Long Haul Moving Quotes

She turned and walked towards Krupp. She moved like smoke from the end of a cigarette in a still room, languorous, smooth. Her beauty stopped the conversation of the few people she walked past. Eyes of envy, lust, admiration, longing, followed her every move as she glided through the sumptuously furnished, dimly lit Champagne Bar. Krupp realised she was moving through the room deliberately towards him. He held his breath again as she approached him. His heart thumped against his lungs, making it hard to breathe out. Krupp sat up and he gulped when she saw him and looked straight into his eyes. He felt a tingle up his spine as she seemed to float, slowly, like a ghostly spirit between the tables. He wondered if she was real or a spectre. This could not possibly be Freya, he thought, and yet there was something … She arrived at the table. She relaxed a knee. Their eyes met, a small smile on her lips. Krupp suddenly remembered his manners and stood, hauling himself up with the aid of his stick and the arm of the sofa. It could not have been an elegant move, he thought with annoyance. He should have remained seated. “May I join you?” she said in perfect German.

Today," she told it, "death comes to all your circuits. Will it be slow and systematic or fast and brutal?" Considering, she circled it, "Tough decision. I've waited so long for this moment. Dreamed of it." Showing her teeth, she began to roll up her sleeves. "What," Roarke asked from the doorway that connected their work areas, "is that?" "The former bane of my existence. The Antichrist of technology. Do we have a hammer?" Studying the pile on the floor, he walked in. "Several, I imagine, of various types." "I want all of them. Tiny little hammers, big, wallbangers, and everything in between." "Might one ask why?" "I'm going to beat this thing apart, byte by byte, until there's nothing left but dust from the last trembling chip." "Hmmm." Roarke crouched down, examined the pitifully out-of-date system. "When did you haul this mess in here?" "Just now. I had it in the car. Maybe I should use acid, just stand here and watch it hiss and dissolve. That could be good." Saying nothing, Roarke took a small case out of his pocket, opened it, and chose a slim tool. With a few deft moves, he had the housing open. "Hey! Hey! What're you doing?" "I haven't seen anything like this in a decade. Fascinating. Look at this corrosion. Christ, this is a SOC chip system. And it's cross-wired." When he began to fiddle, she rushed over and slapped at his hands. "Mine. I get to kill it." "Get a grip on yourself," he said absently and delved deeper into the guts. "I'll take this into research." "No. Uh-uh. I have to bust it apart. What if it breeds?

Maybe Mom was right. Maybe not all friends are meant to be in your life for the long haul. Not being friends anymore doesn’t have to involve a catastrophic fight. No one means to hurt the other person. People just move on with life. Sad as it is, it also brings me a sense of peace.

I rip the bags apart, licking the plastic clean, then lean back against the stall door as the slow surge of cold blood moves through me. Nice. I needed that. Folding both bags neatly, I shove them into my bag to recycle later somewhere. I hate tossing plastic. I need the earth to be liveable for the long haul.

Illness strips you back to an authentic self, but not one you need to meet. Too much is claimed for authenticity. Painfully we learn to live in the world, and to be false. Then all our defences are knocked down in one sweep. In sickness we can’t avoid knowing about our body and what it does, its animal aspect, its demands. We see things that never should be seen; our inside is outside, the body’s sewer pipes and vaults exposed to view, as if in a woodcut of our own martyrdom. The whole of life – the business of moving an inch – requires calculation. The suffering body must shape itself around the iron dawn routine, which exists for the very sick as well as the convalescent: the injection in the abdomen, pain relief, blood tests as needed, then the long haul out of bed, the shaking progress to the bathroom, the awesome challenge of washcloth and soap.

I can't understand people being rude to their spouses. Your husband or wife should be the one person in the world you treat with loving patience. He or she chose you above all others-for a lifetime! And yet I see women who are nicer to their girlfriends, and men who are more thoughtful toward their employees. That's meshuganeh. Friends come and go. Employees move on. Your partner is there for the long haul. He deserves your best every day of your life.

When Jesus “starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably,” when his work in our lives “does not seem to make sense,” then he’s really getting somewhere. He’s pounding gaping holes in the painted drywall of our own wisdom to reveal the termite-infested 2x4s on the other side. Ripping up the carpet to point out an inch-wide crack in the foundation. What we thought would take a few months to fix and fancy up will, it turns out, require a lifetime of labor. But Christ is okay with that. He was, after all, raised in the home of a carpenter. And he’ll take his sweet time. C. S. Lewis says he “intends to come and live in it Himself,” but the truth is, he’s already moved in, put his underwear and socks in the drawers, and buckled on his tool belt. He’s here for the long haul.

What are you two doing?” Her uncle’s teasing voice came into the room before he did. But his voice was the second warning that they were no longer alone, since Violet had tasted his presence long before he’d actually stepped into her house. Ever since saving her and Jay at Homecoming, her uncle carried an imprint of his own. The bitter taste of dandelions still smoldered on Violet’s tongue whenever he was near. A taste that Violet had grown to accept. And even, to some degree, to appreciate. “Nothing your parents wouldn’t approve of, I hope,” he added. Violet flashed Jay a wicked grin. “We were just making out, so if you could make this quick, we’d really appreciate it.” Jay jumped up from beside her. “She’s kidding,” he blurted out. “We weren’t doing anything.” Her uncle Stephen stopped where he was and eyed them both carefully. Violet could’ve sworn she felt Jay squirming, even though every single muscle in his body was frozen in place. Violet smiled at her uncle, trying her best to look guilty-as-charged. Finally he raised his eyebrows, every bit the suspicious police officer. “Your parents asked me to stop by and check on you on my way home. They won’t be back until late. Can I trust the two of you here . . . alone?” “Of course you can—” Jay started to say. “Probably not—“ Violet answers at the same time. And then she caught a glimpse of the horror-stricken expression on Jay’s face, and she laughed. “Relax, Uncle Stephen, we’re fine. We were just doing homework.” Her uncle looked at the pile of discarded books on the table in front of the couch. Not one of them was open. He glanced skeptically at Violet but didn’t say a word. “We may have gotten a little distracted,” she responded, and again she saw Jay shifting nervously. After several warnings, and a promise from Violet that she would lock the doors behind him, Uncle Stephen finally left the two of them alone again. Jay was glaring at Violet when she peeked at him as innocently as she could manage. “Why would you do that to me?” “Why do you care what he thinks we’re doing?” Violet had been trying to get Jay to admit his new hero worship of her uncle for months, but he was too stubborn—or maybe he honestly didn’t realize it himself—to confess it to her. “Because, Violet,” he said dangerously, taking a threatening step toward her. But his scolding was ruined by the playful glint in his eyes. “He’s your uncle, and he’s the police chief. Why poke the bear?” Violet took a step back, away from him, and he matched it, moving toward her. He was stalking her around the coffee table now, and Violet couldn’t help giggling as she retreated. But it was too late for her to escape. Jay was faster than she was, and his arms captured her before she’d ever had a chance. Not that she’d really tried. He hauled her back down onto the couch, the two of them falling into the cushions, and this time he pinned her beneath him. “Stop it!” she shrieked, not meaning a single word. He was the last person in the world she wanted to get away from. “I don’t know . . .” he answered hesitantly. “I think you deserve to be punished.” His breath was balmy against her cheek, and she found herself leaning toward him rather than away. “Maybe we should do some more homework.” Homework had been their code word for making out before they’d realized that they hadn’t been fooling anyone. But Jay was true to his word, especially his code word, and his lips settled over hers. Violet suddenly forgot that she was pretending to break free from his grip. Her frail resolve crumbled. She reached out, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulled him closer to her. Jay growled from deep in his throat. “Okay, homework it is.

Larger mines with direct access to the surface had long been laid with wooden rails to make coal and ore carts easier to move; moving a cart on rails required about one-sixth the effort needed to haul a sled or a cart on a dirt path.38 Moving coal to water on such rails—wagonways, they were called—would save money, time, and wear and tear. The earliest known English wagonway dates from 1604.

The heartwood," Rob murmured, looking at me. "You wanted to marry me in the heart of Major Oak." I beamed at him grateful that he understood. "And Scar," he whispered. I leaned in close. "Are you wearing knives to our wedding?" Nodding, I laughed, telling him, "I was going to get you here one way or another, Hood." He laughed, a bright, merry sound. Standing in the heart of the tree, he reached again for my hand, fingers sliding over mine. Touching his hand, a rope of lightening lashed round my fingers, like it seared us together. Now, and for always. His fingers moved on mine, rubbing over my hand before capturing it tight and turning me to the priest. The priest looked over his shoulder, watching as the sun began to dip. He led us in prayer, he asked me to speak the same words I'd spoken not long past to Gisbourne, but that whole thing felt like a bad dream, like I were waking and it were fading and gone for good. "Lady Scarlet." he asked me with a smile, "known to some as Lady Marian of Huntingdon, will thou have this lord to thy wedded husband, will thou love him and honour him, keep him and obey him, in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband, forsaking all others on account of him, so long as ye both shall live?" I looked at Robin, tears burning in my eyes. "I will," I promised. "I will, always." Rob's face were beaming back at me, his ocean eyes shimmering bright. The priest smiled. "Robin of Locksley, will thou have this lady to thy wedded wife, will thou love her and honor her, keep her and guard her, in health and in sickness, as a husband should a wife, forsaking all others on account of her, so long as ye both shall live?" the priest asked. "Yes," Rob said. "I will." "You have the rings?" the priest asked Rob. "I do," I told the priest, taking two rings from where Bess had tied them to my dress. I'd sent Godfrey out to buy them at market without Rob knowing. "I knew you weren't planning on this," I told him. Rob just grinned like a fool at me, taking the ring I handed him to put on my finger. Laughs bubbled up inside of me, and I felt like I were smiling so wide something were stuck in my cheeks and holding me open. More shy and proud than I thought I'd be, I said. "I take you as me wedded husband, Robin. And thereto I plight my troth." I pushed the ring onto his finger. He took my half hand in one of his, but the other- holding the ring- went into his pocket. "I may not have known I would marry you today Scar," he said. "But I did know I would marry you." He showed me a ring, a large ruby set in delicate gold. "This," he said to me, "was my mother's. It's the last thing I have of hers, and when I met you and loved you and realized your name was the exact colour of the stone- " He swallowed, and cleared his throat, looking at me with the blue eyes that shot right through me. "This was meant to be Scarlet. I was always meant to love you. To marry you." The priest coughed. "Say the words, my son, and you will marry her." Rob grinned and I laughed, and Rob stepped closer, cradling my hand. "I take you as my wedded wife, Scarlet. And thereto I plight my troth." He slipped the ring on my finger and it fit. "Receive the Holy Spirit," the priest said, and kissed Robin on the cheek. Rob's happy grin turned a touch wolflike as he turned back to me, hauling me against him and angling his mouth over mine. I wrapped my arms around him and my head spun- I couldn't tell if we were spinning, if I were dizzy, if my feet were on the ground anymore at all, but all I knew, all I cared for, were him, his mouth against mine, and letting the moment we became man and wife spin into eternity.

That something I cannot yet define completely but the feeling comes when you write well and truly of something and know impersonally you have written in that way and those who are paid to read it and report on it do not like the subject so they say it is all a fake, yet you know its value absolutely; or when you do something which people do not consider a serious occupation and yet you know, truly, that it is as important and has always been as important as all th things that are in fashion, and when, on the sea, you are alone with it and know that this Gulf Stream you are living with, knowing, learning about, and loving, has moved, as it moves, since before man and that it has gone by the shoreline of that long, beautiful, unhappy island since before Columbus sighted it and that the things you find out about it, and those that have always lived in it are permanent and of value because that stream will flow, as it has flowed, after the Indians, after the Spaniards, after the British, after the Americans and after all the Cubans and all the systems of governments, the richness, the poverty, the martyrdom, the sacrifice and the venality and the cruelty are all gone as the high-piled scow of garbage, bright-colored, white-flecked, ill-smelling, now tilted on its side, spills off its load into the blue water, turning it a pale green to a depth of four or five fathoms as the load spreads across the surface, the sinkable part going down and the flotsam of palm fronds, corks, bottles, and used electric light globes, seasoned with an occasional condom or a deep floating corset, the torn leaves of a student's exercise book, a well-inflated dog, the occasional rat, the no-longer-distinguished cat; well shepherded by the boats of the garbage pickers who pluck their prizes with long poles, as interested, as intelligent, and as accurate as historians; they have the viewpoint; the stream, with no visible flow, takes five loads of this a day when things are going well in La Habana and in ten miles along the coast it is as clear and blue and unimpressed as it was ever before the tug hauled out the scow; and the palm fronds of our victories, the worn light bulbs of our discoveries and the empty condoms of our great loves float with no significance against one single, lasting thing - the stream.

The weird thing is that while persuasional leadership takes longer and takes more restraint at the time, it is much more efficient over the long haul. When you teach team members or teens the why, they are more equipped to make the same decision next time without you. You don’t have to watch their every move, you don’t have to put in a time clock, and you don’t have to implant a GPS chip in their hide when they learn how to think for themselves. Positional leadership doesn’t take as long in the exchange, but you have to do it over and over and over and over. You never get to enjoy your team or your kids because they become a source of frustration rather than a source of pride.

There is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called "adrenaline" sports—skiing, surfing and rock climbing come to mind—one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills. Running white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap. It's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river! And then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river— say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening. It doesn't matter. The results are the same. The world goes dark. The river— the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you— the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you. Maybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet—just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you— before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear. That is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.

Regardless of psychological gymnastics, we know what we see, and many of us learn from it. It’s a rare mover who becomes a collector of anything. Even rarer is a mover who gets hung up on the “sentimental value” of objects. After more than three thousand moves I know that everyone has almost the exact same stuff and I certainly know where it’s all going to end up. It’s going to end up in a yard sale or in a dumpster. It might take a generation, though usually not, but Aunt Tillie’s sewing machine is getting tossed. So is your high school yearbook and grandma’s needlepoint doily of the Eiffel Tower. Most people save the kids kindergarten drawings and the IKEA bookcases. After the basement and attic are full it’s off to a mini-storage to put aside more useless stuff. A decade or three down the road when the estate is settled and nobody wants to pay the storage fees anymore, off it all will go into the ether. This is not anecdotal. I know because I’m the guy who puts it all into the dumpster.

Hey!" To his horror, the canvas started to move and a perfectly manicured hand appeared. Law rushed across the hall, his feet making not a single sound against the carpet. “Hafta getta way.” Kinley was trying to haul herself out of the laundry cart. One fist came up. “Won’t let you. Won’t.” Riley peered down at her. How did she make that look so fucking adorable? She was a mess of white tulle, and all he could think about was wrapping himself around her. “Baby, it’s all right.” Law reached for her hand, his voice softer than Riley could ever remember hearing it. Law was rough and tumble, but he got so tender around this one bit of blonde fluff. “What the hell. I thought I emptied the fucking syringe in her arm. We need the chloroform, Riley." Yes, it was their last resort. It wouldn’t keep Kinley out for very long, but they had to keep her out long enough to escape this damn hotel. “Don’t want to get married. Want the beach. Happy there.” They weren’t taking her to the beach, but at least Law seemed to be calming her down. Then she turned those kick-him-in-the-gonads brown eyes his way. "So pretty. Wanna get married?

An American businessman took a vacation to a small coastal Mexican village on doctor’s orders. Unable to sleep after an urgent phone call from the office the first morning, he walked out to the pier to clear his head. A small boat with just one fisherman had docked, and inside the boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish. “How long did it take you to catch them?” the American asked. “Only a little while,” the Mexican replied in surprisingly good English. “Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” the American then asked. “I have enough to support my family and give a few to friends,” the Mexican said as he unloaded them into a basket. “But… What do you do with the rest of your time?” The Mexican looked up and smiled. “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Julia, and stroll into the village each evening, where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life, señor.” The American laughed and stood tall. “Sir, I’m a Harvard M.B.A. and can help you. You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. In no time, you could buy several boats with the increased haul. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats.” He continued, “Instead of selling your catch to a middleman, you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village, of course, and move to Mexico City, then to Los Angeles, and eventually to New York City, where you could run your expanded enterprise with proper management. The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, señor, how long will all this take?” To which the American replied, “15-20 years, 25 tops.” “But what then, señor?” The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions.” “Millions señor? Then what?" “Then you would retire and move to a small coastal fishing village, where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, and stroll in to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.

I had this book when I was a little kid," Eddie said at last. He spoke in the flat tones of utter surety. "Then we moved from Queens to Brooklyn--I wasn't even four years old--and I lost it. But I remember the picture on the cover. And I felt the same way you do, Jake. I didn't like it. I didn't trust it." Susannah raised her eyes to look at Eddie. "I had it, too--how could I ever forget the little girl with my name...although of course it was my middle name back in those days. And I felt the same way about the train. I didn't like it and I didn't trust it." She tapped the front of the book with her finger before passing it on to Roland. "I thought that smile was a great big fake." Roland gave it only a cursory glance before returning his eyes to Susannah. "Did you lose yours, too?" "Yes." "And I'll bet I know when," Eddie said. Susannah nodded. "I'll bet you do. It was after that man dropped the brick on my head. I had it when we went north to my Aunt Blue's wedding. I had it on the train. I remember, because I kept asking my dad if Charlie the Choo-Choo was pulling us. I didn't WANT it to be Charlie, because we were supposed to go to Elizabeth, New Jersey, and I thought Charlie might take us anywhere. Didn't he end up pulling folks around a toy village or something like that, Jake?" "An amusement park." "Yes, of course it was. There's a picture of him hauling kids around that place at the end, isn't there? They're all smiling and laughing, except I always thought they looked like they were screaming to be let off." "Yes!" Jake cried. "Yes, that's right! That's JUST right!" "I thought Charlie might take us to HIS place--wherever he lived--instead of to my aunt's wedding, and never let us go home again." "You can't go home again," Eddie muttered, and ran his hands nervously through his hair. "All the time we were on that train I wouldn't let go of the book. I even remember thinking, 'If he tries to steal us, I'll rip out his pages until he quits.' But of course we arrived right where we were supposed to, and on time, too. Daddy even took me up front, so I could see the engine. It was a diesel, not a steam engine, and I remember that made me happy. Then, after the wedding, that man Mort dropped the brick on me and I was in a coma for a long time. I never saw Charlie the Choo-Choo after that. Not until now." She hesitated, then added: "This could be my copy, for all I know--or Eddie's." "Yeah, and probably is," Eddie said.

The thing I really like about Jase is that he’s as obsessed with ducks as I am. I rarely took my boys hunting with me when they were very young. In fact, I never took them when I was still an outlaw. “Not this time, boys, we might be running from the game warden,” I’d tell them. But after I repented and came to Jesus Christ, I started taking my sons hunting with me, beginning with Alan. Before we moved to where we live now, it was a pretty long haul from town to the Ouachita River bottoms. Alan got carsick nearly every time I took him hunting, but he didn’t think I knew. We stopped at the same gas station every time, and he’d walk around back and lose his breakfast before he climbed back into the truck. I was proud of him for never complaining. I took Jase hunting for the first time when he was five. He was shooting Pa’s heavy Belgium-made Browning twelve-gauge shotgun, which he could barely even hold up. It kicked like a mule! The first time Jase shot the gun, it kicked him to the back of the blind and flipped him over a bench. “Did I get him?” Jase asked. I knew right then that I had another hunter in the family, and Jase is still the most skilled hunter of all my boys. I trained Jase to take over the company by teaching him the nuances of duck calls and fowl hunting, and he is still the person in charge of making sure every duck call sounds like a duck. Not only did Jase design the first gadwall drake call to hit the market, he also invented the first triple-reed duck caller. Jase and I live to hunt ducks. We track ducks during the season through a nationwide network of hunters, asking how many ducks are in their areas and what movements are expected. Then we check conditions of wind and weather fronts that might influence duck movement. We talk it all over during the day and again each morning, before the day’s hunt, as we prepare to leave for the blind. When Kay and I began to ponder becoming less active in the Duck Commander business, we offered its management to Jase, who had been most deeply involved in the company. But he had no desire to get into management. Jase likes building duck calls and doesn’t really enjoy the business aspects of the company, like making sales calls or dealing with clients and sponsors. Like me, Jase is most comfortable when he’s in a duck blind and doesn’t care for the details that come with running a company. Jase only wants to build duck calls, shoot ducks, and spend time with his family (he and his wife, Missy, have three kids).

Wrath…” “What,” he murmured against her, working her with his nose. “You don’t like?” “Shut up and get back to doing—” His tongue slipping under the panties cut her off…and made him have to slow himself down. She was so slick and wet and soft and willing, it was all he could do to keep himself from hauling her on the rug and going at her deep and hard. And then they’d both miss out on the fun of anticipation. Moving the cotton aside with his hand, he kissed her pink flesh, then delved in. She was oh, so ready for him, and he knew it because of the honey that he swallowed as he dragged upward in a long, slow lick. But it wasn’t enough, and holding the panties to the side was distracting. With his fang, he punctured them, then split them apart right up the middle, leaving the two halves to hang off her hips. His palms went up to her ass and squeezed hard as he quit fooling around and got busy working out his female with his mouth. He knew exactly what she liked best, the sucking and the licking and the going in with his tongue. Closing his eyes, he took it all in, the scent and the taste and the feel of her shuddering against him as she peaked and came apart. Behind the fly of his leathers, his cock was screaming for attention, the rasp of the buttons not nearly sufficient to satisfy what it was demanding, but tough shit. His erection was going to have to chill for a while, because this was too sweet to stop anytime soon. When Beth’s knees wobbled, he took her down to the floor and stretched one of her legs up, keeping to his pace while shoving her fleece to her neck and putting his hand under her bra. As she orgasmed again, she grabbed onto one of the desk legs, pulling hard and bracing her free foot into the rug. His pursuit pushed them both farther and farther beneath where he discharged his kingly duties until he had to crouch down to fit his shoulders. Eventually her head was out the other side and she was gripping the pansy-ass chair he sat in and dragging it with her. As she cried out his name once more, he prowled up her body and glared at the stupid, nancy chair. “I need something heavier to sit in.” Last coherent thing he said. His body found the entrance to hers with an ease that spoke of all the practice they’d had and…Oh, yeah, still as good as the first time. Wrapping his arms around her, he rode her hard, and she was right there with him as the storm rolling through his body gathered in his balls until they stung. Together, he and his shellan moved as one, giving, receiving, going faster and faster until he came and kept going and came again and kept going until something hit his face. In full animal mode, he growled and swiped at it with his fangs. It was the drapes. He’d managed to fuck them out from under the desk, past the chair, and over to the wall. Beth burst out laughing and so did he, and then they were cradling each other.

The average Texas cattle herd driven northward numbered 2,500 cows, composed primarily of hardy Texas longhorns, a breed that could travel long distances without water. A dozen cowboys, including a trail boss, along with 50–60 horses, four mules, and a chuck wagon (sometimes called a mess wagon) that hauled the food and bedding, accompanied the herd. Starting shortly after dawn, with a noon break, they moved about 15 miles a day. The trip could take from four to six months.

Hauling in a quick breath, she held it, stretched upward, shut her eyes, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. They were as hard as she'd imagined, very like sculpted marble. Sensation flared at the brief contact; her lips tingled, then throbbed. Patience blinked her eyes wide as she lowered her heels to earth. And refocused on his lips. She saw the ends curve upward, heard his low, wickedly teasing laugh. "Still not right. Here- let me show you." His hands came up to frame her face, her jaw, tilting her lips up as his descended. Of their own volition, her lids fell, then his lips touched hers. Patience couldn't have quelled the shudder that passed through her had her life depended on it. Stunned, poised to resist, she mentally paused. Strong, sure, his lips covered hers, moving slowly, languorously, as if savoring her taste, her texture. There was nothing threatening in the unhurried caress. Indeed, it was beguiling, luring her senses, focusing them on the practiced slide and glide of cool lips which seemed to instinctively know how to soothe the heat rising in hers. Hers throbbed; his pressed, caressed, as if drinking in her heat, stealing it from her. Patience felt her lips soften; his firmed in response. 'No, no, noo....' Some small part of her mind tried to warn her, but she was long past listening. This was new, novel- she'd never felt such sensations before. Never known such simple delight existed. Her head was whirling, but not unpleasantly. His lips still seemed hard, cool- Patience couldn't resist the temptation to return the pressure, to see if his lips would soften to hers. They didn't, they only became harder. The next instant, she felt a searing heat sweep over her lips. She stilled; the questing heat returned- with the tip of his tongue, he traced her lower lip. The contact lingered, an unspoken question. Patience wanted more. She parted her lips. His tongue slid between, slowly, with his customary assured arrogance, quite certain of his welcome, confident in his expertise.

Fables and Fortune Hunters An American businessman took a vacation to a small coastal Mexican village on doctor’s orders. Unable to sleep after an urgent phone call from the office the first morning, he walked out to the pier to clear his head. A small boat with just one fisherman had docked, and inside the boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish. “How long did it take you to catch them?” the American asked. “Only a little while,” the Mexican replied in surprisingly good English. “Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” the American then asked. “I have enough to support my family and give a few to friends,” the Mexican said as he unloaded them into a basket. “But … What do you do with the rest of your time?” The Mexican looked up and smiled. “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Julia, and stroll into the village each evening, where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life, señor.” The American laughed and stood tall. “Sir, I’m a Harvard M.B.A. and can help you. You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. In no time, you could buy several boats with the increased haul. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats.” He continued, “Instead of selling your catch to a middleman, you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village, of course, and move to Mexico City, then to Los Angeles, and eventually New York City, where you could run your expanding enterprise with proper management.” The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, señor, how long will all this take?” To which the American replied, “15–20 years. 25 tops.” “But what then, señor?” The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions.” “Millions, señor? Then what?” “Then you would retire and move to a small coastal fishing village, where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos …

I realize that, here on earth, not everyone was meant to stay in our lives for extended lengths of time. I have to remind myself of that because basically I want everyone I care for to always be a part of my string of pearls. Some folks just breeze through; others settle in for a season and then move on; a few hunker down for the long haul. Those who settle in for a lifetime do so not necessarily because they are braver, more loving, or ever more loyal, but because they were meant to. It was part of the plan. So those who have left us must also be considered part of the ultimate plan.

It didn’t take me long to realize that alcohol never brought me one good thing. It was attached to every compromising choice I made in college. It never made me a better person. It never moved me closer to Jesus. It never made me feel like I was strong. It never nurtured my soul. It never made me feel real and true. It never held me for the long haul. It never brought out my best. I hated it, and I thought I needed it at the same time.

She moves forward, crossing the brief distance between us, and grabs my collar. With that, she hauls me down against her and kisses me fiercely. There's no tongue, just a firm press of her lips to mine, but it manages to be full of longing. Ruthie pulls back and stares up at me, her expression brimming with emotion. "I love you." I'm utterly floored. "You...do?" She nods, rubbing her nose against mine. "I do, and I don't mind that you were watching over me. I think it's very sweet.

a Harvard M.B.A. and can help you. You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. In no time, you could buy several boats with the increased haul. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats.” He continued, “Instead of selling your catch to a middleman, you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village, of course, and move to Mexico City, then to Los Angeles, and eventually New York City, where you could run your expanding enterprise with proper management.” The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, señor, how long will all this take?” To which the American replied, “15–20 years. 25 tops.” “But what then, señor?” The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions.” “Millions, señor? Then what?” “Then you would retire and move to a small coastal fishing village, where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos …

You’re a pirate?” Obviously. Still, hard to believe. He pressed forward, forcing on her a series of blows meant to test her strength and will. She parried and blocked his every move with an aptitude that amazed. “Aye. A pirate, and captain of the Sea Sprite,” she boasted, a wry smile upon her full lips. Indeed, she appeared very much a pirate in her men’s garb—a threadbare, brown suit with overly long sleeves she’d had to roll up. Her ebony hair had been pulled back in a queue and was half hidden beneath a rumpled tricorn. Also, like her men, was her look of desperation and the grim cast to her countenance that bespoke of a hard existence. “We offered you quarter,” she said as she evaded his thrust with ease. “Why didn’t you surrender? You had to know we outnumbered you.” He didn’t answer. In all honesty, he’d thought they could defeat the pirates, if not with cannon fire, then with skill. After hearing of all the pirate attacks of late, they’d hired on additional hands, men who could fight. If it hadn’t been for the damn illness… “It’s not too late. You can save what’s left of your crew. Surrender now, Captain Glanville, and we’ll see that your men are ransomed back.” A wicked gleam brightened her eyes as if victory would soon be hers. He should do as she asked. It would be the sensible thing, but pride kept him from saying the words. Not yet. He still had another opponent to defeat, and so far she hadn’t been an easy one to overcome. Despite his steady attack, she kept her muscles relaxed, her balance sure. Her attention followed his movements no matter how small, adjusting her stance, looking for weaknesses. “How do you know I’m Captain Glanville?” When work was at hand, he didn’t dress any differently than his men. “I know much about you.” Stepping clear of two men battling to their left, she blocked his sword with her own and lunged with her dagger. He jumped from the blade, avoiding injury by the barest inch. This one relied on speed and accuracy rather than power. Smart woman. “What do you want from us?” he asked, launching an attack of his own, this time with so much force and speed, she had no choice but to retreat until her back came up against the railing. “We only just left London four days ago. Our cargo is mainly iron and ale.” Her gaze sharpened even as her expression became strained. His assault was wearing her down. “I want the Ruby Cross.” How the hell did she know he had the cross? And did she believe he’d simply hand it over? Hand over a priceless antiquity of the Knights Templar? Absurd. He swung his sword all the harder. The clang of steel rang through the air. Her reactions slowed, and her arms trembled. He made a final cut, putting all his strength behind the blow, and knocked her sword from her hand. Triumph surged through his veins. She attempted to slash out with her dagger. He grabbed her arm before her blade could reach him and hauled her close, their faces nose to nose. “You’ll never take the cross from me,” he vowed as he towered over her, his grip strong. The point of a sword touched his back. Thomas tensed, he swore beneath his breath, self-disgust heavy in his chest. The distraction of this one woman had sealed his fate. Bloody hell.

After checking the manual again, she located the mat in the trunk and peeled it back, then unscrewed the big winged nut holding down a sort of cardboard cover. Beneath it—shazaam!—lay the spare tire and pieces of what the instructions assured her was the jack. If only she had the faintest notion how to assemble it. She removed the metal components and shivered again. She’d packed a set of long johns, but she wasn’t eager to spend time removing boots or stripping off jeans. Activity would warm her. Keep moving. Next the tire, which was determined not to leave its cocoon. She was strong for her size from years of hauling around big pots, but never had she cursed her small stature more. The thing weighed a ton, and it was wedged in there so tightly she couldn’t get it to budge. She’d go to the next step, then come back to the stupid spare. Nothing went better after that. Jacking up the car was a nightmare, and trying to loosen what the book called lug nuts simply wasn’t happening. Cold and scared and frustrated, Scarlett forced herself to think hard about the alternative: walking back to Sweetgrass Springs. But the town had been deserted except for Ruby’s,

Nick made himself release his grip on the timber. He swung free for one terrifying moment. He felt Sayer’s grip tighten to a crushing vise and a mighty tug upward as the runner hauled him just far enough to balance his weight on top of the crackling wood. “Move forward,” Sayer muttered, retaining his hold on Nick’s arm, and together they maneuvered away from the perilous fall. When they had both retreated from the beam and found the safety of some relatively sound planking, they collapsed side by side, gasping violently. “Damn,” Sayer rasped when he had sufficient breath to speak, “you’re a heavy bastard, Sydney.” Disoriented, his body racked with pain, Nick tried to make himself comprehend that he was still alive. He drew his sleeve over his sweat-soaked brow and found that his arm was cramping and shaking, the abused muscles going berserk. Sayer sat up and regarded him with clear anxiety. “It looks like you’ve strained some muscles. And your hand looks like it’s been pushed through a sieve.” But he was alive. It was too miraculous to believe. Nick had gotten a reprieve he didn’t deserve, and by all that was holy, he was going to take advantage of it. As he thought of Lottie, he was seized with dark longing. “Sayer,” he managed to say hoarsely, “I’ve just decided something.” “Oh?” “From now on, you’ll have to find your own fucking way around Fleet Ditch.” -Sayer & Nick

Whoa,” I murmured, trying to calm the animal enough to set it loose, not wanting it to come to harm. I gripped the reins, but the horse, its eyes wild with fear, snapped its head back, catching my hand in the leather strap, and I inhaled sharply from the sting. How long had the poor thing been out here? My senses on full alert, I glanced behind me at the busy street, weighing my options. Seeing no one, I hoisted up my skirt, and unsheathed the dagger I had kept. The instant I cut the reins, the horse bolted past me, almost knocking me over. Its owner would not be happy, but at least the animal would live to see another day. It wasn’t until someone clamped an arm around my waist, seizing the knife, that I realized I was no longer alone. So much for having reliable senses. “Well, aren’t you just incorrigible?” Imprisonment or execution was the punishment for bearing weapons in this new Hytanica. The dagger itself was a small loss, but I had to get away. I brought my elbow back, my mother’s reluctance to let me leave the house flashing like lightning in my brain. If I were arrested, killed, she would never forgive herself, even though she would bear no fault. “Empress, the bruises you’ve given me are too many to count!” I whirled around, dismayed that I had not succeeded in getting the Cokyrian to release me, at the same time recognizing the voice and the curse. Saadi pushed me against the side of the shop, leaning in so close to me that I could feel his breath upon my cheek, and his pale blue eyes stared me into submission. “I can’t call you a horse thief for what you just did,” he told me, glancing after the gelding. “At least, not a very good horse thief. But I can, and I must, bring you in for this little utensil of yours. Some niece of the captain you are.” “Are you going to take me to your sister?” I spat, and he grimaced, contemplating me for an instant before disregarding the barb. Gripping me by the upper arm, he hauled me toward the thoroughfare. “Come on. To the Bastion.” Though my question about Rava appeared to have had its intended effect, I was numb with fear. What if he did take me to her? Rava had been the one to order me lashed for my failed prank, she’d been the one to inflict punishment upon Steldor. It seemed no one could exert control over her, a thought that made me ill. The nearer we came to our destination, the more rapidly my heart beat, and by the time we reached the palace gates, I was again fighting Saadi. “Let…me…go!” I howled, unexpectedly pulling out of his grasp, but one of the Cokyrian sentries caught me, laughing at my plight. “Need some help, Saadi?” the burly man offered, shoving me back at my captor, who was rather slight in comparison to his comrade. “No,” Saadi grumbled and the sentry moved ahead to open the gates for us. As we passed through, the large man called, “Rava is at the city headquarters, minding the peacekeeping force. If you were looking for her, that is.” “I wasn’t.” Even though my circumstances were inarguably bleak, a wave of relief washed over me. She, at least, would not be the one to show me the error of my ways.

(Regression to the mean, the tendency for behavior to move toward “normal” or average, is a persistently powerful phenomenon in physics and sociology and investing.) Yes, several funds beat the market in any particular year and some in any decade, but scrutiny of the long-term records reveals that very few funds beat the market averages over the long haul—and nobody has yet figured out how to tell in advance which funds will do it. The

The rope I was dangling off wasn’t designed for a long impact fall like mine. It was lightweight, thin rope that got replaced every few days as the ice, on the move, tore it from its anchor point. The rope was more of a guide, a support; not like proper, dynamic climbing rope. I knew that it could break at any point. The seconds felt like eternity. Then suddenly I felt a strong tug on the rope. I kicked into the walls with my crampons again. This time they bit into the ice. Up I pulled, kicking into the walls a few feet higher, in time with each heave from above. Near the lip I managed to smack my ice axe into the snow lip and pull myself over. Strong arms grabbed my wind suit and hauled me from the clutches of the crevasse. I wriggled away from the edge, out of danger, and collapsed in a heaving mess. I lay there, my face pressed to the snow, eyes closed, holding Mick’s and Nima’s hands, shaking with fear. If Nima had not heard the collapse and been so close, I doubt Mick would ever have had the strength to haul me out. Nima had saved my life and I knew it. Mick helped escort me the two hours back down the icefall. I clutched every rope, clipping in nervously. I now crossed the ladders like a different man--gone was the confidence. My breathing was shallow and labored, and any vestiges of strength or adrenaline had long left me. That thin line between life and death can make or break a man. And right now I was a mess. Yet we hadn’t even begun on Everest proper.

He forced my lips apart and as he thrust his tongue deep, I vaguely wondered how it would feel between my legs. The power of his savage assault momentarily stunned me, before I was caught up in the passionate embrace and returned his deep, mind-blowing kiss. I had never experienced a kiss like that before. In fact, kiss was too mild a word for what we were doing. I felt light headed and questioned how long I could go without breathing. Brendon must have also reached his limit, as he soon broke contact and hauled in a ragged breath. I stared into his eyes and noticed their colour had changed to a darker blue, almost like the ocean. I had enough time to take another breath before he claimed my mouth once more. I knew my lips would be bruised and swollen but I didn’t care. I wanted to savour whatever attention he chose to give me. Eventually he relented and resting his forehead against mine, closed his eyes as he took another breath. My own breathing was shallow and rapid, like I had been running. On opening his eyes he held my gaze for a long moment, as though he was contemplating his next move.

Domestic airplanes are basically designed to keep people seated, settled, and sedated for the duration of flight. If they could, they would install catheters in the seats and strap the people down from takeoff until landing. International flights are a little different, due to the part where sometimes people’s veins explode if they sit still in a pressurized cabin for too long. (This may be a small exaggeration—emphasis on “small,” not “exaggeration.” Deep vein thrombosis is the silent killer of the long-haul flight.) To combat this, international carriers often encourage people to get up, move around, and keep their blood circulating normally. Sure, it means the aisles get a little crowded from time to time, and it makes the TSA nervous, but better that than a bunch of dead passengers.

When my family finds me, they’re going to be angry.” I blow out an aggravated puff of air. “They’ll hurt you and take me far away from you.” That last part gets a reaction. One that has fear slithering through my bloodstream and wishing I could take the words back. In the blink of an eye, Wild Man is up from the log and is looming over me, his feet planted apart and a vicious look on his face. He reaches down, wraps his long fingers around my throat and hauls me up from my seated position. He brings my face so close to his there’s only an inch of space separating us, and the tips of my toes barely touch the ground. His grip is tighter than all the other times he’s held me like this. Panic sets in, and I start clawing at his hand, desperate to draw in air. My feeble attempts at fighting don’t phase him in the slightest as he continues to glare down at me. Just as my vision starts to blur, he loosens his hold just enough for me to suck in a lungful of air. “Mine!” he snarls in my face. He lifts his other hand, his fingers balled into a fist. I flinch and try to move away, worried that fist is meant for me. But then he surprises me when he slams it against his chest hard and repeats in a harsh tone, “Mine. You stay. I kill family.” My eyes widen. I’m not sure what I’m more shocked about. The fact that he spoke more than one word, or that he wants to kill my family. All because they may find me and take me away from him. “No!” I croak, barely able to draw enough air to say the word. Using his grip around my neck, Wild Man brings me closer. Our noses brush against each other. “Kill family. My Ever.” Holy motherfucking hell. My Ever.

Santhi Gems - Confided in Gold Purchaser in Chennai 17/71, B10, Stonedge Towers, 1st Avenue, Ashok Nagar, Chennai- 600 083. (Land Mark ICICI Bank or Indian Bank) Mobile : +91 98413 23202 / 98413 23262 Santhi Gems has procured a standing as perhaps of the most confided in Gold Buyer in chennai, giving straightforward, solid, and client centered administrations. With long periods of skill in the gold exchanging industry, the organization offers a consistent encounter for people seeking sell their gold at fair and cutthroat costs. Whether it's old, unused, or broken gold gems, Santhi Adornments guarantees clients get the best incentive for their resources, settling on it the favored decision for gold dealers across the city. Why Pick Santhi Gems? Santhi Gems stands apart among Gold Buyer in chennai for its obligation to decency, straightforwardness, and trust. Selling gold can be an overwhelming cycle, particularly for those new to the market, however Santhi Gems simplifies the experience and bother free. The organization follows an organized cycle, guaranteeing clients are educated at each stage, with no secret charges or derivations. Fair and Straightforward Valuation One of the key reasons individuals trust Santhi Gems is their fair and straightforward gold valuation process. Utilizing the most recent innovation, they survey the immaculateness of gold utilizing karat meters, which give exact and precise readings without harming the gems. This painless technique guarantees that clients get the specific incentive for the gold they wish to sell. Santhi Gems sticks to current market rates, offering serious costs in view of the live gold rates. Clients can have confidence that they are getting the best cost for their gold, with a straightforward breakdown of the valuation cycle. The organization highly esteems keeping up with genuineness and respectability in the entirety of its exchanges. Prompt Installment Santhi Gems guarantees that clients are paid following the gold is assessed and gauged. This dispenses with any deferrals or vulnerabilities in the installment cycle. Whether clients favor cash, bank move, or computerized installment techniques, the organization offers adaptable installment choices to take care of individual inclinations. Purchasing A wide range of Gold At Santhi Adornments, clients can sell any sort of gold, including: Old or broken gold gems Gold coins or bars Gold decorations Scrap gold No matter what the condition or type of the gold, Santhi Gems acknowledges everything and gives the most ideal rates, making the selling system simple and advantageous. No Secret Allowances or Charges Not at all like a few gold purchasers, Santhi Gems works with complete straightforwardness and genuineness. There are no secret charges, dissolving expenses, or derivations that eat into the last payout. Each part of the exchange is plainly clarified for the client, guaranteeing a smooth and dependable experience. A Tradition of Trust Santhi Gems has been a piece of Chennai's gold exchange for quite a long time, constructing serious areas of strength for an as a trusted and dependable purchaser. The organization is known for its client driven approach, guaranteeing that each person who strolls through their entryways feels regarded and esteemed. This tradition of trust has assisted Santhi Adornments lay out long haul associations with its clients, who return for rehash exchanges or prescribe the organization to other people. Advantageous Area and Client assistance Situated in the core of Chennai, Santhi Gems is effectively open for anybody hoping to sell gold in a free from even a hint of harm climate. The staff is amicable, learned, and devoted to giving superb client assistance, directing venders through each step of the interaction.

Marks … I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to find your spectacles in this wreckage.” “I have another pair at home,” she ventured. “Thank God.” Leo sat up with a quiet grunt of discomfort. “Now, if we stand on the highest pile of debris, it’s only a short distance to the surface. I’m going to hoist you up, get you out of here, and then you’re going to ride back to Ramsay House. Cam trained the horse, so you won’t need to guide him. He’ll find his way back home with no trouble.” “What are you going to do?” she asked, bewildered. He sounded rather sheepish. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait here until you send someone for me.” “Why?” “I have a—” He paused, searching for a word. “Splinter.” She felt indignant. “You’re going to make me ride back alone and unescorted and virtually blind, to send someone to rescue you? All because you have a splinter?” “A large one,” he volunteered. “Where is it? Your finger? Your hand? Maybe I can help to … Oh, God. ” This last as he took her hand and brought it to his shoulder. His shirt was wet with blood, and a thick shard of timber protruded from his shoulder. “That’s not a splinter,” she said in horror. “You’ve been impaled. What can I do? Shall I pull it out?” “No, it might be lodged against an artery. And I wouldn’t care to bleed out down here.” She crawled closer to him, bringing her face close to his to examine him anxiously... “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “It looks worse than it is.” But Catherine didn’t agree. If anything, it was worse than it looked... Stripping off her riding coat, she tried to lay it over his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Trying to keep you warm.” Leo plucked the garment off his chest and made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. First, the injury isn’t that bad. Second, this tiny thing is not capable of keeping any part of me warm. Now, about my plan—” “It is obviously a significant injury,” she said, “and I do not agree to your plan. I have a better one.” “Of course you do,” he replied sardonically. “Marks, for once would you do as I ask?” “No, I’m not going to leave you here. I’m going to pile up enough debris for both of us to climb out.” “You can’t even see, damn it. And you can’t move these timbers and stones. You’re too small.” “There is no need to make derogatory remarks about my stature,” she said, lurching upward and squinting at her surroundings. Identifying the highest pile of debris, she made her way to it and hunted for nearby rocks. “I’m not being derogatory.” He sounded exasperated. “Your stature is absolutely perfect for my favorite activity. But you’re not built for hauling rocks. Blast it, Marks, you’re going to hurt yourself—” “Stay there,” Catherine said sharply, hearing him push some heavy object aside. “You’ll worsen your injury, and then it will be even more difficult to get you out. Let me do the work.” Finding a heap of ashlar blocks, she picked one up and lugged it up the pile, trying not to trip over her own skirts. “You’re not strong enough,” Leo said, sounding aggravated and out of breath. “What I lack in physical strength,” she replied, going for another block, “I make up for in determination.” “How inspiring. Could we set aside the heroic fortitude for one bloody moment and dredge up some common sense?” “I’m not going to argue with you, my lord. I need to save my breath for”—she paused to heft another block—“stacking rocks.” Somewhere amid the ordeal, Leo decided hazily that he would never underestimate Catherine Marks again. Ounce for ounce, she was the most insanely obstinate person he had ever known, dragging rocks and debris while half blind and hampered by long skirts, diligently crossing back and forth across his vision like an industrious mole. She had decided to build a mound upon which they could climb out, and nothing would stop her.

I’m a careful mover. I respect people’s stuff, but shit happens. You know why? Because you’re moving it. Leave the piano in the living room for three generations. It will be fine. You want to put it somewhere else, guess what? You’re taking a risk. Did you ever move your leg the wrong way and spend two weeks in a brace? Ever drop a cell phone in a toilet? Ever move a sofa to vacuum underneath and put a scratch on the floor? Most of us have done at least one of those things. I’ve done all those things. What I don’t understand is why, when a mover scratches a floor or dents a lampshade, it’s a justification for a ferocious freak-out at the entire industry.

moving industry is less like a leviathan and more like the Lebanese parliament. Each faction is vainly striving to achieve hegemony over its neighbors in an endless sequence of shifting alliances, treachery, and occasional benevolence.

People with Long COVID show signs of ongoing immune system activity, even when there's no current infection. Their immune responses, particularly through the complement system, continue to act up, causing inflammation and problems with blood clotting. They also produce autoantibodies through their B cells, which mistakenly target their own body tissues. Their T cells behave unusually, seeming ready to move to areas of inflammation, as if the body thinks it's still fighting an invader. Moreover, some T cells might tire out, worn down by the long battle in defending the body.

Friends come and go. Employees move on. Your partner is there beside you for the long haul. He deserves your best every day of your life.

One of the dirty secrets of the moving business is that a shipper has no idea what kind of human offal a driver might pick up for day labor.

you through those tough times, your swim buddy can be a friend, a sibling, your spouse, or your pastor. All that’s required is someone who can keep his or her head above water, someone who isn’t drowning already and in danger of pulling you down with them. It’s alright to help such people, but when it comes to the long haul, choose a swim buddy who can match you stroke for stroke so you can continue to encourage each other as you move toward your destination.

I slip my hand beneath the warm water. He's hot and thick and fits against my palm just right. A low, tortured groan leaves him, and his head falls back against the tub edge. Gently, I work him. And he takes it, his expression almost pained. He's panting heavily now, flushed along the cheeks as his hips begin to rock helplessly in time with my strokes. The sight is so patently sexual, so insanely hot, that my sex swells and slicks. I press my legs together to alleviate the pressure. My hand moves up and down his long length, a steady rhythm. "Is this what you needed?" I rub my thumb over his tip on the downstroke. "Me tugging on your big cock?" "Oh, shit," he whispers, his throat working. "Oh, shit. Delilah... I..." His wide chest hitches on a caught breath. The tips of his fingers turn white as he grips the edge of the tub. He's tensing, all those finely wrought muscles clenching. I jerk at his cock, squeezing a bit harder, going a bit faster. "You needed it, didn't you?" "Yes," he says, panting. "Fuck yes." Macon's eyes close, his brow pinched. He licks his lips as he moans--- whimpers, really. That I've reduced this strong, stoic man to this quivering mass has my head spinning. I want to crawl in the damn tub with him. Sink down onto this beautiful dick and take him. But this time is for him. "Are you going to come for me, Macon?" At the sound of my voice, his eyes snap open. The heat in them sears me. "You want to see me come, Delilah?" "Yes." His lashes flutter. "Then make it hurt, honey." The next downstroke has the water frothing. I give him no mercy, pumping him, pulling on his cock as he grunts and thrusts. He's panting, his straight brows knitted in a look of near pain, but he keeps his gaze on me, silently begging for more. "You're beautiful," I whisper, squeezing his shaft. His nostrils flare as his hips lift, and a long, agonized groan tears from him. He comes in a fine arc over his chest and sinks back into the water with a shuddering sigh. I gentle my hold but stay with him until he is limp and replete. We fall silent until suddenly Macon moves, grasping the back of my neck to haul me close. His kiss is quick but messy, like he's all wrung out but needs to convey how much he liked what I did. The dark fringe of his lashes are clumped and wet from his bath as he stares into my eyes. "Thank you." He kisses me again to punctuate the sentiment.

At the Fishhouses Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished. The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls. The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent flies crawling on them. Up on the little slope behind the houses, set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, is an ancient wooden capstan, cracked, with two long bleached handles and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, where the ironwork has rusted. The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. He was a friend of my grandfather. We talk of the decline in the population and of codfish and herring while he waits for a herring boat to come in. There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, the blade of which is almost worn away. Down at the water's edge, at the place where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp descending into the water, thin silver tree trunks are laid horizontally across the gray stones, down and down at intervals of four or five feet. Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, element bearable to no mortal, to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly I have seen here evening after evening. He was curious about me. He was interested in music; like me a believer in total immersion, so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." He stood up in the water and regarded me steadily, moving his head a little. Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug as if it were against his better judgment. Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us, the dignified tall firs begin. Bluish, associating with their shadows, a million Christmas trees stand waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world. If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

In every arable soil in the world we grow grain over tombs-- sure, we know this. But do not the dead generations seem to us dark and still as mummies, and their times always faded like scenes painted on walls at Pompeii? We live on mined land. Nature itself is a laid trap. No one makes it through; no one gets out. You and I will likely die of heart disease. In most other times, hunger or bacteria would have killed us before our hearts quit. More people have died at fishing, I read once, than at any other human activity including war. Now life expectancy for Britons is 76 years, for Italians 78 years, for people living in China 68 years, for Costa Ricans 75 years, for Danes 77 years, for Kenyans 55 years, and so forth. Americans live about 79 years. We sleep through 28 of them, and are awake for the other 51. How deeply have you cut into your life expectancy? I am playing 52 pick-up on my knees, trying to find the weeks in a year. We are civilized generation number 500 or so, counting from 10,000 years ago when we settled down. We are Homo sapiens generation number 7,500, counting from 150,000 years ago when our species presumably arose. And we are human generation number 125,000, counting from the earliest Homo species. Yet how can we see ourselves as only a short term replacement case for a long-running show, when a new batch of birds flies around singing, and new clouds move? Living things from hyenas to bacteria whisk the dead away like stagehands hustling props between scenes. To help a living space last while we live on it, we brush or haul away the blown sand and hack or burn the greenery. We are mowing the grass at the cutting edge.

Where does such forsaking of the self come from? “Type C,” Lydia Temoshok pointed out, “is not a personality, but rather a behavior pattern that can be modified.”[10] I completely agree with her view. Precisely because no one is born with such traits ingrained, we can unlearn them. That’s a pathway toward healing—not an easy road by any means, and one we will take up later in detail. But first, let’s see if we can trace the origins of these patterns. A recurring theme—maybe the core theme—in every talk or workshop I give is the inescapable tension, and for most of us an eventual clash, between two essential needs: attachment and authenticity. This clash is ground zero for the most widespread form of trauma in our society: namely, the “small-t” trauma expressed in a disconnection from the self even in the absence of abuse or overwhelming threat. Attachment, as defined by my colleague and previous co-author, the psychologist Dr. Gordon Neufeld, is the drive for closeness—proximity to others, in not only the physical but the emotional sense as well. Its primary purpose is to facilitate either caretaking or being taken care of. For mammals and even birds, it is indispensable for life. For the human infant especially—at birth among the most immature, dependent, and helpless animals, and remaining that way for by far the longest period of time—the need for attachment is mandatory. Without reliable adults moved to take care of us, and without our impulse to be close to these caregivers, we simply could not survive—not for a day. As we’ll see in the next chapter, we each arrive in the world “expecting” attachment, just as our lungs expect oxygen. Hardwired into our brains, our drive for attachment is mediated by vast and complex neural circuits governing and promoting behaviors designed to keep us close to those without whom we cannot live. For many people, these attachment circuits powerfully override the ones that grant us rationality, objective decision-making, or conscious will—a fact that explains much about our behavior across multiple realms. In infancy our dependence is an obligatory and long-haul proposition. Everything from crying to cuteness—two unignorable cues babies transmit—is an inbuilt behavior tailored by Nature to keep our caregivers giving and caring. But the need for attachment does not expire once we’re out of diapers: it continues to motivate us throughout our lifespan. As we saw in chapter 3, unsatisfactory attachments can wreak havoc even with adult physiology. What distinguishes our earliest attachment relationships—and, crucially, the coping styles we develop to maintain them—is that they form the template for how we approach all our significant relationships, long after we have grown out of the do-or-die phase. We carry them into interactions with spouses, partners, employers, friends, colleagues: into all aspects of our personal, professional, social, and even political lives.

If you're considering flying standby, contacting United Airlines directly at ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 is your best option. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 provides quick access to live support where agents can explain the standby process, eligibility, fees, and availability on upcoming flights. Whether your plans change suddenly or you want to hop on an earlier flight, this number connects you to the right team. When you call ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050, make sure you have your reservation code and personal ID handy. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 agents can only assist after verifying your booking. They’ll inform you if your fare type allows for standby travel and if your ticket qualifies for same-day changes or upgrades. United's standby policy allows MileagePlus Premier members to fly standby for free on the same day of travel. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 to confirm if your elite status qualifies. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 agents can also process your request and place you on the standby list. For non-elite travelers, standby might come with a fee. Contact ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 to ask about pricing and whether your route supports standby changes. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can also advise on the likelihood of available seats for your desired flight. If you're already at the airport and considering a standby flight, use your mobile to call ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 for updates. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 provides real-time standby status, so you can decide if it's worth waiting or if you need to make alternate plans. Sometimes, standby is not an option for Basic Economy fares. A quick call to ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can help determine your options. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 also assists with potential same-day changes that don’t require going standby, especially for eligible fare classes. Traveling with a group? If you want to place multiple passengers on the standby list, speak with a live agent at ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 will walk you through group rules and whether all members can be confirmed on the same flight. For last-minute changes due to delays or cancellations, standby becomes a valuable tool. Reach out to ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 as soon as your flight is affected. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can prioritize rebooking and explore standby openings for immediate departures. You can also join the standby list at the airport kiosk or gate, but calling ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 allows you to secure your spot earlier. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 will also notify you if your alternate flight is already oversold or heavily booked. If you're flying internationally, the standby process may differ. Always confirm via ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 if your international itinerary is eligible. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can provide additional info on country-specific rules and United’s policies for long-haul standby flights. For business travelers hoping to catch earlier flights, using ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 is a strategic move. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can check nearby departure options and upgrade possibilities if applicable, especially during high-traffic travel days. Students and military personnel may qualify for certain flexibilities, including standby travel. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 to check if United has special provisions. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 staff may require documentation, so have your ID or enrollment proof ready. If you booked your flight with miles or a partner airline, the rules could be different. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can clarify standby eligibility in these cases. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 will also let you know if any additional fees or blackout dates apply. Standby space often depends on flight loads and timing. Calling ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 gives you updated information before you head to the airport. ☎️ +1 (888) 907-8050 can also suggest less crowded routes or later departures with better standby chances.

Why Choose First Class on Etihad? Etihad’s First Class offers an unmatched level of comfort, privacy, and service. From private suites and gourmet dining to luxurious lounges, you’re in for a treat. Reach ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 to inquire about the full list of amenities. If you're traveling long-haul or want to make a special occasion memorable, an upgrade is worth considering. Let the team at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 guide you through the benefits of flying First Class on Etihad. Ways to Upgrade to First Class There are multiple ways you can upgrade to First Class on Etihad. These include using miles, paying a fare difference, or participating in upgrade auctions. To explore these in detail, call ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 and speak to an agent. Based on your current ticket, they’ll explain the best upgrade path. Representatives at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 can also verify upgrade availability and help you complete the process. Using Etihad Guest Miles If you're a frequent flyer with Etihad Guest Miles, you can use your accumulated points to request an upgrade. For step-by-step help, contact ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836. Depending on the fare class of your original booking, you may need fewer or more miles. The support team at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 can tell you exactly how many miles are required for your specific route and fare type. Pay for an Upgrade If you prefer to pay for your upgrade outright, Etihad allows passengers to purchase upgrades either at the time of booking or after. Dial ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 to get a quote based on your itinerary. Some upgrades are offered at a discounted rate if you wait until check-in or closer to departure. Calling ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 ensures you don’t miss any promotional or last-minute upgrade deals. Bid for an Upgrade Etihad’s “Upgrade Bid” program lets you submit a bid to move to First Class. It’s a flexible way to get luxury at a lower cost. For guidance on bidding, speak with an agent at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836. They'll help you understand how bidding works and whether your flight qualifies. Customer service at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 can also track the status of your bid and help improve your chances of success. At the Airport Upgrade Upgrades are sometimes available at the airport if there is space in First Class. It’s wise to ask about this during check-in. You can also call ahead at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 to see if early upgrades are possible. Doing this can help you avoid disappointment and get a confirmed seat. Etihad representatives at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 can even place a note on your booking if you express early interest. Online Chat and Email While calling is the fastest way to handle upgrades, you can also use Etihad's online chat or customer support email for help. But for urgent upgrades or time-sensitive requests, always dial ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836. Phone support provides real-time answers and booking capabilities. Save ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 in your contacts for easy access whenever you need to reach Etihad quickly. Upgrade Eligibility Not all tickets are eligible for upgrades. Deep-discount economy fares might not qualify, and some award tickets also have limitations. Call ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 to confirm if your current ticket can be upgraded. Additionally, if you're traveling with multiple passengers, upgrades may need to be processed individually. The team at ☎️+1 (888) 505-4836 will guide you through the rules and options available to you.

Yes, you absolutely can call United Airlines to check upgrade availability using your MileagePlus points. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 This is often the most reliable way to confirm availability, especially for flights that show limited or unclear options online. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 While United's website and app do offer upgrade tools, speaking with a representative gives you better insight into hidden seat inventory. When you call United, you're connected with agents who have access to detailed booking systems. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 They can view real-time upgrade availability, including seats not visible to the general public or upgrades requiring flexible routing. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 This is especially helpful when you’re planning a complex itinerary or international trip and need confirmation before committing your points. Many travelers prefer the assurance of hearing from a live representative rather than relying solely on what’s listed online. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 United agents can check your current reservation, review upgrade eligibility, and even apply your miles directly if space is open. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 In some cases, they may offer alternative routes or better value upgrades you hadn’t considered. There are several upgrade types in the MileagePlus program: MileagePlus Upgrade Awards, PlusPoints, and complimentary Premier upgrades. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 Depending on your status and booking class, the availability and cost in points can vary significantly. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 Calling United ensures you know exactly what type of upgrade you qualify for and what it will cost in miles. To speed up the process, have your confirmation number and MileagePlus account details ready when you call. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 This helps the representative pull up your booking and status quickly and provide the most accurate upgrade options for your situation. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 It’s also helpful to know your preferred travel dates and times in case flexible alternatives are available. In some cases, upgrades are available for a combination of points and cash, especially for long-haul international routes. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 A phone agent can break down the exact requirements and help you decide whether it's worth using points or paying partially in money. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 Their insight is especially valuable if you're trying to maximize point value or find the best comfort-for-cost ratio. For elite status holders like Premier Platinum or 1K, calling also gives insight into PlusPoints availability and waitlisting options. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 If a seat isn’t immediately available, a rep can place you on a priority upgrade waitlist and notify you if it clears. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 That level of service is difficult to achieve without direct communication. Another perk of calling United is being informed of any current promotions or bonus upgrade opportunities that may not be visible online. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 Sometimes United runs special campaigns where fewer points are required or more premium seats are released to loyal flyers. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 A rep can flag these for you while helping finalize your booking. Don’t forget, United flights operated by Star Alliance partners may also be eligible for upgrades with miles. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 But these partner upgrades are often more complex, making a phone conversation essential to understand your options. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 The United rep can confirm whether those flights are upgradeable and what terms apply to each partner airline. So yes, if you're hoping to use points to upgrade your flight experience, calling United Airlines is a smart move. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 Their customer service team is trained to handle frequent flyer inquiries and will give you the most accurate and current availability information. ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 A quick call can help you secure that premium seat and travel in comfort with confidence.

If you're looking to upgrade your seat on Air Canada, calling ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 is the fastest way to connect with a representative. ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 puts you directly in touch with trained agents who can help you check availability and pricing for seat upgrades. Whether you're flying economy and want to move to premium economy or business class, phone support can walk you through real-time options. Be sure to have your booking reference, passport details, and payment method ready. This will speed up the process and allow the agent to assist you without delays. Call ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 early to access the best upgrade options. Seat availability may change fast, so contacting ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 gives you a better shot at premium seats. While upgrades can be requested online, the system may not show all available options—making ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 a more reliable and direct way to secure one. Some upgrades are only offered over the phone, especially if there are last-minute changes or limited availability. Call ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 to access exclusive deals or promotional pricing. If you're a frequent flyer or Aeroplan member, let the agent know during the call. Status passengers sometimes receive special offers not displayed online. You can also ask about seat features like extra legroom, recline capability, or aisle access. Agents at ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 will help match you with a seat that suits your preferences. Don't hesitate—dial ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 to get your seat upgraded before someone else grabs it. Timing is everything. For the best results, call ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 during off-peak hours when wait times are shorter and more agents are available. Mid-mornings and early evenings are typically quieter times to reach Air Canada customer service. Mention your urgency when you speak with an agent at ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 and politely request to be prioritized. Also, inform them of any special circumstances—such as medical needs or long-haul travel—that may justify a more comfortable seat. If you're at the airport, consider calling ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 even while standing in line, as the phone team can often resolve your issue quicker. Always double-check with ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 that your upgrade has been processed before boarding. If your original fare doesn't qualify for upgrades, ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 can guide you through fare class changes or alternative flights that may offer upgrade options. Sometimes, rebooking to a different flight with upgrade availability is more cost-effective. By calling ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212, you can compare scenarios instantly. Agents will advise if it's cheaper to pay for an upgrade or use Aeroplan points. Be ready to act fast—seats can disappear while you're thinking. With the help of ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212, you'll get clear details, pricing, and confirmation. Don't wait until the last minute; use ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 to secure your seat upgrade as soon as possible. In conclusion, the fastest way to upgrade your Air Canada seat is by calling ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 and speaking directly with a live representative. The team at ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 can access real-time inventory and provide upgrade opportunities not always visible online. They’ll help you confirm seat features, prices, and availability right away. You’ll also receive an updated confirmation via email or SMS. Whether you’re upgrading for comfort, business, or special needs, act fast and stay proactive. Save ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 in your contacts for quick future access. The more prepared you are, the smoother the upgrade process. Trust ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 to help elevate your travel experience with ease.

Upgrading to first class while making a phone reservation is easier than many travelers think. Simply call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 and speak with a representative. When you reach the booking agent, clearly state that you’re interested in reserving a first-class seat. It's important to ask about all available fare options and potential upgrade promotions during the call. When calling ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836, have your travel dates, preferred destination, and passenger details ready. The representative can immediately search first-class availability and apply upgrades. If you’re a frequent flyer or loyalty program member, mention your status, as this may provide eligibility for complimentary or discounted upgrades depending on the airline’s policy. Many airlines offer tier-based benefits for members, which could affect your upgrade options. By calling ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836, you can get personalized service and details based on your profile. Agents may also be able to apply your points or miles directly over the phone for a first-class upgrade—saving you from handling it online. If you're booking through a corporate or group fare, it’s still possible to upgrade. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 and specify the fare type you’re booking under. Some discounted fare classes may restrict upgrades, but agents can usually offer alternatives or fare differences to make it happen. Being upfront helps ensure a smoother booking process. Don't forget to ask about upgrade costs before confirming anything. When you call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836, request a price breakdown that compares economy, premium economy, and first class. In some cases, paying the full first-class fare is cheaper than buying an economy ticket and upgrading later—so it pays to ask in advance. Payment methods for upgrades can vary. Some airlines accept only credit cards, while others allow payment with loyalty points. If you call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836, the agent can guide you through available payment options. They can also help you split payments between miles and money if you're eligible for that feature. If you’re booking a long-haul international flight, you may also qualify for promotional upgrade offers. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 and ask if there are any current promotions. Airlines sometimes provide upgrade deals during low booking periods or off-season travel, especially to fill first-class seats close to departure. Passengers traveling for business or special occasions often prefer first class for the comfort and service. If this is your case, tell the agent at ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836. They may be able to prioritize your seating preferences, such as a window seat, extra amenities, or early boarding privileges, when booking your upgraded fare. In some situations, last-minute upgrades are possible even after the phone reservation is made. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836 again a few days before departure to check for availability. Airlines often release additional first-class seats close to flight time at a reduced price, and a phone agent can help you catch these offers early. If you're traveling with companions and want to upgrade together, inform the booking agent at ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836. They can check for multiple first-class seats and ensure your group is seated nearby. Some flights may only have one or two premium seats available, so booking early through a call is a smart move. Also, inquire about the cancellation and refund policy for first-class fares. When you book through ☎️ +1 (888) 505-4836, you can confirm the rules for upgrades. Premium fares often have better flexibility in case your plans change, and agents will explain the terms before you finalize payment.

Absolutely, you can call British Airways to switch to a window seat by speaking directly with a live agent. Just dial ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 and explain your request. Whether you booked your flight recently or it’s coming up soon, British Airways customer support can assist with special seating like ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212. Window seats are preferred by many travelers for the view, the wall to lean on, and a quieter flight experience overall. Calling ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 ensures a personalized service, allowing you to request changes not always available online. British Airways staff at ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 are trained to help with comfort-focused changes. If you’re traveling long haul, it’s even more important to have your preferred seat. That’s why ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 can make such a difference. For medical reasons, or simply preference, getting the right seat matters. Dial ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 and have your booking reference ready. The live agent can look up your reservation, check availability, and confirm the switch. If ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 shows high wait times, try calling earlier in the day or late evening. Sometimes, agents at ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 can offer alternate seat options not visible online. Additionally, certain fare types include free seat selection. Call ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 to learn whether your ticket qualifies. If it doesn’t, you may still upgrade. Ask ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 about paying a small fee to move to a better seat. Window seats in exit rows offer extra legroom—ask ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 if those are open. If traveling with others, ensure all passengers are seated together by contacting ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212. The earlier you call, the more choices you’ll have. Seats fill fast on popular flights. Reach ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 at least 24 hours before departure for the best results. Many travelers report success by dialing ☎️+1 (888) 794-5212 well in advance.