crow muttered. “What about the background check I requested yesterday? Any results?”

“There were too many hospital records to comb through, in 70's they still used pen and paper to record everything, so it’ll take more time. But we did hear back from his private school. It was one of the top schools in New England, and Asian students were extremely rare—so it was easy to check. Based on Michael’s age and the years he attended, unfortunately, there was no Asian girl in his class or grade. Definitely not one who was top of her class and cried when she got a 99.”

“What about his former classmates? Did you ask them?” Crow pressed.

“We did. A few still remember Michael. They said he was always gloomy, always acting weird. And they mentioned something interesting—back when they were in school, around 1991 or ’92, Dubai was a mess. No one ever wanted to go there for fun. So either Michael’s memory is off, or…” Abby paused. “Or someone implanted another person’s memories into him.”

Crow raised an eyebrow. “And you actually believe what I’m saying?”

“We’ve worked together three times now. Sure, you lie through your teeth about a lot of things, but you’ve never lied to me about the things that really matter.” Abby’s gaze was unwavering.

“Well, Abby, since we’re old friends, I’ll let you in on a little bit about human experimentation.” Crow didn’t wait for her to agree or protest—he just kept talking.

“Even before the Aaron case, the NSAA had been monitoring certain groups attempting human experiments. Lifespan transference—that’s what we call cult rituals involving borrowed life. In these cases, the person being drained often experiences confusion, insanity, or death.” Crow’s expression darkened, his voice trailing into something almost distant, as if recalling something particularly grim.

“Abby, you can’t begin to imagine how brutal some of these rituals are. There’s a method—specific techniques, consequence, and rites—that can kill someone and in exchange, grant the killer three more years of life.”

“Three years?”

“Doesn’t sound like much? Three years, then another three, and another three after that. Do the math—pretty soon, they’ve stolen an extra decade of life, Abby.” Crow gave a bitter smile. “Now think about the kind of people who have the power, the wealth, and the nerve to kill for it. What do you think they’d do?”

Abby’s face hardened. “Tell me more about this lifespan transference. I need to know the details of the ritual—maybe we can map the case patterns from there.”