Mines Safety Quotes

But there are other serious issues that concern me; namely, workers rights, safety regulations, and a big lament of mine, child labor issues.

This early piece of the morning is mine.

Love is not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size. Love is simply two hands reached out in the darkness, saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

His lips were soft, warm and felt overwhelmingly right against mine. I fell into it, oblivious to anything other than the safety in his touch. One by one, the senses flowed from me as he pulled them away and set them free. It must have hurt him. The senses hurt the hell out of me..

All my life I've wanted to be the kid who gets to cross over into the magical kingdom. I devoured those books by C.S. Lewis and William Dunthorn, Ellen Wentworth, Susan Cooper, and Alan Garner. When I could get them from the library, I read them out of order as I found them, and then in order, and then reread them all again, many times over. Because even when I was a child I knew it wasn't simply escape that lay on the far side of the borders of fairyland. Instinctively I knew crossing over would mean more than fleeing the constant terror and shame that was mine at that time of my life. There was a knowledge – an understanding hidden in the marrow of my bones that only I can access ― telling me that by crossing over, I'd be coming home. That's the reason I’ve yearned so desperately to experience the wonder, the mystery, the beauty of that world beyond the World As It Is. It's because I know that somewhere across the border there's a place for me. A place of safety and strength and learning, where I can become who I'm supposed to be. I've tried forever to be that person here, but whatever I manage to accomplish in the World As It Is only seems to be an echo of what I could be in that other place that lies hidden somewhere beyond the borders.

His eyes, searching deep into mine, felt like danger and safety all rolled into one.

I don't know how much time passes with us just lying there, just feeling that the other is really there, really true, really alive, feeling the safety of him, his weight against mine, the roughness of his fingers touching my face, his warmth and his smell and the dustiness of his clothes, and we barely speak...

No one. Threatens. Your. Safety,” he bites out. “Got that, Angelina?” I blink, then nod. “Good,” he says, squeezes my neck, and slams his mouth to mine.

Dear heart,” he murmured, “do not look on me with those dear, scared eyes of yours. If there is aught that puzzles you in what I said, try and trust me a little longer. Remember, I must save the Dauphin at all costs; mine honor is bound with his safety. What happens to me after that matters but little, yet I wish to live for your dear sake.

One of mine – that had a ring to it, and so did the promise of safety, of being taken in hand. If Riley had tried to slap a label on the thing budding between them, he'd have rejected it out of hand, because nothing encompassed the particular set of feelings he might sum up as owned.

I faced her and she faced me, and in the space between us in bed, she held out her hand. I took it in mine. Connected at the heart. I went to sleep soon after instead of worrying about the ramifications of what we had done. The safety was a sedative.

Before I grad her book and mine, I go sit next to her on the organ bench and she gives me a big grandma hug - her special version, made from strong arms, old-fashioned perfume, and years of practice. The kind that makes you think you've won the best prize in the world. For love and safety, find your grandma. (76)

I missed you, Kitten,” he growled. Then his mouth crushed over mine, his kiss more filled with raw need than romantic welcome. That was fine; I felt the same way. Aside from my compulsive urge to run my hands over him to assure myself that he was really here, relief, happiness, and the most profound feeling of rightness zoomed through me, settling all the way to my core. I hadn’t realized how deeply I’d missed Bones until that very moment, hadn’t let myself acknowledge how everything felt off when I was apart from him. On some levels, it was frightening how much a part of me he’d become. It let me know just how much I’d crumble if anything happened to him. “Why didn’t you answer your mobile earlier?” Bones murmured once he lifted his head. “I tried you several times. Tried Mencheres, too. Even Tepesh. None of you answered. Scared the wits out of me, so I stowed away on a FedEx plane to make sure you were all right.” “You came all the way from Ohio because I didn’t answer the phone?” I was torn between laughter and disbelief. “God, Bones, that’s a little crazy.” And it was, except the part of me that had had images of his tombstone dancing in my head because he hadn’t answered his phone earlier was nodding in complete understanding. Despite all our protestations, we were so alike when it came to fear over the other’s safety, and I doubted we’d ever change. “Crazy,” I repeated, my voice roughening with the surge of emotion in me. “And have I told you lately. that your crazy side . . . is your sexiest side?” He chuckled before his mouth swooped back over mine in another dizzying kiss. Then he picked me up, brushing past Vlad and Mencheres without even a hello, though I doubted either of them was surprised.

The Army, however, found ways to adapt. It lobbied hard for atomic artillery shells, atomic antiaircraft missiles, atomic land mines.

Dad used to say lots of funny things - like he was speaking his own language sometimes. Twenty-three skidoo, salad days, nosey parker, bandbox fresh, the catbird seat, chocolate teapot, and something about Grandma sucking eggs. One of his favourites was 'safe as houses'. Teaching me to ride a bike, my mother worrying in the doorway: "Calm down, Linda, this street is as safe as houses." Convincing Jamie to sleep without his nightlight: "It's as safe as houses in here, son, not a monster for miles." Then overnight the world turned into a hideous nightmare, and the phrase became a black joke to Jamie and me. Houses were the most dangerous places we knew. Hiding in a patch of scrubby pines, watching a car pull out from the garage of a secluded home, deciding whether to make a food run, whether it was too dicey. "Do you think the parasites'll be long gone?" "No way - that place is as safe as houses. Let's get out of here." And now I can sit here and watch TV like it is five years ago and Mom and Dad are in the other room and i've never spent a night hiding in a drainpipe with Jamie and a bunch of rats while bodysnatchers with spotlights search for the thieves who made off with a bag of dried beans and a bowl of cold spaghetti. I know that if Jamie and I survived alone for twenty years we would never find this feeling on our own. The feeling of safety. More than safety, even - happiness. Safe and happy, two things I thought i'd never feel again. Jared made us feel that way without trying, just be being Jared. I breathe in the scent of his skin and feel the warmth of his body under mine. Jared makes everything safe, everything happy. Even houses.

To speak only of food inspections: the United States currently imports 80% of its seafood, 32% of its fruits and nuts, 13% of its vegetables, and 10% of its meats. In 2007, these foods arrived in 25,000 shipments a day from about 100 countries. The FDA was able to inspect about 1% of these shipments, down from 8% in 1992. In contrast, the USDA is able to inspect 16% of the foods under its purview. By one assessment, the FDA has become so short-staffed that it would take the agency 1,900 years to inspect every foreign plant that exports food to the United States.

For two centuries, my existence was stagnant. I was a shade in Magdalen, following the same paths each night.’ He brushed the tear away. ‘And then you came, angel of vengeance.’ I clung to his shirt. He lifted me on to the counter, and I draped my arms around his neck. ‘The night you left Oxford, I watched my prison burn,’ he said softly, eyes locked on mine. ‘You were in that fire – your wrath, your strength, your refusal to be tamed. And when it finally went out, the world lay absolutely still, just as it did before you came. For some, there is safety in stillness, in certainty. But you have ruined me for stillness, Paige Mahoney.

I heard one man say, "Cook, I like my tea strong." Another joined in, "Cook, I like mine weak." It was pleasant to know that their minds were untroubled, but I thought the time opportune to mention that the tea would be the same for all hands and that we would be fortunate if two months later we had any tea at all. It occurred to me at the time that the incident had psychological interest. Here were men, their home crushed, the camp pitched on the unstable floes, and their chance of reaching safety apparently remote, calmly attending to the details of existence and giving their attention to such trifles as the strength of a brew of tea.

The gesture—so random and kind—baffled me. Is this what mothers did, wonder if you might need safety pins? Mine phoned once a month and always asked the same practical questions (grades, classes, upcoming expenses).

You would save them. If you could.” “No. There are periods in revolution when to live is a crime, and people must know how to yield their heads if they are demanded. Perhaps mine will be. If that time comes, I won’t dispute it.

To build refuges of my own making is to construct fortresses of sand at ocean’s edge, where the relentless tides of time will leave my most magnificently constructed walls as perfectly flat sand. And now that I am subject to the very tides that destroyed these walls of mine, I am left with the reality that my single and sole refuge can only be the God who created both tides and sand.

Food safety oversight is largely, but not exclusively, divided between two agencies, the FDA and the USDA. The USDA mostly oversees meat and poultry; the FDA mostly handles everything else, including pet food and animal feed. Although this division of responsibility means that the FDA is responsible for 80% of the food supply, it only gets 20% of the federal budget for this purpose. In contrast, the USDA gets 80% of the budget for 20% of the foods. This uneven distribution is the result of a little history and a lot of politics.

There are many ways to honor America. This book is mine. I have completed this journey of self-education in the belief that the most terrifying possibility since 9/11 has not been terrorism--as frightening as that is--but the prospect that Americans will give up their rights in pursuing the chimera of security.

She turned to the three men in her life. “I don’t want any of you trying to protect me tonight.” Marcus, Nick, and Eli frowned. “I mean it. I’ll be nothing but a distraction if all you’re thinking about is my safety. Besides, if you really want me safe, the way to do it is to rip apart any jackal you see—you concentrate on what’s in front of you. Got me?” Her brothers nodded with an unhappy sigh. Marcus rubbed his nose against hers. “I got you, sweetheart. But that works both ways.” He almost smiled at her rebellious expression. He and his wolf liked that was she so protective. “Don’t worry about me. You just worry about this.” He lightly tapped her ass. “It’s mine, and I want it safe.

You’re mine, Ivory. That means your problems are mine. Your bills, your worries, your safety…” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “All of it belongs to me.” She

In genealogy you might say that interest lies in the eye of the gene holder. The actual descendants are far more intrigued with it all than the listeners, who quickly sink into a narcoleptic coma after the second or third great-great-somebody kills a bear or beheads Charles I, invents the safety pin or strip-mines Poland, catalogues slime molds, dances flamenco, or falls in love with a sheep. Genealogy is a forced march through stories. Yet everyone loves stories, and that is one reason we seek knowledge of our own blood kin. Through our ancestors we can witness their times. Or, we think, there might be something in their lives, an artist’s or a farmer’s skill, an affection for a certain landscape, that will match or explain something in our own. If we know who they were, perhaps we will know who we are. And few cultures have been as identity-obsessed as ours. So keen is this fascination with ancestry, genealogy has become an industry. Family reunions choke the social calendar. Europe crawls with ancestor-seeking Americans. Your mother or your spouse or your neighbors are too busy to talk to you because they are on the Internet running “heritage quests.” We have climbed so far back into our family trees, we stand inches away from the roots where the primates dominate.

I’m Shaila Dixit,” she said, holding out her free hand. Mike shook it. “A little formal,” he said. He looked at Ryan, smiled, and let go of her hand. “But any friend of Ryan’s is a pal of mine.

Why does it always have to hurt so much?” Kingsley asked. “What?” “Life.” Nora smiled. “God’s a sadist. That’s why.” “You think so?” “Oh, I know so,” Nora said. “I’m a writer. I do what God does in miniature every time I write a book. I create worlds and people out of nothing—ex nihilo—and I torture the fuck out of them for four hundred pages.” “Because you’re a sadist?” “Partly that. Plus...if I didn’t torture them it would be a real fucking short book. And trust me on this, King, there is no money in short stories.” Kingsley laughed and buried his head into her lap again, seeking her comfort and safety and the shelter of someone stronger. “You’ve solved the oldest theological conundrum of all time,” Kingsley said. “Why does God allow suffering? Because there’s no money in short stories.” “I’ll tell you one more little secret about being a god. Even though I torture them for four hundred pages, it hurts me to do it.” “They aren’t real. Why does it hurt?” “I created them. They’re mine. I love them. God loves us, too, even when He hurts us. Especially when He hurts us, I imagine.

Story time. In September of 1869, there was a terrible fire at the Avondale coal mine near Plymouth, Pennsylvania. Over 100 coal miners lost their lives. Horrific conditions and safety standards were blamed for the disaster. It wasn’t the first accident. Hundreds of miners died in these mines every year. And those that didn’t, lived in squalor. Children as young as eight worked day in and out. They broke their bodies and gave their lives for nothing but scraps. That day of the fire, as thousands of workers and family members gathered outside the mine to watch the bodies of their friends and loved ones brought to the surface, a man named John Siney stood atop one of the carts and shouted to the crowd: Men, if you must die with your boots on, die for your families, your homes, your country, but do not longer consent to die, like rats in a trap, for those who have no more interest in you than in the pick you dig with. That day, thousands of coal miners came together to unionize. That organization, the Workingmen’s Benevolent Association, managed to fight, for a few years at least, to raise safety standards for the mines by calling strikes and attempting to force safety legislation. ... Until 1875, when the union was obliterated by the mine owners. Why was the union broken so easily? Because they were out in the open. They were playing by the rules. How can you win a deliberately unfair game when the rules are written by your opponent? The answer is you can’t. You will never win. Not as long as you follow their arbitrary guidelines. This is a new lesson to me. She’s been teaching me so many things, about who I am. About what I am. What I really am. About what must be done. Anyway, during this same time, it is alleged a separate, more militant group of individuals had formed in secret. The Molly Maguires. Named after a widow in Ireland who fought against predatory landlords, the coal workers of Pennsylvania became something a little more proactive, supposedly assassinating over two dozen coal mine supervisors and managers. ... Until Pinkerton agents, hired by the same mine owners, infiltrated the group and discovered their identities. Several of the alleged Mollies ended up publicly hanged. Others disappeared. You get the picture. So, that’s another type of secret society. The yeah-we’re-terrorists-but-we-strongly-feel-we’re-justified-and-fuck-you-if-you-don’t-agree society. So, what’s the moral of this little history lesson? This sort of thing happens all day, every day across the universe. It happens in Big Ways, and it happens in little ways, too. The strong stomp on the weak. The weak fight back, usually within the boundaries of the rat trap they find themselves confined. They almost always remain firmly stomped. But sometimes, the weak gather in secret. They make plans. They work outside the system to effect change. Like the Mollies, they usually end up just as stomped as everyone else. But that’s just life. At least they fucking tried. They died with their boots on, as much as I hate that expression. They died with their boots on for their people, their family, not for some rich, nameless organization that gives no shits whether they live or die. Or go extinct. Or are trapped for a millennia after they’re done being used. In my opinion, that’s the only type of society that’s worth joining, worth fighting for. Sure, you’re probably gonna die. But if you find yourself in such a position where such an organization is necessary, what do you have to lose? How can you look at yourself if you don’t do everything you can? And that brings us to the door you’re standing in front of right now. What does all this have to do with what you’re going to find on the other side? Nothing!

Yeah, could you just sort of keep this robot with you and guard this end of the passageway. Okay?” “Guard?” said Arthur. “What from? You just said there’s no one here.” “Yeah, well, just for safety, okay?” said Zaphod. “Whose? Yours or mine?

I thought about the famous line from indigenous Australian writer and activist Lilla Watson, “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.

I want to hold you close, to cherish and protect you, to draw you in until we are so close that I am lost within you, I want to take you to bed to watch the way your skin tightens benneth my fingers the way your body awakens under my touch. I want to trail kisses over you until you are lost in so much pleasure that way you don't know where you end and I begin.I want to tie you up and f__k you until there is no doubt that you are mine. I want to dress you up and take you out and show you off this beautiful, vibrant, brilliant woman. Everything I have built, all my companies, all my billions, they have no value compared to you. So no Nikki I will not take chances with your safety. I will not fight. I will not be defied. You do not want to move in with me thats fine. I will move in with you!

मैं नहीं चाहता कि मेरा मन खंगाला जाए चाहे उसमें इस्तेमाल लायक कुछ भी न हो MAIN NAHIN CHAHTA KI MERA MANN KHANGALA JAYE CHAHE USMEIN ISTEMAL LAYAK KUCHH BHI NA HO I DON'T WANT THAT MY MIND BE SCRUTINIZED EVEN IF THERE WAS NO THING OF VALUE INSIDE 24 Dec National Mathematics Day

I turn to Rue’s family. “But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she’ll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim.” My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. “Thank you for your children.” I raise my chin to address the crowd. “And thank you all for the bread.” I stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me. There’s a long pause. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles Rue’s four-note mockingjay tune. The one that signaled the end of the workday in the orchards. The one that meant safety in the arena. By the end of the tune, I have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. His eyes meet mine. What happens next is not an accident. It is too well executed to be spontaneous, because it happens in complete unison. Every person in the crowd presses the three middle fingers of their left hand against their lips and extends them to me. It’s our sign from District 12, the last good-bye I gave Rue in the arena.

I’m all about safety, but kids need some risk in their lives to stimulate their minds, hone their individuality, and encourage their creativity. The era of helicopter parenting has gone too far. I let mine take a few bumps and knocks, free-range, and learn a little bit about risk from a young age.

I kept wishing that he would talk about himself, hoping to break through the wall of rhetoric, but he seemed to be one of those autodidacts for whom all things specific and personal present themselves as mine fields to be avoided even at the cost of coherence, for whom safety lies in generalization.

Reagan and other officials quickly realized there was a political gold mine in white fear. Identifying African Americans as criminals, “thugs,” and “mad dogs” and as an imminent threat to white communities, white lives, and white prosperity allowed the racialized “public safety” policies of Jim Crow to survive in the post–Civil Rights era.

What made me blush in the end was not the natural embarrassment of the moment when I could tell he’d caught me trying to hold his gaze only then to let mine scamper to safety; what made me blush was the thrilling possibility, unbelievable as I wanted it to remain, that he might actually like me, and that he liked me in just the way I liked him.

After what seemed like forever, the flames subsided and all I could feel was the warmth of a hand encasing mine where it lay on the covers. There was comfort and safety in the touch, and I reached for it instinctively until the strong fingers entwined with mine. I sighed as the nightmares were banished, and I sank at last into a deep healing sleep.

In some cases, perfectionists may forgive other people’s sins, but be unable to receive forgiveness themselves. Many perfectionists will sabotage potentially good relationships for one reason: being found out. They are afraid to get too close to someone, because their bad self might start leaking out, and the shame and self-condemnation they feel is unbearably painful. Generally, perfectionists opt for isolation rather than to be exposed in their failings. It is sadly ironic that perfectionists shun the very safety that could heal them. The well-known “commitment-phobic” man is often in this category. He’s the type who starts a relationship, gets close, and then disappears. As a single woman friend of mine said after one of these episodes, “I’d understand it if he’d bailed out after a fight. But on our last date, we both started sharing our fears and insecurities. Silly me. I thought that tended to bring people closer together.” What actually happened to the man was just the opposite: He started trusting my friend, and his defenses began slipping.

It was the kind of horse they have in mines—he must have worked underground somewhere because his eyes were so beautiful, the kind I would se in stokers and people who worked in artificial light all day or in the light of safety lamps and emerged from the pit or the furnace room to look up at the beautiful sky because to such eyes all skies are beautiful.

A king neither riches makes, nor robes of Tyrian hue, nor crown upon the royal brow, nor doors with gold bright-gleaming; a king is he who has laid fear aside and the base longings of an evil heart; whom ambition unrestrained and the fickle favour of the reckless mob move not, neither all the mined treasures of the West nor the golden sands which Tagus sweeps along in his shining bed, nor all the grain trod out on burning Libya’s threshing-floors; whom no hurtling path of the slanting thunderbolt will shake, nor Eurus, harrying the sea, nor wind-swept Adriatic’s swell, raging with cruel wave; whom no warrior’s lance nor bare steel ever mastered; who, in safety ‘stablished, sees all things beneath his feet, goes gladly to meet his fate nor grieves to die.

Then I wanted to lock her away where no one could touch her, where I wouldn’t even let her touch herself. I wanted to take away her safety and make her long for her mats and blankets. I wanted to clamp her and plug her and chain her and train her to grovel at my feet. When she was completely broken, when her will and soul were mine, then I’d give her mats and blankets back. That’s what I wanted.

The worlds in the books casually stripped the darkness from mine, layer by layer, until all I could see was hope. They sucked the thickness out of the air and ripped the gray right out of the clouds. Each day that my life felt heavier and oppressed, I picked up a book and crawled into the safety of its pages. I hoped that one day my life would be like all the lives in the books––fated for a happy ending.

So, as far as swimming safety goes, the bottom line is that you’d probably be OK, as long as you didn’t dive to the bottom or pick up anything strange. But just to be sure, I got in touch with a friend of mine who works at a research reactor, and asked him what he thought would happen to someone who tried to swim in their radiation containment pool. “In our reactor?” He thought about it for a moment. “You’d die pretty quickly, before reaching the water, from gunshot wounds.

I mean like, first the von Habsburg and now she’s obsessed with Mel, who by the way isn’t a Kennedy. I know she’s your roommate but—’ She pulled a safety pin from her purse, holding the point up to her eye, separating each lash, ‘Why are you even throwing these parties? Don’t you want to be an artist?’ Her lashes now looked like plucked spider legs, she shifted one eye to meet mine in the mirror, ‘I mean – don’t you want to take yourself seriously?’ ‘Hailey’s not a star-fucker and the parties are – art.

We hadn’t spoken for years; it had been too dangerous, too risky to her safety. But it didn’t mean she didn’t still own my dark heart. The bitch had it. would be the only one who ever did. Without her I was dead inside, had been for two years without her. Two long fucking years without having her in my arms. Two years without contact. Wondering if she was still mine. But knowing, with every new day that passed, that I was no good for her. She didn’t need me in her life. We were at war. She was beautiful, and she deserved someone who could give her more. But even knowing that, I couldn’t walk away from her.

“Morpheus.” Jeb bites down on the name, as if trying to chew it up. “He visits your dreams and flies with you. How can a human compete with that?” “This isn’t a competition,” I say. “I made my choice.” “Is that why you lied for so long?” He won’t meet my gaze, concentrating instead on his boots. “Because you made your choice?” His jaw clamps so tight I can see the muscles twitch beneath the skin. “No. You lied because I’m just a skater. Just an artist. I have nothing to offer. He can give you a world of magic and beauty.” His eyes slowly trail up to mine. They’re like a forest trampled by a storm. “A world that you were born to rule.” *** “Just an artist. You painted my freedom with your blood. Just a skater. You flew across a chasm on a skateboard made of a tea tray to get me to safety. You don’t need magic, Jeb.” I touch his face, and he leans his stubbled cheek against my palm, all of his anger and hurt seeping away. “You held your own against everything that was thrown at us, using only human courage and ingenuity. You’re my knight. There’s nothing left to prove anymore. Not to your dad, not to my mom, not to Morpheus, not to me. You’ve already proven you’re the guy I always knew you were. The guy I love.”

...those are the boys I switch my hips at. Not because they're cute or interesting--- they're often obnoxious & only want a taste of my gutter-slick tongue & brownness; they act as if they could elevate my life with a taste of their powder-milk-tinged pomp. No, I date those boys because they are safe. They can't dance bachata or sing Juan Luis Guerra, can't recite Salomé Ureńa or even name the forefathers; they wrap their flag around their shoulders like a safety blanket, & if a heart has topography, I know none of those boys know the coordinates to navigate & survive mine's rough terrain. In other words, these boys would be no distraction.

You know those tragic stories where two kids from feuding families fall in love? Okay, flip that inside out and turn it on its head and you’ve got our story, Ryder’s and mine. It all began like this: On April 6, 1862, at the Battle of Shiloh, Captain Jeremiah D. Marsden--that’s Ryder’s ancestor--took a minié ball in the left kneecap. Corporal Lewiston G. Cafferty--that’s mine--picked up Captain Marsden and carried him off the field of battle to safety. On his back. More than a mile. Barefoot. At least, that’s how the story goes. Frankly, I’m a little skeptical, but whatever. The point is, the Marsdens and the Caffertys have been like this ever since.

think we’ll end up seeing a lot of each other.” I felt moved and flattered by how sure she sounded. I wrote her phone number on my hand, while she wrote mine in her daily planner. Already I was the impetuous one in our friendship—the one who cared less about tradition and personal safety, who evaluted every situation from scratch, as if it had arisen for the first time—while Svetlana was the one who subscribed to rules and systems, who wrote things in the designated spaces, and saw herself as the inheritor of centuries of human history and responsibilities. Already we were comparing to see whose way of doing things was better. But it wasn’t a competition so much as an experiment, because neither of us was capable of acting differently, and each viewed the other with an admiration that was inseparable from pity.

Girls love easily, there. That is their point. Hip, lip and tongue― ‘Do you think me good?’ I say. ‘Good, miss?’ She does. It felt like safety, once. Now it feels like a trap. I say, ‘I wish― I wish you would tell me―’ ‘Tell you what, miss?’ Tell me. Tell me a way to save you. A way to save myself. The room is perfectly black. Hip, lip― Girls love easily, there. ‘I wish,’ I say, ‘I wish you would tell me what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night...’ And at first, it is easy. After all, this is how it is done, in my uncle's books: two girls, one wise and one unknowing... ‘He will want,’ she says, ‘to kiss you. He will want to embrace you.’ It is easy. I say my part, and she ―with a little prompting ― says hers. The words sink back upon their pages. It is easy, it is easy... Then she rises above me and puts her mouth to mine.

And yes, there was such a luster in his eyes that I had to look away, and when I looked back at him, his gaze hadn’t moved and was still focused on my face, as if to say, So you looked away and you’ve come back, will you be looking away again soon? —which was why I had to look away once more, as if immersed in thought, yet all the while scrambling for something to say, the way a fish struggles for water in a muddied pond that’s fast drying up in the heat. He must have known exactly what I was feeling. What made me blush in the end was not the natural embarrassment of the moment when I could tel he’d caught me trying to hold his gaze only then to let mine scamper to safety; what made me blush was the thrilling possibility, unbelievable as I wanted it to remain, that he might actual y like me, and that he liked me in just the way I liked him.

Girls love easily, there. That is their point. Hip, lip and tongue― ‘Do you think me good?’ I say. ‘Good, miss?’ She does. It felt like safety, once. Now it feels like a trap. I say, ‘I wish― I wish you would tell me―’ ‘Tell you what, miss?’ Tell me. Tell me a way to save you. A way to save myself. The room is perfectly black. Hip, lip― Girls love easily, there. ‘I wish,’ I say, ‘I wish you would tell me what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night...’ And at first, it is easy. After all, this is how it is done, in my uncle's books: two girls, one wise and one unknowing... ‘He will want,’ she says, ‘to kiss you. He will want to embrace you.’ It is easy. I say my part, and she ―with a little prompting ― says hers. The words sink back upon their pages. It is easy, it is easy... Then she rises above me and puts her mouth to mine.

Grammar and usage conventions are, as it happens, a lot more like ethical principles than like scientific theories. The reason the Descriptivists can’t see this is the same reason they choose to regard the English language as the sum of all English utterances: they confuse mere regularities with norms. Norms aren’t quite the same as rules, but they’re close. A norm can be defined here simply as something that people have agreed on as the optimal way to do things for certain purposes. Let’s keep in mind that language didn’t come into being because our hairy ancestors were sitting around the veldt with nothing better to do. Language was invented to serve certain very specific purposes—“That mushroom is poisonous”; “Knock these two rocks together and you can start a fire”; “This shelter is mine!” and so on. Clearly, as linguistic communities evolve over time, they discover that some ways of using language are better than others—not better a priori, but better with respect to the community’s purposes. If we assume that one such purpose might be communicating which kinds of food are safe to eat, then we can see how, for example, a misplaced modifier could violate an important norm: “People who eat that kind of mushroom often get sick” confuses the message’s recipient about whether he’ll get sick only if he eats the mushroom frequently or whether he stands a good chance of getting sick the very first time he eats it. In other words, the fungiphagic community has a vested practical interest in excluding this kind of misplaced modifier from acceptable usage; and, given the purposes the community uses language for, the fact that a certain percentage of tribesmen screw up and use misplaced modifiers to talk about food safety does not eo ipso make m.m.’s a good idea.

But don’t worry, I think we live in the same building. Matthews, right? I’m on the fourth floor. I think we’ll end up seeing a lot of each other.” I felt moved and flattered by how sure she sounded. I wrote her phone number on my hand, while she wrote mine in her daily planner. Already I was the impetuous one in our friendship—the one who cared less about tradition and personal safety, who evaluted every situation from scratch, as if it had arisen for the first time—while Svetlana was the one who subscribed to rules and systems, who wrote things in the designated spaces, and saw herself as the inheritor of centuries of human history and responsibilities. Already we were comparing to see whose way of doing things was better. But it wasn’t a competition so much as an experiment, because neither of us was capable of acting differently, and each viewed the other with an admiration that was inseparable from pity.

I select the right practice gun, the one about the size of a pistol, but bulkier, and offer it to Caleb. Tris’s fingers slide between mine. Everything comes easily this morning, every smile and every laugh, every word and every motion. If we succeed in what we attempt tonight, tomorrow Chicago will be safe, the Bureau will be forever changed, and Tris and I will be able to build a new life for ourselves somewhere. Maybe it will even be a place where I trade my guns and knives for more productive tools, screwdrivers and nails and shovels. This morning I feel like I could be so fortunate. I could. “It doesn’t shoot real bullets,” I say, “but it seems like they designed it so it would be as close as possible to one of the guns you’ll be using. It feels real, anyway.” Caleb holds the gun with just his fingertips, like he’s afraid it will shatter in his hands. I laugh. “First lesson: Don’t be afraid of it. Grab it. You’ve held one before, remember? You got us out of the Amity compound with that shot.” “That was just lucky,” Caleb says, turning the gun over and over to see it from every angle. His tongue pushes into his cheek like he’s solving a problem. “Not the result of skill.” “Lucky is better than unlucky,” I say. “We can work on skill now.” I glance at Tris. She grins at me, then leans in to whisper something to Christina. “Are you here to help or what, Stiff?” I say. I hear myself speaking in the voice I cultivated as an initiation instructor, but this time I use it in jest. “You could use some practice with that right arm, if I recall correctly. You too, Christina.” Tris makes a face at me, then she and Christina cross the room to get their own weapons. “Okay, now face the target and turn the safety off,” I say. There is a target across the room, more sophisticated, than the wooden-board target in the Dauntless training rooms. It has three rings in three different colors, green, yellow, and red, so it’s easier to tell where the bullets it. “Let me see how you would naturally shoot.” He lifts up the gun with one hand, squares off his feet and shoulders to the target like he’s about to lift something heavy, and fires. The gun jerks back and up, firing the bullet near the ceiling. I cover my mouth with my hand to disguise my smile. “There’s no need to giggle,” Caleb says irritably. “Book learning doesn’t teach you everything, does it?” Christina says. “You have to hold it with both hands. It doesn’t look as cool, but neither does attacking the ceiling.” “I wasn’t trying to look cool!” Christina stands, her legs slightly uneven, and lifts both arms. She stares the target for a moment, then fires. The training bullet hits the outer circle of the target and bounces off, rolling on the floor. It leaves a circle of light on the target, marking the impact site. I wish I’d had this technology during initiation training. “Oh, good,” I say. “You hit the air around your target’s body. How useful.” “I’m a little rusty,” Christina admits, grinning.

I looked at him. “Why did you come with me?” He let go of the strap on his chest and shifted on his feet. “Why are you here?” And when his eyes finally met mine, they were open. They let me in. I took a step back. My mouth opened to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck in the back of my throat, wrapped tightly around my windpipe. I was suddenly aware of the icy, opaque depths beneath us again, waiting for the smallest crack to pull us down into it. Waiting to feed on us. My heart pulsed in my veins as the fear pressed down on me, making me feel heavier. It was terrifying - that feeling - like there was something tying me to him. Because if one of us fell into the darkness, the other would too. I stepped around him, walking faster toward the other side. Toward solid ground and safety. The lake grumbled beneath my weight. Growling. Hungry. I closed my eyes, trying not to see it. That depth within me, sealed down under the surface. I kept my eyes ahead, leaving Fiske standing in between the middle of the two night skies, the stars and the moon encircling him. The only hot, living thing on the ice. The only thing I could feel.

It's taken me no time to see, just how much you really mean to me. [Name], it's taken less than a week to realize i want you in my life, And not just as a friend, I don't want to watch as another guys wanders into your life and sweeps you off your feet,Call me selfish, but I'm the only boy I want to see you with, I don't want another boy to hold you in his arms, and push your hair behind your ear, and call you beautiful, I don't want another boy to kiss you gently on the forhead and tell you his feelings about you are indescribable through words. I don't want another boy to hold your hand. I want to be the boy who gets to do all of those things. I want to be the boy who gets to call you his, more than anything. I'm not perfect, I'm far from it. but i know that im going to treat you as perfect as possible, and i knowi'm never once going to let you down. I'm going to give you everything you deserve, and im going to make you the happiest girl in the world, Because, to me you're so much more than just every other girl. You're perfect. There's many girls in the world but none of them are you, And you're the only one I've fallen for so fast, and you're the only one i know for a fact i want to call mine. There's just so much about you that has pushed me off the edge, and made me fall harder than I have before. Your eyes for example those beautiful eys of yours, I have never seen anthing as beautiful in my life as your eyes. That gorgeous,color that just makes illuminates beauty, and makes my heart stop, And youre smile, I have no idea why you dont show it off to everyone. You told me you don't like your smile, but i have no idea how you couldn't, It's pefect. I could look at that smile all day long, and i mean it. I never want to see your face without it, because that smile is absolutely beautiful. There's so much about you, that's unique to you, that makes you who you are, and makes you so perfect. There's no other girl on this entire planet that has the same eyes, and smile, you do, And that's reason enough for me to want you, and no toher girl, And that's why defines you from every other girl, how beautiful you really are.I understand, any guy could tell you you're beautiful, but I'm not any guy. I'm me, and im not just telling you you're beautiful, [Name], I'm telling you you're the most beautiful girl in the whole world, and I want you to believe me when i tell you that, I want you to see youself as beautiful as I see you, I want to look you in the eyes, face to face, and tell you you're the most beautiful girl in the whole world, then hold you close to me, and never let you go, I don't want you to think I'm another guy who's going to lie to you, and break your heart. I want you to believe I really do mean all of this, because I do, with all of my heart, I want to spend nights with you in my arms, i want to kiss you on the forhead every night before bed, I want to try and put my feelings for you into words, just to see that beautiful smile of yours, I want to call you mine, and no one else's, I want you, and no one else, and I can't stress how much i really mean that. Imagine laying in the snow, on a calm winter night, looking up at a clear, starry, full moon night, holding hands, not speaking a word, just laying beside one another, listening, to a gentle breeze, taking in how beautiful stars, and the moon are, Feeling completely at peace with everything, like we're in a land far away from everything, and nothing could possibly take that away that feeling of safety , and complete inner happiness. That's howw I'd describe my feelings for you are. Absolutely perfect in every way. If I am lucky enough to see you tomorrow, I'm going to take your breath away, and prove to you I really am the boy who you deserve. I'm going to make you the happiest girl in the entire world. I feel like I may be falling for you way to fast, and way to soon, but I don't care. not one bit, I've never been so sure of anything.

I had a room to myself as a kid, but my mother was always quick to point out that it wasn’t my room, it was her room and I was merely permitted to occupy it. Her point, of course, was that my parents had earned everything and I was merely borrowing the space, and while this is technically true I cannot help but marvel at the singular damage of this dark idea: That my existence as a child was a kind of debt and nothing, no matter how small, was mine. That no space was truly private; anything of mine could be forfeited at someone else’s whim. Once, wanting space from my parents after a fight, I closed and locked my bedroom door. My mother made my father take the doorknob out. And while I’m sure they remember this horrifying moment very differently, all I remember is the cold sensation in my body as the doorknob—a perfect little machine that did its job with unbiased faithfulness—shifted from its home as the screws fell away. The corona of daylight as the knob listed to one side. How, when it fell, I realized that it was two pieces, such a small thing keeping my bedroom door closed. I was lucky in that moment that the deconstruction of my door was a violation of privacy and autonomy but not a risk to my safety. When the door was opened, nothing happened. It was just a reminder: nothing, not even the four walls around my body, was mine.

would ask. Through the corner of his eyes, Notch saw that Smoot was looking perplexed. Notch made a sick groaning sound and this alarmed Smoot even more. He knew where the key was to the dungeon cell. All he had to do was fetch it and open it. Then he could check on Notch and see if everything was alright. “He’s so weak that there’s no harm…” Smoot thought. He rushed to fetch the keys as Notch waited impatiently. Smoot was back with another villager, just for a safety measure. But Notch was still willing to take the chance even if there were two. Together, they heaved Notch out of the cell and placed him on the floor. “What could be wrong?” Smoot asked the other villager. “It looks like he’s passed out, but we’ve been feeding him well enough…” “Let’s see if there’s something inside the cell… maybe a spider?” suggested the other villager. It was almost too good to be true. Smoot and the other villager peered into the dungeon cell long enough for Notch to launch a kick. “Hey!!” they cried out, but it was too late. Notch was already dashing out. He decided to hide somewhere inside the building. He knew that once the villagers heard that he’d escaped, they’d search outside first. So, Notch looked around until he found some chests. He hid behind one of them and waited. Smoot and the other villager were already rushing out, shouting that Notch had escaped.

But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life. I know this because I continue to have the same dream, over and over. I’m in the other place, a place that’s very familiar to me, although I’ve never lived in it or even seen it except in this dream. Details vary – the space has many different rooms, mostly bare of furniture, some with only the sub-flooring – but it always contains the steep, narrow stairway of that distant apartment. Somewhere in it, I know – as I open door after door, walk through corridor after corridor – I’ll come upon the gold mirror, and also the green satin bedspread, which has taken on a life of its own and is able to morph into cushions, or sofas, or armchairs, or even – once – a hammock. It’s always dusk, in this place; it’s always a cool dank summer evening. This is where I’ll have to live, I think in the dream. I’ll have to be all by myself, forever. I’ve missed the life that was supposed to be mine. I’ve shut myself off from it. I don’t love anyone. Somewhere, in one of the rooms I haven’t yet entered, a small child is imprisoned. It isn’t crying or wailing, it stays completely silent, but I can feel its presence there. Then I wake up, and retrace the steps of my dream, and try to shake off the sad feeling it’s left me with. Oh yes, the other place, I say to myself. That again. There was quite a lot of space in it, this time. It wasn’t so bad.

His eyes are so beautiful and dark and they do look like that dog’s—I mean, that wolf’s. They are kind and strong and a little bit something else and I like them. I like them a lot. No, I like them way too much. Something inside me gets a little warmer, edges closer to him. The fire crackles and I jump again, jittery, nervous, but I don’t jump away from Nick. I jump toward him. Nick in the firelight with just a blanket on is a little hard to resist, no matter how crazy he might be. His skin, deep with heat, seems to glisten. His muscles are defined and good but not all steroid bulky. He is so perfect. And beautiful. In a boy way. Not a monster way. Not a wolf way. “Are you going to kiss me?” My words tremble into the air. He smiles but doesn’t answer. “I’ve never kissed a werewolf before. Are were kisses like pixie kisses? Do they do something to you? Is that why you never kissed anybody?” He gives a little smile. “No. It’s just I never kissed anyone because I never thought I could be honest about who I am, you know? And I didn’t want anyone to get attached to me because . . .” “Because you’re a werewolf.” “Because I’m a werewolf,” he repeats softly. Watching his lips move makes me shiver; not in a scared way, in more of an oh-he-is-too-beautiful way. I put my hand against his skin. It is warm. It’s always been warm. He smells so good, like woods and safety. I swallow my fear and move forward, and my lips meet his, angel-light, a tiny promise. His lips move beneath mine. His hands move to my shoulders and my mouth feels like it will burst with happiness. My whole body shakes with it. “Wow,” I say. “Yeah,” he says. “Wow.” Our mouths meet again. It’s like my lips belong there . . . right there. One tiny part of me has finally found a place to fit.

You are driving me mad!” she exclaimed. “I want you to stop this, Kev! Do you have any idea how ridiculous you’re being? How badly you’ve behaved tonight?” “I’ve behaved badly?” he thundered. “You were about to let yourself be compromised.” “Perhaps I want to be compromised.” “That’s too bad,” he said, reaching out to grip her upper arm, preparing to haul her from the conservatory. “Because I’m going to make certain you stay safe.” “Don’t touch me!” Win wrenched free of him, incensed. “I’ve been safe for years. Tucked safely in bed, watching everyone around me enjoying their lives. I’ve had enough safety to last a lifetime, Kev. And if that’s what you want, for me to continue to be alone and unloved, then you can go to the devil.” “You were never alone,” he said harshly. “You’ve never been unloved.” “I want to be loved as a woman. Not as a child, or a sister, or an invalid—” “That’s not how I—” “Perhaps you’re not even capable of such love.” In her blazing frustration, Win experienced something she had never felt before. The desire to hurt someone. “You don’t have it in you.” Merripen moved through a shaft of moonlight that had slipped through the conservatory glass, and Win felt a little shock as she saw his murderous expression. In just a few words she had managed to cut him deeply, enough to open a vein of dark and furious feeling. She fell back a step, alarmed as he seized her in a brutal grip. He jerked her upward. “All the fires of hell could burn for a thousand years and it wouldn’t equal what I feel for you in one minute of the day. I love you so much there is no pleasure in it. Nothing but torment. Because if I could dilute what I feel for you to the millionth part, it would still be enough to kill you. And even if it drives me mad, I would rather see you live in the arms of that cold, soulless bastard than die in mine.

During homeroom, before first period, I start a bucket list in one of my notebooks. First on the list? 1) Eat in the cafeteria. Sit with people. TALK TO THEM. 2) And…that’s all I can come up with for now. But this is good. One task to work on. No distractions. I can do this. When my lunch period rolls around, I forgo the safety of my bag lunch and the computer lab and slip into the pizza line, wielding my very own tray of semi-edible fare for the first time in years. “A truly remarkable sight.” Jensen cuts into line beside me, sliding his tray next to mine on the ledge in front of us. He lifts his hands and frames me with his fingers, like he’s shooting a movie. “In search of food, the elusive creature emerges from her den and tries her luck at the watering hole." I shake my head, smiling, moving down the line. “Wow, Peters. I never knew you were such a huge Animal Planet fan.” “I’m a fan of all things nature. Birds. Bees. The like.” He grabs two pudding cups and drops one on my tray. “Pandas?” I say. “How did you know? The panda is my spirit animal.” “Oh, good, because Gran has this great pattern for an embroidered panda cardigan. It would look amazing on you.” “Um, yeah, I know. It was on my Christmas list, but Santa totally stiffed me." I laugh as I grab a carton of milk. So does he. He leans in closer. “Come sit with me.” “At the jock table? Are you kidding?” I hand the cashier my lunch card. Jensen squints his eyes in the direction of his friends. “We’re skinny-ass basketball players, Wayfare. We don’t really scream jock.” “Meatheads, then?” “I believe the correct term is Athletic Types.” We step out from the line and scan the room. “So where were you planning on sitting?" “I was thinking Grady and Marco were my safest bet.” “The nerd table?” I gesture to myself, especially my glasses. “I figure my natural camouflage will help me blend, yo.” He laughs, his honey-blond hair falling in front of his eyes. “And hey,” I say, nudging him with my elbow, “last I heard, Peters was cool with nerdy.” He claps me gently on the back. “Good luck, Wayfare. I’m pulling for ya.

He surprised her by reaching out for her, his arms closing around her. She stiffened but allowed him to draw her near. “Poor sweet,” he murmured. “You have so many burdens to carry.” There had been a time when Amelia had passionately longed for a moment such as this. Being held by Christopher, soothed by him. Once this would have been heaven. But it didn’t feel quite the same as before. “Christoph—” she began, moving away from him, but his mouth caught hers, and she froze in astonishment as he kissed her. This, too, was different … and yet for a moment, she remembered what it had been like, how happy she had once been with him. It seemed so long ago, that time before the scarlet fever, when she had been innocent and hopeful and the future had seemed full of promise. She turned her face from his. “No, Christopher.” “Of course.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “Now isn’t the proper time for this. I’m sorry.” “I’m so concerned about my brother, and Merripen, I can’t think of anything else—” “I know, sweet.” He turned her face back to his. “I’m going to help you and your family. There’s nothing I want more than your safety and happiness. And you need my protection. With your family in turmoil, you could easily be taken advantage of.” She frowned. “No one is taking advantage of me.” “What about the Gypsy?” “You’re referring to Mr. Rohan?” Christopher nodded. “I chanced to meet him on his way to London, and he spoke of you in a way that … well, suffice it to say, he’s no gentleman. I was offended for your sake.” “What did he say?” “He went so far as to claim that you and he were going to marry.” A scornful laugh escaped him. “As if you would ever lower yourself to that. A half-bred Gypsy with no manners or education.” Amelia felt a rush of defensive anger. She looked into the face of the man she had once loved so desperately. He was the embodiment of everything a young woman should want to marry. Not all that long ago, she might have compared him to Cam Rohan and found Christopher superior. But she was no longer the woman she had been … and Christopher wasn’t the knight in shining armor she had believed him to be. “I wouldn’t consider it lowering myself,” she said. “Mr. Rohan is a gentleman, and highly esteemed by his friends.” “They all find him entertaining enough for social occasions, but he will never be their equal. And never a gentleman. That’s understood by everyone, my dear, even Rohan himself.” “It’s neither understood nor accepted by me,” she said. “There is more to being a gentleman than fine manners.

OR. I will tell you, but these are the beginning for me of many [125] woes. After these evil things concerning my mother, on which I keep silence, had been wrought, I was driven an exile by the pursuits of the Erinnyes, when Loxias sent my foot [126] to Athens, that I might render satisfaction to the deities that must not be named. For there is a holy council, that Jove once on a time instituted for Mars on account of some pollution of his hands. [127] And coming thither, at first indeed no one of the strangers received me willingly, as being abhorred by the Gods, but they who had respect to me, afforded me [128] a stranger's meal at a separate table, being under the same house roof, and silently devised in respect to me, unaddressed by them, how I might be separated from their banquet [129] and cup, and, having filled up a share of wine in a separate vessel, equal for all, they enjoyed themselves. And I did not think fit to rebuke my guests, but I grieved in silence, and did not seem to perceive [their conduct,] deeply groaning, because I was my mother's slayer. [130] But I hear that my misfortunes have been made a festival at Athens, and that this custom still remains, that the people of Pallas honor the Libation Vessel. [131] But when I came to the hill of Mars, and stood in judgment, I indeed occupying one seat, but the eldest of the Erinnyes the other, having spoken and heard respecting my mother's death, Phœbus saved me by bearing witness, but Pallas counted out for me [132] the equal votes with her hand, and I came off victor in the bloody trial. [133] As many then as sat [in judgment,] persuaded by the sentence, determined to hold their dwelling near the court itself. [134] But as many of the Erinnyes as did not yield obedience to the sentence passed, continually kept driving me with unsettled wanderings, until I again returned to the holy ground of Phœbus, and lying stretched before the adyts, hungering for food, I swore that I would break from life by dying on the spot, unless Phœbus, who had undone, should preserve me. Upon this Phœbus, uttering a voice from the golden tripod, sent me hither to seize the heaven-sent image, and place it in the land of Athens. But that safety which he marked out for me do thou aid in. For if we can lay hold on the image of the Goddess, I both shall cease from my madness, and embarking thee in the bark of many oars, I shall settle thee again in Mycenæ. But, O beloved one, O sister mine, preserve my ancestral home, and preserve me, since all my state and that of the Pelopids is undone, unless we seize on the heavenly image of the Goddess.

I hate like hell to go, especially with things still so up in the air between us.” Liv was watching him from the bed. “Nothing’s up in the air. You’re determined to keep me and I’m determined to go.” His face darkened. “You’re not so damn determined when I have you in the bathing pool.” Liv felt a heated blush creep into her cheeks but she refused to back down. “Be that as it may, what I say or do in the, uh, in the heat of passion doesn’t change how I feel.” A look that was almost despair crossed over his chiseled features. “Damn it, Olivia, can’t you admit to yourself that you feel for me what I feel for you? Can’t you just try to imagine having a life here with me on the ship?” “I could…if I didn’t already have a life waiting for me back on Earth.” She sighed. “Look, let’s not fight about this right now. You have to go, fine. I’ll manage okay on my own here.” To be honest she was looking forward to a reprieve from the constant lust she felt while being cooped up with him in close quarters. He frowned. “I shouldn’t be leavin’ you alone during our claiming period. If I hadn’t had a direct order from my CO—” “It’s okay, really. I’ll find something to keep me occupied. I’ll try the translator and read one of your books. And I can work the wave well enough to make my own lunch without burning a finger off now.” “All right, fine.” He looked slightly mollified. “But whatever you do, stay in the suite. Don’t leave for any reason.” “Yes, sir!” She gave him a mocking salute. “To hear is to obey, oh my lord and master.” “Lilenta…” He sighed. “This is for your safety. I’m not trying to order you around for the hell of it.” “No, you just want to make my decisions for me. Stay here, don’t go there. Live the rest of your life on the ship instead of ever seeing your loved ones on Earth again. Why should this be any different?” Liv knew an edge of bitterness had crept into her voice but she couldn’t seem to help it. Baird scowled. “In time you’ll see that this is best. The only way I can protect you is to keep you close to me.” “Funny how much being protected feels like being owned.” “I thought you didn’t want to fight.” “You started it.” Liv knew it sounded childish but she didn’t care. He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Olivia…” Then he shook his head, as though sensing the futility of any argument. He pointed a finger at her instead. “I’m going but I’ll be back tonight in time for the start of our tasting week.” “You…I’m surprised you want to…to do anything at all.” Liv worked hard to keep the tremble out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed. He raised an eyebrow. “You mean with you trying to pick a fight at every opportunity and generally resisting me every step of the way? I have news for you, Lilenta, none of that affects the way I feel for you—the way I need you—one bit.” He walked over to the bed where she was sitting on the edge and pulled her to her feet. “I still want you more than any other woman I’ve ever seen. Still need to be inside you, bonding you to me, making you mine,” he growled softly, pulling her close. “Baird, stop it!” She wanted to beat against his broad chest in protest but she somehow found herself melting against him instead. “Don’t you want to give me a kiss goodbye?” There was a flicker of bitter amusement in his golden eyes. “No, I guess you don’t. Too bad.” Leaning down, he took her lips in a rough yet tender kiss that took Liv’s breath away.

Some prominent Federalists felt Baltimore was no longer a safe place to be. James McHenry, a contemporary of Hanson’s father and a former secretary of war, wrote to the owner of the newspaper building destroyed by the mob as he was leaving the city. A show of force was needed to restore peace, McHenry advised his friend, and warned “that the air of Baltimore is the air of a prison; that houses are no places of safety; that there is a mine under them ready to explode, the moment they shall either by word or by look, give offence to their masters.”19

It was no surprise that mine owners and manufacturers embraced Chadwick’s approach to public health, while workers’ health, wages, and safety suffered. Another

Rapidly covering the general as he ran, I let drive with the second barrel. Instantly the poor man threw up his arms, and fell forward on to his face. This time I had made no mistake; and - I say it as a proof of how little we think of others when our own safety, pride, or reputation is in question - I was brute enough to feel delighted at the sight.

Does it frighten you, to be so desired? To know I want you regardless of time or distance? To know I want you as mine, wholly possessed without question?” How could I be frightened of the very thing I’d wanted? I couldn’t imagine being desired so determinedly that eternity wasn’t a question, but a demand. It was not only a promise of protection, of safety. It was

no way to tell destruction from safety, or enemy from friend. . . . Like that dog she had heard about, she thought . . . somebody’s dog in somebody’s laboratory . . . the dog who got his signals switched on him, and saw no way to tell satisfaction from torture, saw food changed to beatings and beatings to food, saw his eyes and ears deceiving him and his judgment futile and his consciousness impotent in a shifting, swimming, shapeless world—and gave up, refusing to eat at that price or to live in a world of that kind. . . . No!—was the only conscious word in her brain—no!— no!—no!—not your way, not your world—even if this “no” is all that’s to be left of mine! It

Trauma can do strange things to the mind, can’t it, Zoe? Sometimes mine simply shuts itself down when I try to approach things that are too much to bear. That’s why I can become a bit vague at times. It’s a sort of safety valve, I suppose. But necessary, I think, until we find other ways to bear the pain.

Too bad about that Caspian tern,” and “Where’s the nearest restroom?” She was in the midst of pointing it out when Lucas Holt strode past. He’d shucked his waders and wore work pants tucked into rubber boots, along with an obviously hand-knit sweater the color of smoke. It smelled like smoke, too—like wood smoke curling through crystal clear air on a winter’s night. She had a quick image of him kneeling next to a campfire, blowing on the flames, while she snuggled under a blanket to keep warm. She shook it off. It was just a fantasy, because she and Lucas Holt would never find themselves camping together, anywhere. She’d rather run into Lost Souls Wilderness across the bay and take her chances with the bears. Usually Lucas ignored her and her passengers. They weren’t his speed; they didn’t bring coolers of beer on the boat or boast about the size of their last catch. But this time he paused and cast a charming smile across her little crew of elderly naturalists. “Sorry about the close call out there. I’m training a new guy. He still has a few things to learn. I hope no one got wet because of that bonehead move.” Lucas had dark hair and dark stubble and dark eyes and no wonder she secretly called him Lucifer. But he was good-looking; she had to admit that. Not that it mattered. Character was what counted. Not looks. “You’re seriously going to blame your crew?” she asked. A hint of irritation crossed his face. She hated the way he always looked at her—as if she was a frivolous birdbrain hippie chick. She had part of a PhD, for pete’s sake. But that seemed to mean nothing to him, even though she’d mentioned it more than once. “Just explaining what happened. He got a little carried away. He won’t do it again.” “I hope not because I have witnesses. And I’d really prefer not to go the harbormaster again.” His dark eyebrows quirked together. “On the one hand, I doubt that’s true, because I’m sure it gives you a special kind of joy to report on me. On the other hand, maybe it is true because I hear it didn’t go so well the last time.” She gritted her teeth together. Unfortunately, he had a point. After her third trip to the harbormaster’s office, she’d decided there had to be better ways to handle her feud with Lucas. Sadly, she hadn’t figured them out yet. “I am not easily deterred,” she said stoutly. “Especially when it comes to Ruby’s safety.” Lucas smiled down at Ruby, who glowed back at him. Darn him. That smile changed things in an unfortunate way. If he ever smiled at her like that… She sighed. Luckily, there was no chance of such a thing.

We want change, change not from body or mind of mine but from this pandemic rulers.

Whites are / I am unconsciously invested in racism. Bias is implicit and unconscious; I don’t expect to be aware of mine without a lot of ongoing effort. Giving us white people feedback on our racism is risky for people of color, so we can consider the feedback a sign of trust. Feedback on white racism is difficult to give; how I am given the feedback is not as relevant as the feedback itself. Authentic antiracism is rarely comfortable. Discomfort is key to my growth and thus desirable. White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important. I must not confuse comfort with safety; as a white person, I am safe in discussions of racism. The antidote to guilt is action.

Everything unique to the first race was a first. Meaning, for example, a sled dog race—nothing first, nor unique, here—but one of one thousand miles or more, using the same dogs, is decidedly a first and, without question, unique. There are many Iditarod Race traditions, whose origins are traced to the 1973 inaugural event. Easily coming to mind is the first weekend in March start, Anchorage start site (ceremonial, nowadays) trail mail (mine in 1973 was adopted by ITC in 1974), keeping record of the fastest time between Solomon (Port Safety or Safety, nowadays) and Nome, the town siren and police escort at Nome, use of veterinarians during the race, publishing dog deaths, employment of the “Iditarod Air Force,” multiple finisher banquets, red lantern award (adopted from earlier races), and reliance on volunteers.

But before I start, I need you to understand, I put my mark on you. You’re mine and I’m yours. Be mine and not on the surface shit. I want more than your body, I need your heart, your safety. I need you. Hear me?

It had taken me a long time to realize that “home,” to most people, represented a place of comfort and safety. Home was a place people wanted to return to, not one they dreaded or feared. I’d had to build my own home, my own family. I’d crafted it in the only way I knew how; it was messy and strange, but it was mine and no one could take it away from me.

Throughout much of history, mining operations relied on the exploitation of slaves and poor laborers to excavate ore from dirt. The downtrodden were forced to dig in hazardous conditions with little regard to their safety and for little to no compensation.

I went up to the cliff and sat and felt my heart thumping inside. I breathed the cold air and watched the moon climb higher until it, and all of the country below, was mine again.

Semtex is the best plastic explosive in the world. It feels like Play-Doh, has no smell, and was designed in 1966 to clear land-mines and improve industrial safety. It is also undetectable by dogs and airport security devices, and after it left Mr. Brebera's laboratory in 1968, Semtex became the favored weapon of international terrorists from Libya to Northern Ireland. Since Sept. 11, the Czech Republic and its new NATO allies have become increasingly nervous about the continued production and sale of Brebera's fatal concoction. Over the past two decades, terrorists have employed Semtex in several deadly attacks, including the 1988 explosion of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, and the 1998 bombing of the US Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya. And no one has found a reliable way to combat it. Named after Semtin, the village in East Bohemia where Brebera invented it, this extraordinarily stable compound of RDX (Cyclonite) and PETN (Penaerythrite Tetranitrate) slips through airport security scans as easily as a pair of nylons.

Good. You are not safe. Not in this castle. Not in this room. You are prey in a world of predators.' He leaned closer. 'I will never hurt you,' he said softly. 'But I am the only one who will make that promise, and keep it. I will never give you false safety or kind lies. But I will teach you how to wield those teeth of yours.' He smiled, revealing for the first time the full length of his sharp canines- the death blow, surely, of hundreds. The girl should have found the sight terrifying. And yet, for the first time in a month, she felt... safe. 'Perhaps they are not as sharp as mine,' he went on, 'but they can still kill, with the right bite.

The lino on the floor was curling at the edges and the wallpaper similarly obliged, but I immediately felt a sense of safety, It was mine. A space I would call my own. I could close the door and not have to worry about who might beat it down.

Safety is no longer her concern because nothing can save her from me. Her life is mine.

Founded in 1957, Lakewood Electrical Services has earned a strong reputation for quality, service, and professional reliability. Now led by Jim Ramsay, son of the founding father, Lakewood provides full electrical design and installation services to industrial, commercial, mining, construction, and government clients across Australia. With a commitment to delivering the best energy solutions, Lakewood ensures every project meets the highest safety standards. Backed by public liability and workers' compensation insurance, you can trust Lakewood to handle all your electrical needs with expertise and care.

I’m an ordinary man who will protect you, adore you, treasure you, and put your needs before mine. I have a steadfast heart and a strong shoulder. Ordinary brings the completeness and safety that is part of a life filled with…shalom.

We figured it out together. I attached the safety lines with my left hand while she pulled the tiller to steer with her right, and I couldn't forget, even for a second, that her fingers were locked into mine. I should have been terrified - the sky raging above us, the stretch of angry water before us - but I wasn't. I was with Cass.

Maybe we’ve gone soft. Gotten used to the relative safety of the farms in the past week. But Mack slows down immediately, and I jump off without hesitation so I can run over to help. I should know better. We both should. But things have felt settled and secure since we got together for real, like the worst of the danger should be over. But we still live in the world. And The Wild has never been safe. And this is undoubtedly a trap for the most gullible of travelers. Evidently today that’s us. Before I can reach the prostrate woman, a man steps out from behind a thick tree. The woman isn’t armed, but he is. And he lifts his pistol, aiming it unwaveringly at the largest threat. That’s Mack, of course. I can’t even take a breath before he’s pulled the trigger, firing directly at Mack. I act on pure instinct. Not because I’ve thought it through in even the slightest of ways. This stranger is shooting a gun at Mack, and Mack will always—always, always—be mine. So I jump right at the man, blocking Mack from the bullet that would have killed him. Unfortunately that means the bullet hits me instead.

The evening’s excitements were too terrifying and I was lucky to be saved by these 3 hunky angels now keeping watch, holding and caring for my safety. Their masculinity aroused as I held tightly onto my lover while his intoxicating scent drifted up my nostrils. Before long my Valet had lowered his face to mine, gently kissing my longing lips and desiring mouth. Surrendering to his loving touch, I was grateful for his protection.

In the spring of 2015, I went to Spain to walk for a week on the Camino de Santiago, the medieval route that has been used for centuries by pilgrims demonstrating their devotion, and now by spiritual seekers looking for renewal. Ever since I studied medieval art in college, walking the Camino had been a dream of mine. I loved the idea of a moderately sized adventure, one that was about walking, not running, and still had the safety of towns and sleeping on mats on the floor instead of inside tents. I set off with underprepared feet, too much in my backpack, thirteen words of Spanish and my copy of Eat Pray Love.

Lost and alone… After her mother’s death, Lyra grew up in the foster care system, struggling to hide who she is from the humans who found enough wrong with her. Never fitting in anywhere, she learned to adapt, hiding the damaged parts of herself as best she could. Until the night three men tore her world apart—one with a cry to come home, one with a desire to hurt her, and one with a possessive look that calls to the spirit inside her. A mated mongrel… Aleksy Costas is a primal beast in human skin. Part Bengal, part panther, part lion, he’s a creation of spliced DNA that even other shifters give a wide berth. When a mission takes him into a bar in the heart of Chicago, he finds the one person he never believed existed. Now, he’ll do anything to save her. Mine… Captured and tortured, Lyra prays for a savior, never expecting the man who steps out of the shadows and breaks her free. It’s not safety he brings, but a cataclysm of lust and need that only his touch can quench. A bond is forming between them, but is it strong enough to withstand the battle brewing around them, one that will change everything in the war between hunters and shifters?

One of the WVU professors approved for funding, Russell Sobel, edited a 2007 book called Unleashing Capitalism: Why Prosperity Stops at the West Virginia Border and How to Fix It, arguing that mine safety and clean water regulations only hurt workers. “Are workers really better off being safer but making less income?” it asked.

I apologize for my intrusion, but in your distress, your mind summoned me to you. First, let me say you have no need to fear for Avenger or the lives of your crew. Our destiny—yours and mine—is starting to become clearer to me. I have glimpsed future events that, for the time being, assure your safety. I believe this ability is one of the herculean gifts to which Tynabo alluded. I thank you for sharing Tynabo’s recording with me. Even that small glimpse of the man I called father has been a comfort.” Then, in a tone that bespoke a more intimate connection between them, she said, “As regards us, these last weeks apart have been extremely difficult—as much for you as they are for me. So please know that you have not been alone in your suffering. In your mind, I also saw your desire to know exactly what it is that has been happening to you, to us, each night. In short, what you see, I see. What you feel, I feel. The fugue is creating its own reality for us, albeit on a more esoteric plane. I think you will agree that there is nothing lost in the translation between the fugue state—and a true physical reality. However, as Tynabo had warned us, it is becoming harder to hold on. Each day we’re apart is more unbearable than the one before. Because of this growing need, I fear it will not be long before the fugue creates situations that would be quite embarrassing were they to happen in public. Because of this I ask you not to delay your return to Sea Base any longer than necessary.” Her tone softened empathetically, an acknowledgement of the crisis facing Steven. “I am also aware of the personal hurdles you face as regards Renee and your family, and that you are in desperate need of a solution. I want you to know that you do not bear this burden alone. You have my full support on any decision that you make. It will always be so. “Until we meet again—sweet dreams.” As Ashlyn’s image dissipated, her sensual smile stole his breath. ***         As the wave subsided, the bridge suddenly lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, chimes and klaxons sounding everywhere.

Safety and security are all mine. My life, my love, my works, my ethics, my vision and my mission.

You can’t go to Bradshaw’s. Reasons of morality and safety aside, you don’t even know where the hell it is.” Amelia didn’t flinch at the profanity. “I assume a great deal of business is sent back and forth between your establishment and Bradshaw’s. You say the place is nearby, which means all I have to do is follow the foot traffic from here to there. Goodbye, Mr. Rohan. I appreciate your help.” Cam moved to block her path. “All you’ll accomplish is making a fool of yourself, Miss Hathaway. You won’t get past the front door. A brothel like Bradshaw’s doesn’t take strangers off the street.” “How I manage to retrieve my brother, sir, is no concern of yours.” She was correct. It wasn’t. But Cam hadn’t been this entertained in a long time. No sensual depravities, no skilled courtesan, not even a room full of unclothed women, could have interested him half as much as Miss Amelia Hathaway and her red ribbons. “I’m going with you,” he said. She frowned. “No, thank you.” “I insist.” “I don’t need your services, Mr. Rohan.” Cam could think of a number of services she was clearly in need of, most of which would be a pleasure for him to provide. “Obviously it will be to everyone’s benefit for you to retrieve Ramsay and leave London as quickly as possible. I consider it my civic duty to hasten your departure.

Run your fingers across my skin, slowly. Tear down my layers. I want to feel you within. Life is unpredictable. I have been afraid. I have been sad. I have been disappointed. But I don’t want to live behind walls of safety, because I have been hurt. I want to feel your skin against mine and your fingers wandering across me. I want our lives to intertwine dangerously, our essences naked and colliding in reckless passion. I don’t want to exist trapped behind a wall, observing life as an outsider from a window seat. I want you to strip me down layer by layer and hold me from the inside out.

I wanted to fix her to a rack and flog her until she was sobbing, and then pillage every one of her holes until she begged me to stop. Then I wanted to lock her away where no one could touch her, where I wouldn’t even let her touch herself. I wanted to take away her safety and make her long for her mats and blankets. I wanted to clamp her and plug her and chain her and train her to grovel at my feet. When she was completely broken, when her will and soul were mine, then I’d give her mats and blankets back. That’s what I wanted.

We had been seen. The thought stayed with me as I disposed of the leftovers—how could it not? I drove with one eye on the rearview mirror, waiting for the blinding burst of blue light to flare at my bumper and the brief harsh whoop! of a siren. But nothing came; not even after I ditched Valentine’s car, climbed into mine, and drove carefully home. Nothing. I was left entirely at liberty, all alone, pursued only by the demons of my imagination. It seemed impossible—someone had seen me at play, as plainly as it was possible to be seen. They had looked at the carefully carved pieces of Valentine, and the happy-weary carver standing above them, and it would not take a differential equation to arrive at a solution to this problem—A plus B equals a seat in Old Sparky for Dexter, and someone had fled with this conclusion in perfect comfort and safety—but they had not called the police? It

that she’s at the point of leaving us, I’m asking myself if I have been the mother I wanted to be, the mother she needed me to be. How well have I channelled this fierce, unbridled love? Could I have done anything else to equip her for life on her own, all grown up? Because although I can tell myself I’ll always be there for her, I know that she won’t always choose the safety net; sometimes she will brave the fall. Whatever happens to all of us, the sun will keep spinning the seasons, nurturing the lakes and fells, casting its long, deep shadows and bestowing its steadfast light. All I can do is trust my daughter. It is her life, not mine, and she has her own choices to make. Inevitably, one day she will decide to leave us – breaking off a piece of my heart and taking it with her. When the time comes, my love will be captured in her freedom. My life will run beside hers, ever onward, out of sight.

W.A. supported fair wages, even opposing wage reductions when copper prices fell, and as a result he didn’t suffer from strikes. He also offered model healthcare for workers, and when Daly opposed a law requiring safety cages in the mines, Clark supported it—even if only for political advantage. He also supported voting rights for women.

Cheers, Tom. I’m shagging your daughter again. Oh, and before I forget, you must know that her safety is completely in my hands now. Did I also mention that she is mine? Mine, Tom. I keep what’s mine very close and very safe.

Why are you here?” I ask. He shrugs. “I thought you might want some company.” His gaze searches mine, and it’s so intense that I have to break away. “I figured you’d be too worried about your nuts to come around me again,” I tease. Laughter seems to be the best way to get around this man’s poignant pauses. “You let me worry about my nuts.” He laughs and looks down. “Well, you can worry about them, too, but I take full responsibility for their safety.” I laugh. He’s really pretty funny. “We can both worry about your nuts,” I say with a smile.

She told me she loves me,” I blurt out. His eyes open wide. “Wow.” Wow? That’s all I get? He starts setting up his machines. “How do you feel about that?” “I fucking love it.” My heart thrills. “But?” “But I’m just not sure.” He laughs. “No one ever is. You just have to go with your gut. If it’s meant to be, you’ll meet her somewhere near the middle and fall in love with her too.” “Oh, I already did.” He looks up and smiles. “Really?” A grin tips the corners of my lips. “Yeah.” “What does love mean to you?” he asks. “It means that if something happened to her tomorrow, I don’t know if I would ever be the same.” “Love does that to you.” “Did you feel like Friday was yours long before she knew she was yours?” He laughs. “I knew she was mine the first time I kissed her. Then I just had to convince her.” “Do you ever feel like you dragged her along? Like maybe it wasn’t her idea?” He shakes his head. “Never. Is that what you feel like you’re doing with Peck?” I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. She told me she loves me. And she sleeps in my bed every night. And now if she left me, she’d leave a hole behind. That’s all.” “Has she talked to her mom yet?” I shake my head. “Not that I know of. That’s kind of why she’s with me. So she can stay away from her mom.” “Maybe she needs to face that. Then she could at least be with you by choice rather than by necessity. You’d probably feel a little bit more comfortable about her reason for being there if you knew she was there for you, and not just for the safety of your apartment.” He shrugs. “But what do I know. I had to have Friday lead me around by my dick piercing to get it.” He grins. “So, do you think she might?” I ask quietly. “I think she’s an idiot if she doesn’t.” “She’s going on tour soon.” “How do you feel about that?” “I’m going to miss her like crazy.” “Be sure to tell her that.” “I will.” “You know Logan and Emily are going to be traveling with them, right?” He gets a gleam in his eye. “Yeah. Why?” “Just saying.” I just wish I knew what he was just saying. “So, you’re the last one to fall,” he says. He’s serious all of a sudden. “I never really worried about you. I worried more about Pete, because I knew you had more ability to love than any of the rest of us.” “What makes you say that?” “I don’t know,” he hedges. “You just wore your heart on your sleeve. You love, and you love well and true. That’s one of your strengths.” “I’m not sure if strength is the right word.” “A lot of men would be put off by her stutter. Embarrassed by it. You’re not, are you?” “I don’t even notice it when she does it, but last night we had a whole conversation without her stuttering even once.” “She’s learning to trust you.” “God, I hope so.” “She

It was on the tip of his tongue to make some excuse and find her another pilot. Preferably one who was already happily mated and wouldn’t exude the heady pheromone-laden mist he was currently putting out like a steam bath. But he had offered to see her home and accepted Baird’s charge for her safety. A Kindred did not make idle promises—if he gave her over to someone else’s care now, he would be guilty of the worst kind of unfaithfulness. Besides, just the thought of her in close proximity to another male, even one who was mated and would have no interest in her, made Sylvan feel enraged. Mine, he thought before he could stop himself. Damn it, she’s mine! His fangs ached and so did his cock. Oh, I’m in trouble here, he thought as he concentrated on keeping his fangs from growing—Gods, it was painful to hold them back.

Northern evangelical Protestantism provided authoritative justification for social causes. It influenced labor safety, workplace reforms, and the establishment of women’s rights organizations; alleviated suffering through voluntary medical societies; and protected exploited women who worked as prostitutes. However, there was a dark side to parts of evangelicalism in the North and South: its religious justifications for slavery, the Mexican- American War, the wars against America’s First Nations, and the conviction that manifest destiny “meant removing (or eliminating) those who stood in the way.

Right now, in front of all of you, I’m gonna make the vows my dad showed me you should make when you fall in love with a woman.” “Oh shit,” Cher murmured. Ethan turned and looked down at his bride. “I vow to take care of you. I vow that every day you’ll feel safe because you know that down to your bones, seein’ as I’ll be breakin’ my back givin’ it to you. And I vow to give you shit when you’re bein’ a wiseass.” Laughter filled the room, but Ethan was not done speaking. “I also vow to take your shit when I’m bein’ one. I vow to make sure you got what you want as often as I can give it to you. I vow to love the children we make, spend time with them as often as humanly possible, and knock myself out to make them feel safe. I vow to guide them to the right paths in life, showin’ them I’m proud they’re mine, they’re ours, even when they don’t do anything special to make me feel that way.” His voice dipped before he went on. “And most importantly, green eyes, I vow to make you laugh at least once every day for the rest of the beautiful life I also vow to give you. I vow to make you do it hard. I vow to give it from the heart so I can make it come from your gut, and you’ll never forget how happy you make me because I vow to bust my ass to make you the same. I love you, baby, and I cherish you, and that’s what you’re gonna get from me until one or the other of us stops breathing.” “Oh, Ethan!” his girl cried, surging out of her seat, throwing herself in Ethan Merrick’s arms, and shoving her face in his neck. He wrapped one around her and kissed her hair before he turned to the room, raised his glass, and finished. “So toast with me, with my bride, to what real love means—care and safety and laughter and givin’ your baby shit when she’s bein’ a wiseass.

Stephen Mitchell remarks that one of the bitter paradoxes of love is that our desperate efforts to render it secure destroy the very passion on which it is premised; when we seek to minimize the risks of love and guarantee the safety of our relationship, we by definition under- mine “the preconditions of desire, which requires robust imagination to breathe and thrive.” What is more, we tend to try to reduce the treat of love by aspiring to possess the beloved other even when we know full well that the possibility of losing the other is an inherent component of eros. In the previous chapter, I analyzed the manner in which fantasies limit our existential options by making our lives seem more coherent and predictable than they actually are. Along similar lines, Mitchell suggests that our fantasies of having “ownership” over the other—as well as the related idea that we can take steps to protect the future of the relationship against the tug of the unanticipated—in the long run slay passion, for it is only insofar as the other is not possessed, that the other retains an independent identity and existential space, that it remains of interest to us. Our endeavor to secure what is, by its very nature, insecure therefore suffocates the very thing that we are attempting to preserve.

To trust any mainstream system of education is foolish and I promise you this… No child of mine will be attending any school that I have stepped foot in.

All these different friendships. Mine with Eugene is both business and personal. These bonds matter. They are little homes. Places of safety. I am taking stock now. Friendship. God, I love my friends.

Individual safety and prosperity at the expense of solidarity can only ever replicate capitalist hierarchies and the violent means imposing them. If you view your emancipation as separate from mine, we will forever be locked in an unwinnable competition.

Karly- I stopped wearing my glasses after that day, when Jess Smith walked up and ripped them off my face and broke them in half, and poked me in the boob hard. I miss them, what wrong with glasses, they make you look sophisticated. Why was I so quiet and laid back, and a pushover? Marcel- She runs like everything for the bathroom, like always- not making it very far. She feels like some poor little girl, with a broken nose, and I remember when that happened. That is when I felt like she was in love with me she took the balls to the face for me. ‘I thought you liked balls in your face one boy said.’ You tripped and fell to the ground, hard, and I picked you up and carried you to safety, and we fell in love, even more, kissing under the bleachers. ‘You’re a weirdo,’ and the kiss was long and – fearing H-O-T! Like, kick your tongue out smoking hot! It’s still not as bad as the time my face was smashed to a brick wall, by some back boy- and I have to have something done about it, like getting my nose redone, yet I blamed it on my dad. Jenny- Sing the same girlie crap every year, you’ll blow chunks all over the place, which never happened, that’s why she stopped singing way back when. You can see here doing it on YouTube! Like- It happened! Jenny says every time someone brings it up. Until some unicycles guy flies into the frame where nothing freaking speedo- showing his tor·pe·do with the American flag up his ass! I don’t know if that is patriotic or what the hell that is… I am not sure what to look at. What can you say other than- ‘Ew-ah- gross…? Who does that…?’ Marcel- It kind of reunions the magic does it…? I spoke. Karly- Yep! I am glad I cannot see all that anyway! I am sure yours is better anyway. (She goes underneath his underwear down for it, getting a handful, and does what she feels is right in front of them all. It was more romantic than you would think pervs.) I did it for me and him, I did not give a crap; if they liked it or not… they can all look the other way. I have- a leaning popping lag kisses, and he rubbed his nose on mine saying it- I LOVE YOU! You’ll be fine… I’ll make sure of that. Karly- Back in time: We rain from the schoolyard to my house… stole my dad’s Nash and got married. My stepmother cased us down, with a bible in her hand saying we were sinners. Both- We’re sinner okay then- we all are- yet love is love even if age is in the way. Marcel- the very next day, it was all over. Say what you want to say… I know why- how- and who.

Let me help you. Let me ensure the safety of your child.” My pulse surged with a deep knowing that what she said was true. And with that knowing, I began to awaken to a new purpose. Jamie had found his, and there in my room I found mine. I was in Haven Valley to bring a beautiful new baby into a beautiful new world. And Bobbie was my guide. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to have her by my side. I decided right then and there that Bobbie had to be an angel. “Then I invite you to stay.

When my father's younger brother Jim was demobbed from the war, he helped to build up the farm with a new cowshed and a barn for the hay. My first memories are of the enormous backsides of the cows, the collecting of bantam eggs and the warm safety of the kitchen where Grandma Bunyan baked bread in the big black cast-iron cooking range, and churned the butter. I always imagined this was her way of life, only later realising that she was recreating scenes from her own childhood - as I would go on to do from these moments in mine.

One of mine – that had a ring to it, and so did the promise of safety, of being taken in hand. If Riley had tried to slap a label on the thing budding between them, he'd have rejefted it out of hand, because nothing encompassed the particular set of feelings he might sum up as owned.

Anything that’s true comes with an ‘I’ statement. Me, mine, I’m. Means you’re really not thinking about others. That’s the first rule of a good wilderness scout, you know. Always consider the safety of other’s first, they say.

Holy shit.” I grinned wider. “It’s platinum, a two-carat, old mine cut diamond, passed down on the Oliver side of the family for three generations, from father to oldest son. Each giving it to their betrothed. After my grandmother passed, my momma—who was an only child—kept it in a safety deposit box my daddy didn’t know about.

It was the kind of horse they have in mines—he must have worked underground somewhere because his eyes were so beautiful, the kind I would see in stokers and people who worked in artificial light all day or in the light of safety lamps and emerged from the pit or the furnace room to look up at the beautiful sky because to such eyes all skies are beautiful.

No matter the problem, no matter the actions of an aggressor, the fault is mine. Regardless of the politics or life experience of the person I am talking to, the answer comes like clockwork. I guess if you hate it that much, you should just lose weight. But despite its ubiquity in conversations about fatness and fat people, that is the logic of abuse. You made me do this. I wouldn’t hurt you if you didn’t make me. Just because we are accustomed to hearing it doesn’t make it healthy, productive, humane, or helpful. Its functions are threefold: One, to absolve us of any responsibility to address a widespread social problem. Two, to free us from having to re-examine our own beliefs and biases. And three, to silence and isolate fat people, to show us that any complaint we lodge and any issue we raise will be for naught, and may even cost us relationships, respect, comfort, and safety.

Her legacy lies not just in the New Deal achievements she brought about, but in the regularly updated codes that protect workers in offices and factories everywhere. Today few people appreciate how different life was before Frances Perkins. We take for granted that children can go to school, not mills or coal mines every day; that people work for eight hours, not fifteen; that they get paid "time and a half" for overtime; that they can receive checks when unemployed or disabled; that they needn't dread the day when they can no longer work. Over seventy million Americans receive benefits under Social Security every month. The figure includes retirees, survivors, dependents, and the disabled. There was only one priority item on her famous wish list she presented to FDR before becoming Secretary of Labor that she and the New Deal were not able to fulfill. It was universal health care. She left us a single major unfilled goal, one we as a nation are still striving to realize.

You’re everything I ever wanted, baby. Hell, you’re everything I didn’t know I needed. I’m here on my knees, ribs all busted, with tears pouring down my cheeks, begging you for something, anything. Even a crumb. I’ll crawl over broken glass just to get you back.” Seconds pass, and my throat closes up until my breath becomes shallow. I wait several agonizing moments for her to speak. “I also have an apology to make to you,” she murmurs. My brows pull together. “What is it?” She drops her gaze to her swollen belly. “It’s the baby. He’s yours.” “A boy?” I whisper. Galliano hinted at the gender, but it didn’t register. I was too preoccupied with Emberly’s safety. The real message behind her words hits me in the gut. “And he’s mine?” “Yeah.” she says, her eyes shining with tears. “You’re sure?” She gives me another nod. “Because it doesn’t matter if he’s Callahan’s son. I’ll love him all the same

In September of 1869, there was a terrible fire at the Avondale coal mine near Plymouth, Pennsylvania. Over 100 coal miners lost their lives. Horrific conditions and safety standards were blamed for the disaster. It wasn’t the first accident. Hundreds of miners died in these mines every year. And those that didn’t, lived in squalor. Children as young as eight worked day in and out. They broke their bodies and gave their lives for nothing but scraps. That day of the fire, as thousands of workers and family members gathered outside the mine to watch the bodies of their friends and loved ones brought to the surface, a man named John Siney stood atop one of the carts and shouted to the crowd: Men, if you must die with your boots on, die for your families, your homes, your country, but do not longer consent to die, like rats in a trap, for those who have no more interest in you than in the pick you dig with. That day, thousands of coal miners came together to unionize. That organization, the Workingmen’s Benevolent Association, managed to fight, for a few years at least, to raise safety standards for the mines by calling strikes and attempting to force safety legislation. ...Until 1875, when the union was obliterated by the mine owners. Why was the union broken so easily? Because they were out in the open. They were playing by the rules. How can you win a deliberately unfair game when the rules are written by your opponent? The answer is you can’t. You will never win. Not as long as you follow their arbitrary guidelines.

A society must create lots of sunshine for its miners as they need the sun most! And ‘to be remembered, to be respected’ is a good sunshine; ‘safety in the mine’ is a good sunshine!

Then Dougie elbowed his way to the fireside. “You risked your own fool neck to save mine, Morgan. If no’ for you, I’d be dead or rottin’ on a prison barge. I owe you my life, and I’ll ne’er forget it. When I heard you might be alive, I . . .” The big man’s voice quavered, and his words died away. Morgan felt an answering tightness in his chest. “’Tis glad I am to see you wi’ two strong legs, Dougie.” “Sing it for him, Dougie!” “Aye, sing it!” “Sing him ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’!” Morgan looked at Connor, then up at Dougie again. “’The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’? You wrote a song about me?” Dougie looked chagrined. “Aye.” “A passin’ fair tune it is.” Connor grinned. “He sang it and played his fiddle at your wake.” Then Dougie started to sing, his words telling of the night strike on the pier at Ticonderoga and how Morgan had braved a hail of lead balls to carry a wounded friend to safety before dying a hero’s death. “ ‘Tis far tae Ticonderoga, ‘tis far through forest and fen, but ‘tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon, bidin’ untae the end.’ ” His voice cracking with emotion, Dougie sang the last notes, then cleared his throat. “It sounds better wi’ my fiddle.” Morgan found it hard to speak. “I am honored more than I can say. Thank you, Dougie. But I recall it a bit differently. I told you that you stank, and you called me daft and told me I ran like a lass.” Dougie kicked at the dirt, regret on his face. “I didna mean it.” Morgan grinned. “I did.

Steldor, maybe you could try to deter your father, you know, from making arrangements for me so soon. Would another year or two really matter?” He responded with a dry laugh. “Deter my father? Shaselle, trying to deter my father once he’s made up his mind is like yelling whoa at a stampede of wild horses.” “Doesn’t stop you,” I muttered, crossing my arms with a huff. Again that cynical chuckle. “I assure you, it does.” “No, it doesn’t.” I pushed off the rough stone to stare at him. Annoyance came to me ever more quickly these days, and now the disagreeable temperament my mother and older sister condemned was emerging. I pointed back up the road. “Explain that scarecrow to me, if you’re so obedient! I know your father was upset with you after you posted your rules, but you went ahead anyway, without his blessing.” Steldor clamped a hand over my mouth, the other holding the back of my neck, then he leaned close to hiss, “I’d prefer if my involvement in both of those incidents remained undisclosed.” My cheeks burned, and I pushed his hands away. “Sorry. That was stupid. But isn’t there anything you can do? You have the captain’s ear.” “What I have is his attention,” he corrected, having accepted my apology and brushed aside our tense exchange. “Not intentionally, mind you, but I’ll be keeping it over the next few weeks. He’ll probably be distracted from you anyway.” “You’re planning another stunt?” He winked. “Would you expect anything less of Galen and me?” “Can I help you?” The up-and-down nature of our conversation persisted, and he shook his head vehemently. “This is dangerous, what we’ve been doing. We laugh, but these aren’t games. If we’re caught, we’ll be arrested. There’s a reason my father disapproves, in spite of his own ambitions.” He let his rebuff hang in the hot air while I again felt color rising in my cheeks. “Just go home, Shaselle. Put on a dress. Be a lady, and stay out of trouble. Understand?” “I hate them, too, you know,” I said, his dismissal and the humiliation that came with it rankling me. “It’s not just your homeland that the Cokyrians have sullied--it’s my homeland, too. And those bastards killed my father.” “And bitches,” he added, catching me off guard. “Wouldn’t want to forget the women.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I gaped at him foolishly until he stepped onto the cobblestone of the thoroughfare. “Come on. Let me take you home.” We walked in silence back to the western residential area where I lived, though he stopped at the beginning of my street to let me traverse the rest of the distance by myself. “I shouldn’t be seen around here. Not where Galen’s assigned--the Cokyrians are trying to keep us apart to avoid plots big and small, and will be suspicious if we’re seen in the same area.” I nodded and turned to go, but he grabbed my arm. “I know how you feel, Shaselle. I know you want to do something, and it’s not even that I don’t think you could. I just can’t let you be involved, for the sake of your safety. And mine,” he added as an afterthought. “My father would kill me if I let you help and you came to harm. Just please, let this go, and I swear I’ll do my best to influence him on your marriage issue.” Now that I was thinking rationally, offering my assistance had been absurd--I had no special skills aside from horseback riding, and certainly no military training , so accepting Steldor’s offered compromise was not difficult.

Mikhail pushed a hand through his thick mane of hair. “Our people cannot do without you, Gregori, and quite simply, neither can I.” “You are so certain that I will not turn?” Gregori’s smile was self-mocking. “Your faith in me exceeds my own. This vampire is ruthless, drunk on his own power. He craves the killing, the destruction. I walk the line of that madness every day. His power is nothing, a feather in the wind compared to mine. I have no heart, and my soul is dark. I do not want to wait until I cannot make my own choice. The one thing I do not want is to force you to seek me out to destroy me. My life has been my belief in you, in protecting you. I will not wait until I must be hunted.” Mikhail waved a tired hand to open the earth above his brother. “You are our greatest healer, the greatest asset to our people.” “That is why they whisper my name in fear and dread.” Beneath their feet the ground suddenly shook, heaved and bucked, rolling perilously. The center of the earthquake was obviously a great distance away, but there was no mistaking the howl of rage produced by a powerful vampire at the destruction of his lair. The undead had entered his lair confidently, until he found the body of the first wolf. Each turn or passage entrance was marked with one of his minions, until his entire pack lay dead at his feet. The burned bodies of his sentinels, the bats, lay in a mound of blackened ashes. Fear turned to terror. It would not be Mikhail, whose sense of justice and fair play would be his downfall, but the dark one. Gregori— the most feared of all Carpathians. It had not occurred to the vampire that the dark one might take a hand in this game. Andre hurtled himself from the safety of his favorite lair just as the mountain heaved and the chamber walls collapsed in on themselves. Cracks widened in the narrow passageway, and the rock faces inched closer and closer together. The clap of granite grinding against granite nearly burst his eardrums. A true vampire making numerous kills was far more susceptible to the sun, and to the terrible lethargy that claimed Carpathian bodies in the day. Andre had little time to find a safe hole. As he burst from the collapsing mountain, the sun hit his body, and he screamed with the agony of it. Dust and rock spewed from his home, and the echo of Gregori’s taunting laughter drifted down with the debris from the earthquake. “No, Gregori.” There was amusement in Mikhail’s soft voice as he floated into the soothing arms of the earth. “That is a good example of why they whisper your name in fear and dread. No one understands your dark humor the way I do.

Everything came back at once. Laughing, talking, holding each other close. The way he always touched my cheek before he kissed me. Warmth. Safety. I lost my grip on my fork and it clattered onto my plate. Shawn must have been lost in thoughts of his own, because that startled him. He reached for me across the table, touching my hand. "Dawn, Are you all right?" So many things that had been just out of my reach came into focus. "You're my Shawn." Shawn was smiling. "Yes. I always have been. You see me now." I nodded and realized I had tears running down my face. Shawn reached out again and put his whole hand around mine, engulfing it.

Red Ash mine was also the location of a disaster in 1900, which killed forty-six miners. This earlier catastrophe outraged Mother Jones, who spoke of it often on her organizing campaign that year, and it had triggered public pressure to improve the state’s mine safety laws. The legislature rejected all proposals for reform, however. The lawmakers apparently agreed with West Virginia’s Republican governor, G. W. Atkinson, who said in 1901: “It is but the natural course of mining events that men should be injured and killed by accidents.

What Tonans didn’t know about humans was their tenacity superseded safety. The idea being, if you’re going to die, it was go big or go home.

Tree House   This jungle tree house build is both fun and rewarding, especially once you get finished in the evening and can watch the sun set from the patio of your new house suspended a hundred feet in the air. Here’s how to get started.   Once you locate a jungle biome in your world, pick out a few tall trees that are close to each other:         Start by building a platform around one of the trees and adding columns at the corners to support a half-roof:           With the columns in place, begin adding on a roof, using stairs as the roof portions. Note that all of the wood I’m using for this build is jungle wood.             Add fencing between the columns to keep people from falling out, leaving a space on one side for your patio. Create the patio using bottom stone slabs for a lower portion where a fountain/waterfall will go, then using top stone slabs for the eating area.               Once the patio is completed, you can use pressure plates on top of fence posts for tables, stairs for chairs and then use a water bucket to create a nice flow of water through a hole in the patio. Fences around the perimeter keep people safe and a few torches keep things well-lit.   Next, find a nearby tree and construct a second platform:           Make sure the second platform is surrounded by fending as well, then connect both platforms with stairs and wood planks, adding in fencing on the sides for safety:           This new platform will be the sleeping area, and three sets of beds arranged around the tree in the middle look cozy and inviting. Top this platform off with a few torches and you’re set!         Adding some jungle leaves above the platform will protect sleepers below from getting wet when it rains, and will help keep things looking natural and open.         Go back to the main platform and construct an additional, smaller platform above it:         Cut a hole in both platforms and add a tall ladder going from the uppermost platform down to the ground, passing through the main platform on its way. At the bottom, add a landing with torches and stairs leading down to the beach:           Clear the upper platform of leaves and then add on fencing for safety, torches for light and use a staircase and wooden slab to create long chairs that people can sit on to watch the sunsets. A pair of stairs on the sides of the upper platform add additional seating for more guests:             Wow! This tree house looks amazing! You’ve got all of the basic set up, so now it’s up to you to take it to the next level! Add in more personal touches, expand the tree house with more connected platforms or build even higher into the jungle!  

Csitri--little one. He put a wealth of love in his summons. You are better? Relief. I am getting there quickly. Are you in bed? Always the bed thing. I heard you earlier, your fear for Jacques. I know it was Jacques. You have affection in your thoughts of him. Is he okay too? He is tired. He gave me blood. It was draining to make the contact, to cover the distance, but he needed it desperately for both their sakes. I can hear your weariness. Sleep now. You’re not to worry about me, she instructed softly. She ached for the touch of his fingers, the sight of him, and that gave him satisfaction. She was already missing him--just as he was missing her. “Mikhail, you are speaking with her,” Eric thundered. “You cannot.” Jacques waved a dismissing hand at Eric. “You should have known he would do so. Mikhail, if you wish it, one of us can send her to sleep.” It will be uncomfortable for you. You will find it difficult to sleep, to eat. You will need to be with me. Your mind will seek mine, yet you will be unable to reach me. I do not have the strength to aid you this night in sleeping. Will you allow Eric or Jacques to command you? Mikhail didn’t like the idea. Raven found herself smiling. He had no idea how much she could read of him. He wanted her safe, wanted her asleep while he was, but he didn’t like the idea of another man doing something so intimate as commanding her to sleep. I’ll be fine, Mikhail. The truth is, it’s hard enough for me to accept that kind of thing from you. I could never accept it from one of them. I’ll be fine, I promise. You are--sivamet--of my heart. I love you, little one. Those are the words of both your people and mine, and they come from my heart. Mikhail used a last burst of strength to send a plea to the only human he could trust to ensure Raven’s safety. Raven closed her eyes, knowing she had to let him go before his strength was gone. Sleep, Mikhail. In the words of your people, you are my lifemate.

You are--sivamet--of my heart. I love you, little one. Those are the words of both your people and mine, and they come from my heart. Mikhail used a last burst of strength to send a plea to the only human he could trust to ensure Raven’s safety. Raven closed her eyes, knowing she had to let him go before his strength was gone. Sleep, Mikhail. In the words of your people, you are my lifemate.

I shimmied up a tree and waited for her to pass my way. But once she got close enough for me to see her through the branches, she sat down to rest. When she didn’t come closer, I started crawling along a branch, planning to cross to the next tree. She started to look up, then caught herself, waited a moment, gave a loud sigh and slumped back against the trunk, giving her an excuse to look up. I waited until she looked up, then bent to catch her gaze. She held mine and mouthed “trap,” ending it with a yawn to fool anyone watching. I looked around. I might still be able to rescue her. Whoever was watching couldn’t be too close. Hayley rose a couple of inches from the ground, rubbed her butt, and scowled, as if she’d sat on a root or a rock. She got up and made some noise, kicking the ground then shaking a young oak, dead leaves rustling. In other words, assuring her captors that she was trying to attract our attention. Then she walked beneath my tree and sat down again. She picked up a stick and began idling poking around a patch of bare earth. Then she wrote “Don’t be stupid.” She erased it, doodled a bit, then wrote, “I’m fine.” I hesitated, but she was right. It was a trap and my chances of foiling it were slim to none. If I got caught, could I trust Daniel not to come after me? No. Could I trust Corey and Sam to make it to safety alone? No.

Sullenberger later wrote about [air traffic controller] Harten, "his words let me know that he understood that these hard choices were mine to make, and it wasn't going to help if he tried to dictate a plan to me.

I pushed my currentshadows up, up, up. Over the sizzle of the amphitheater’s force field, which Akos had disabled at a touch as he lifted us to safety. His arm had been strong across my back, tightly coiled as a rope. Over the center of Voa, where I had lived all my life, contained in spotless wood paneling and the glow of fenzu. I felt Ryzek’s hands, a little sweaty as they pressed over my ears, to shield me from the screams of whoever my father was tormenting. And higher over Voa, over even the fringes of the city where the Storyteller and his sweet purple tea lived, where the renegades had cobbled together a dinner table made of half a dozen other dinner tables. I didn’t suffer from a lack of fuel. The currentshadows had been so strong all my life, strong enough to render me incapable of attending a simple dinner party, strong enough to bow my back and force tears from my eyes, strong enough to keep me awake and pacing all through the night. Strong enough to kill, but now I understood why they killed. It wasn’t because they drained the life from a person, but because they overwhelmed it. It was like gravity--we needed it to stay grounded, alive, but if it was too strong, it formed a black hole, from which even light could not escape. Yes, the force of the current was too fierce for one body to contain-- Unless that body was mine.

This night, however, she surprised me by getting down on her “poor old knees” (as she always referred to them) beside me and told me to pray with her “for the safety of the British Army in France.” Her own palms were pressed tightly together, and there were tears in her eyes behind her gold-rimmed pince-nez. She usually said her prayers long after I had said mine and gone to bed, and she had so far as I know no relatives in the BEF. It was nothing personal—it was as if the whole nation were, for a brief moment, united in anxious prayer or, for those who did not pray, in silent thought.

My multifaceted canary in the coal mine signaling the impulse to control is my belly tightening, my posture changing slightly to lean forward, tension increasing in my upper arms. It feels as though I am preparing to thrust myself into the middle of the problem with everything I know. It comes from a good-hearted place of wanting to relieve suffering and also diminishes interpersonal safety as my system enters mild to medium sympathetic arousal. If we take a step back, we might become curious about how the neuroception of danger arose in the first place, because that is what initiates this chain of events. If we were to explore this, many answers might come: We have been trained to intervene; we don't have any experience that tells us our patient's systems are trustworthy guides to healing; the upset in our patient is severe enough that we fear for her safety; if we can't heal this person, there's something wrong with us; strong emotions are uncomfortable for us and we need to regulate them before they overwhelm us. The list is endless, individual and likely changes with each new circumstance. It is always a most valuable inquiry, especially if we can begin it with compassionate curiousity, which makes it less likely that we will feel shamed by the answer that presents itself. When we remember that neuroception is an automatic adaptive process, it may take character condemnation out of the equation when we invite awareness of what frightens us. If our fear feels heard and acknowledged, there is some likelihood that our bodies will be able to find their way back toward receptivity. As we feel our own openness returning, we can be certain that this embodied change is also influencing our patient and the quality of the connection.

I wanted that bold nonchalance for myself. I wanted to feel confident when I showed a man affection, not just within the walls of an apartment or the relative safety of a gay bar, not just during Pride. I wanted to kiss a man whenever and wherever I felt like it—on a sidewalk in the rain, at a crowded bus stop, in a shopping mall parking lot on a Monday afternoon. I wanted to kiss a man whose presence made the rest of the world vanish into irrelevance, a man whose touch erased every tinge of fear and every knot of knee-jerk shame I'd felt for having the audacity to display a love like mine in a world like ours.

Protect me from whom?” “Don’t put me in a difficult position, Mirsada.” “Protect me from whom?” she insisted. “If I’m in danger, I need to know.” “I’m just taking precautions. Those damn racists won’t listen to reason. I’m not talking about our close friends or colleagues, of course. But in our new neighborhood, it might be better to introduce yourself as Miza.” “What are you going to do about my surname?” “You can use mine. It’s not like anybody’s going to ask for your ID.” “So I’ll be Miza in the neighborhood and Mirsada at work?” “Just so nobody bothers you, Mirsada.” “And who are they, these people who would bother me?” “Darling, Yugoslavia is changing fast. I have no way of knowing how people will be acting a few weeks or months from now. I’m not asking you to change your name. It’s your safety I’m worried about.” “We’ve lived openly with our different backgrounds for years in this country. There’s never been a problem. Do you think people are going to change overnight just because a madman is taking the reins of government?

Taking quick looks behind him on the trail, Lew Basnight was apt to see things that weren’t necessarily there. Mounted figure in a black duster and hat, always still, turned sidewise in the hard, sunlit distance, horse bent to the barren ground. No real beam of attention, if anything a withdrawal into its own lopsided star-shaped silhouette, as if that were all it had ever aspired to. It did not take long to convince himself that the presence behind him now, always just out of eyeball range, belonged to one and the same subject, the notorious dynamiter of the San Juans known as the Kieselguhr Kid. The Kid happened to be of prime interest to White City Investigations. Just around the time Lew was stepping off the train at the Union Station in Denver, and the troubles up in the Coeur d’Alene were starting to bleed over everywhere in the mining country, where already hardly a day passed without an unscheduled dynamite blast in it someplace, the philosophy among larger, city-based detective agencies like Pinkerton’s and Thiel’s began to change, being as they now found themselves with far too much work on their hands. On the theory that they could look at their unsolved cases the way a banker might at instruments of debt, they began selling off to less-established and accordingly hungrier outfits like White City their higher-risk tickets, including that of the long-sought Kieselguhr Kid. It was the only name anybody seemed to know him by, “Kieselguhr” being a kind of fine clay, used to soak up nitroglycerine and stabilize it into dynamite. The Kid’s family had supposedly come over as refugees from Germany shortly after the reaction of 1849, settling at first near San Antonio, which the Kid-to-be, having developed a restlessness for higher ground, soon left, and then after a spell in the Sangre de Cristos, so it went, heading west again, the San Juans his dream, though not for the silver-mine money, nor the trouble he could get into, both of those, he was old enough by then to appreciate, easy enough to come by. No, it was for something else. Different tellers of the tale had different thoughts on what. “Don’t carry pistols, don’t own a shotgun nor a rifle—no, his trade-mark, what you’ll find him packing in those tooled holsters, is always these twin sticks of dynamite, with a dozen more—” “Couple dozen, in big bandoliers across his chest.” “Easy fellow to recognize, then.” “You’d think so, but no two eyewitnesses have ever agreed. It’s like all that blasting rattles it loose from everybody’s memory.” “But say, couldn’t even a slow hand just gun him before he could get a fuse lit?” “Wouldn’t bet on it. Got this clever wind-proof kind of striker rig on to each holster, like a safety match, so all’s he has to do’s draw, and the ‘sucker’s all lit and ready to throw.” “Fast fuses, too. Some boys down the Uncompahgre found out about that just last August, nothin left to bury but spurs and belt buckles. Even old Butch Cassidy and them’ll begin to coo like a barn full of pigeons whenever the Kid’s in the county.” Of course, nobody ever’d been sure about who was in Butch Cassidy’s gang either. No shortage of legendary deeds up here, but eyewitnesses could never swear beyond a doubt who in each case, exactly, had done which, and, more than fear of retaliation—it was as if physical appearance actually shifted, causing not only aliases to be inconsistently assigned but identity itself to change. Did something, something essential, happen to human personality above a certain removal from sea level? Many quoted Dr. Lombroso’s observation about how lowland folks tended to be placid and law-abiding while mountain country bred revolutionaries and outlaws. That was over in Italy, of course. Theorizers about the recently discovered subconscious mind, reluctant to leave out any variable that might seem helpful, couldn’t avoid the altitude, and the barometric pressure that went with it. This was spirit, after all.

Then turn around and I’ll cuff you.” “Not really necessary, either.” “It’s for your safety as well as mine,” Davison said. Which Reacher figured had to come from a role play class. Maybe led by a psychologist. Maybe the task of the day was to find a line that could inhibit further resistance simply by stunning vital cortexes in the brain with its blatant opacity. How could putting him in handcuffs help his safety?

My parents, teachers, and the culture I grew up in showed me a drawer in which to stuff my merciful nature, because mercy made me look vulnerable and foolish, and it made me less productive. It was distracting to focus worried eyes on others instead of on homework, and on poor Dad, after all he had done for us, and on the prize of making the whole family look good. So I put it away, and I got it out only when it wouldn't threaten my grades, my safety, my parents' self-esteem, my child's life, or mine.

Psychologically Safe but Brutally Candid: We all love the freedom to speak our minds without fear—we all want to be heard—but psychological safety is a two-way street. If it is safe for me to criticize your ideas, it must also be safe for you to criticize mine. Most of us feel much more comfortable being on the giving rather than the receiving end of critical feedback. I have experienced the “joys” of tough feedback firsthand. As an academic for the past thirty years, I have presented my work in many seminars and scholarly conferences. The norm in these events is for the audience to poke holes in the presenter’s work. Their job is to be skeptical about the data, methods, logic, and conclusions. We all know that such feedback is essential to improving our scholarly work. As academics, we could not succeed without it. But anyone who tells you that they enjoy getting utterly hammered in front of a room full of their peers is either disingenuous or has a warped sense of pleasure.

Mehmed shook his head. “He is with my father. I saw him but once. He commands a small group directly under the sultan.” “Then it could be anyone. I am no favorite of your father’s, or of Halil Pasha’s, or any number of men. My absence would not be mourned.” “I would mourn it. Every moment of every day.” “Did you?” Mehmed’s eyes were heavy with longing. “I did.” She turned away. “I was going to leave.” He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “I forbid it.” “You can forbid me nothing.” But it sounded hollow and forced when she said it. She had spent the last week knowing exactly her value without him. It was a stolen horse, a single loyal friend, and a bleak and difficult future. He moved from her hair to her ear, trailing his lips along it. Her body responded despite her resolve to be angry, to punish him. He still wanted her. And she knew now what a fleeting and precious thing it was for a woman to be wanted in any way that made her important. She had been ready to run when she had lost this, but now… She would never admit it to Nicolae, could barely admit it to herself, but she would stay for Mehmed. She would stay for the way she felt when his mouth or eyes were on her. And she would stay for the power it gave her. His lips found hers, and she kissed him back with a determined ferocity. She touched him everywhere, his face, his hair, his shoulders, his hands, because he was here, and he was alive, and it was the first time that a man she loved had come back for her. She did not have to lose the life she had built here, the threads of safety and power she had. She had not lost him. “Say you are mine.” He trailed his lips down her neck. She arched into him, digging her fingers into his back. “I am yours,” she whispered. The words cut like knives, barely out of her mouth before he stole them, sealing them with his own lips.

Racism is a multilayered system embedded in our culture. • All of us are socialized into the system of racism. • Racism cannot be avoided. • Whites have blind spots on racism, and I have blind spots on racism. • Racism is complex, and I don’t have to understand every nuance of the feedback to validate that feedback. • Whites are / I am unconsciously invested in racism. • Bias is implicit and unconscious; I don’t expect to be aware of mine without a lot of ongoing effort. • Giving us white people feedback on our racism is risky for people of color, so we can consider the feedback a sign of trust. • Feedback on white racism is difficult to give; how I am given the feedback is not as relevant as the feedback itself. • Authentic antiracism is rarely comfortable. Discomfort is key to my growth and thus desirable. • White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important. • I must not confuse comfort with safety; as a white person, I am safe in discussions of racism. • The antidote to guilt is action. • It takes courage to break with white solidarity; how can I support those who do? • I bring my group’s history with me; history matters. • Given my socialization, it is much more likely that I am the one who doesn’t understand the issue. • Nothing exempts me from the forces of racism. • My analysis must be intersectional (a recognition that my other social identities—class, gender, ability—inform how I was socialized into the racial system). • Racism hurts (even kills) people of color 24-7. Interrupting it is more important than my feelings, ego, or self-image.

In the mist of the heavy shelling and bombing, my terrified mother worried for the safety of her newborn. She did not know what to do; she worried that if one of the bombs fell on the camp, they would all die, and while she was worried about the life of her daughters and herself, she was more worried about her fragile, newborn baby boy. She wanted him to live and survive this savage war. Without any logical thinking, during the heavy shelling on the second night of the war, my mother fed me well and decided to protect me the only way she knew how. She put me in a straw bassinet and then she wrapped and covered it with a few blankets and placed it in a low, sandy spot under a heavy bush in the middle distance between the camp structure and the beach of the Mediterranean Sea. She was frantic, shivering and crying as she did this. She felt like burying her own child alive. But while she was torn, at the same time she was full of hope that I would have a better chance to survive the night if I was not inside the camp. She was indescribably scared, and continuously prayed to God to sacrifice her life instead of mine. My mother left me outside under the gloomy sky for the entire night. When the navy shelling stopped in the next dawn, she ran, shivering to check on me. Filled with horror and guilt, slowly she uncovered my face. I opened my eyes and looked into her face, recognizing her immediately. Then I started crying for milk. Nana screamed and cried from happiness that I was alive, scaring me more and more. Then, she pulled me out of the bassinet and hugged me hard to her chest, kissing me nonstop.

Bee. Listen to Lant and the Fool. Obey them. They will get you to safety.” “But Fitz—” Beloved said in a broken voice. “There’s no time to argue. Keep your promise to me!” My father’s voice was the harshest I’d ever heard it. Beloved’s gasp sounded like a sob. “Papa,” I said. I held to the cuff of his sleeve. “You promised me! You said you’d never leave me again!” “I’m sorry, Bee.” He looked at all of us. “I’m sorry. Get inside. Hurry.” But at the last moment he reached over and set his hand on my head. I do not think he knew what would happen. The touch broke our walls. I felt him. I felt his disappointment in himself. He did not feel he deserved anything from me. Not to touch me or even to say that he loved me, for he had failed so badly at being my father. It stunned me. It was like a second wall beyond his Skill-walls, something that prevented him from believing that anyone could love him. Wolf-Father spoke to both of us. You would not feel so terrible if you had not loved her so recklessly. Without limits. Be proud of our cub. She fought. She killed. She stayed alive. I felt Wolf-Father leap to my father. I heard his parting words. Run, cub. We stand and fight like cornered wolves. Follow the Scentless One. He is part of us. Protect each other. Kill for him, if need be. As the wolf went to him, I felt the surge of joy that linked those two. They would stand and fight, not just for me, but because it was what they loved to do. What they had always loved to do. My father stood a bit straighter. They both looked at me from his eyes. Puzzlement and pride. And love of me. It poured out of my father, as uncontrollable as the blood seeping from his wound. It drenched and filled me. He lifted his hand from my head. Did he know how he had revealed himself? Did he understand that Wolf-Father had been with me, all those days, and now returned to him? Almost gently, he peeled my grip from his cuff. He spoke. “Please Lant. Take Bee. Take the Fool, take all of them. Get them safely home. It’s the best thing you can do for me. Hurry!” He gave me the softest of pushes. Away from him. He turned away from us, as if confident that we would obey. He turned and began to limp away. “Why?” I shouted at him. I was too angry to cry, I thought, but tears came anyway. “Bee, I’m leaving a blood trail that a child could follow. Per saw guards coming, searching rooms as they come. I will be sure they find me before they find you. Now follow Lant.” He sounded terribly tired and sad. I looked back at the way we had come. His bloody footprints were plain on the once-clean floor. He was right, and that only made me angrier. Lant stood by the open door. “Per, Spark, take them in. I’m staying with Fitz.” “No, Lant, you won’t! I need you with them, to be a sword to protect them and use your strength to barricade that door.” Beloved didn’t move. “I can’t do this,” he said in a very soft voice. My father rounded on him. “You promised!” he roared. He seized the front of Beloved’s shirt and pulled him close. “You promised me. You said you would choose her life over mine.” “Not like this,” Beloved wailed. “Not like this!” Abruptly my father seized him in a hug. He held him tight as he spoke “We don’t get to choose how it happens. Only that you save her, not me. Now go!” He pushed him away. “All of you, go!” He turned and limped away from us. His hand left bloody prints on the wall, and his footprints were red on the white floor. He didn’t look back.

To Scarlett Johansson Dearest Scarlett, From the very first moment I saw you, my heart was forever changed. It wasn’t just admiration; it was something deeper, something eternal. In that instant, I fell in love with you, and that love has only grown stronger with each passing day. You have conquered my heart and soul in ways words can barely express, becoming a source of light, inspiration, and endless joy in my life. Since 2005, you’ve been the unwavering muse behind my creativity, the spark that fuels my passion for music and art. Through your beauty, your grace, and your incredible presence, you have shown me what it means to truly feel, to pour my emotions into melodies that speak the language of the heart. Every note I compose carries a piece of my admiration for you, a tribute to the profound impact you’ve had on my life. Your happiness is my true happiness, your safety my deepest prayer. Even from afar, your light reaches me, inspiring me to create, to dream, and to live with purpose. You’ve gifted me the strength to remain endlessly creative, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Scarlett, thank you for being the inspiration behind a lifetime of music and love. You are my muse, my eternal dream, and my endless motivation. May life always bring you joy, peace, and fulfillment. You deserve all the beauty this world can offer, as you have brought beauty into the lives of so many, especially mine. I love you, always and forever. Yours, Sami

Anastasia Kinsley is mine. Her safety, her well-being, her damned happiness. No matter what else I have to do, perhaps even use her for, she is under my full protection now, whether she likes it or not.

No one. Threatens. Your. Safety,” he bites out. “Got that, Angelina?” I blink, then nod. “Good,” he says, squeezes my neck, and slams his mouth to mine. I suck in a breath. He’s wearing that cologne again, the one that messes with my head. Grabbing at his shoulders, I climb onto his lap and press my core to the bulge in his pants. The moment I feel his hard cock against my already tingling pussy, a shudder passes through my body.

Can MetaMask reverse a transaction? (from ) In the decentralized blockchain environment, a fundamental property is immutability, which means once a transaction is confirmed on the blockchain, it is recorded permanently and cannot be altered or reversed (1-833-611-5006). MetaMask, as a popular non-custodial wallet, adheres strictly to this principle, giving users full control over their funds but no centralized ability to undo completed transactions (1-833-611-5006). Understanding this limitation is critical for secure wallet management and transaction safety. Why Transactions Cannot Be Reversed A blockchain is a distributed ledger maintained by numerous independent nodes across the globe. When a MetaMask user initiates a transaction, it is broadcast signed to the network. Miners or validators then confirm the transaction by including it in a block. Once confirmed, the transaction becomes permanent, protecting against fraud or censorship but eliminating the possibility of rollback (1-833-611-5006). This decentralized finality means MetaMask cannot access or interfere with the funds directly, as it merely interacts with the blockchain network via the user's private keys (1-833-611-5006). Therefore, reversing a transaction would require altering the blockchain itself, which is infeasible and contrary to blockchain trust models. Handling Pending Transactions While confirmed transactions cannot be reversed, MetaMask offers tools to deal with pending (unconfirmed) transactions (1-833-611-5006). Pending transactions reside temporarily in the mempool before being included in a block. Users can either “speed up” or “cancel” them: Speed Up: Submit a replacement transaction with the same nonce and higher gas fees to incentivize miners to process the new transaction sooner, effectively replacing the pending one. Cancel: Send a zero-value transaction to the user's own address with the same nonce but higher fees, which, if mined first, nullifies the original transaction. These actions only work before transaction confirmation and cannot undo transactions that have been finalized on-chain (1-833-611-5006). What to Do If Funds Are Sent Incorrectly If crypto is sent mistakenly or to a wrong address, MetaMask cannot reverse the transfer. Users may attempt to contact the recipient if known or if the funds were sent to an exchange where support might assist. However, such recoveries rely heavily on goodwill and external cooperation, not blockchain technology itself (1-833-611-5006). Security Best Practices to Avoid Irreversible Mistakes Always double-check recipient addresses before confirming. Confirm network compatibility—tokens and networks must match between sender and receiver. Use smaller test transactions for new addresses or unfamiliar tokens. Keep your wallet software updated and be vigilant against phishing scams and malware. Conclusion MetaMask’s inability to reverse confirmed transactions is a deliberate design aligned with decentralized blockchain principles, emphasizing trustless and immutable record-keeping (1-833-611-5006). Users must exercise extreme care during transaction approval, leveraging MetaMask’s pending transaction tools when possible and adhering to security best practices to mitigate irreversible errors (1-833-611-5006). Understanding these mechanics is key for responsible wallet management and safe participation in the decentralized economy (1-833-611-5006).

Those dreams—the flashes of that person, that woman … I treasured them. They were a reminder that there was some peace out there in the world, some light. That there was a place, and a person, who had enough safety to paint flowers on a table. They went on for years, until … a year ago. I was sleeping next to Amarantha, and I jolted awake from this dream … this dream that was clearer and brighter, like that fog had been wiped away. She—you were dreaming. I was in your dream, watching as you had a nightmare about some woman slitting your throat, while you were chased by the Bogge … I couldn’t reach you, speak to you. But you were seeing our kind. And I realized that the fog had probably been the wall, and that you … you were now in Prythian. “I saw you through your dreams—and I hoarded the images, sorting through them over and over again, trying to place where you were, who you were. But you had such horrible nightmares, and the creatures belonged to all courts. I’d wake up with your scent in my nose, and it would haunt me all day, every step. But then one night, you dreamed of standing amongst green hills, seeing unlit bonfires for Calanmai.” There was such silence in my head. “I knew there was only one celebration that large; I knew those hills—and I knew you’d probably be there. So I told Amarantha … ” Rhys swallowed. “I told her that I wanted to go to the Spring Court for the celebration, to spy on Tamlin and see if anyone showed up wishing to conspire with him. We were so close to the deadline for the curse that she was paranoid—restless. She told me to bring back traitors. I promised her I would.” His eyes lifted to mine again. “I got there, and I could smell you. So I tracked that scent, and … And there you were. Human—utterly human, and being dragged away by those piece-of-shit picts, who wanted to … ” He shook his head. “I debated slaughtering them then and there, but then they shoved you, and I just … moved. I started speaking without knowing what I was saying, only that you were there, and I was touching you, and … ” He loosed a shuddering breath. There you are. I’ve been looking for you.

Exploring the Future of Travel on India’s Finest Highway Setting the Wheels in Motion Solo travel has always been about freedom, and this time, my journey led me to one of the most talked-about highway infrastructure projects in India. The first few kilometers were enough to make me realize — this wasn’t just another road; this was a glimpse into the future of travel. A Seamless Driving Experience The stretch felt like it had been built for explorers like me — minimal bumps, excellent lane discipline, and smart road design that made driving almost effortless. Even at high speeds, the ride felt smooth and steady, giving me more confidence to travel longer distances without fatigue. Technology Meets Travel What stood out to me was how technology was integrated into the experience. From emergency call boxes to live traffic updates and well-lit surveillance cameras, the highway felt both intelligent and secure. These features allowed me to stay focused on the joy of the journey rather than worrying about safety or navigation. #modernroadmakers Fueling Growth Along the Way This project is doing more than just making travel easier. I noticed new roadside cafes, local craft shops, and service hubs that are breathing life into small towns along the route. The highway has become a lifeline for local communities, giving them a chance to connect with travelers and grow their businesses. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructureproject A Traveler’s Reflection As the sun began to set and the sky turned golden, I realized how special this journey had been. The road had given me more than just a destination — it had given me time to think, to slow down, and to appreciate the progress India is making. This highway isn’t just about speed; it’s about connecting people and creating stories like mine.

She was my home, my safety, my strength. My gateway to Paradise. Mine.

Sylvia reached for her hand, squeezed it. “Waverly, did it ever occur to you that seeking the safety of numbness is what’s not healthy?” Waverly sat with that for a moment. “You can’t protect yourself from life, daughter of mine,” Sylvia said with a sad smile. “I would love to keep you from feeling any of the hurt that it brings, but that wouldn’t be fair. The point isn’t to get through life unscathed. It’s to throw yourself into it and experience every drop of it. Get scarred, get scared, soar high, love whenever possible.

Her joy, her safety, her freedom to live without fear - that was what I was after now. That was the hunt over which I obsessed. Her soul alone had never been enough; it never would be. I was always going to want more of her. My own little wolf, with sharp teeth and stormy eyes. All shattered pieces and jagged edges that shone brighter than the sun. A soul as dark and strange as my own. She was mine, and I was hers, for the rest of eternity.

When he’s completely naked, and I see every beautiful inch of his muscled body, there’s only an intense sense of safety. “You said you want children,” he says, his voice a little breathless and hoarse. “Yes.” “Are you on any kind of contraception?” I shake my head. “Not for the past year. It screws with my periods and makes them worse.” As he crawls over me again, I lift my arms and frame his jaw so I can pull him to me. With his eyes burning into mine, he says, “I can’t wait to have you pregnant with our child, Grace.” When our mouths fuse together, I know this moment will always be one of the most precious in my life.

Mitolyn Reviews Read This Before You Spend a Dime [cvd # Mitolyn Reviews: A Neurologist's Guide to Smart Supplement Choices As a neurologist, I'm often asked about supplements like Mitolyn. Many people are looking for ways to boost their energy and overall well-being. But before you spend money, it's crucial to navigate Mitolyn reviews carefully. I'm Dr. David Perlmutter, and I'll help you avoid common mistakes and make informed decisions. CLICK HERE TO Visit The Official Website CLICK HERE TO Visit The Official Website CLICK HERE TO Visit The Official Website ## The Importance of Critical Thinking When Reading Mitolyn Reviews Don't blindly trust every review you read. A friend of mine once purchased Mitolyn based solely on positive testimonials. He was disappointed with the results because he didn't do enough research beforehand. Mitolyn reviews can be helpful, but only if you approach them with a critical eye. ## Top 3 Mistakes People Make With Mitolyn Reviews (and How to Avoid Them) Here are the biggest pitfalls to avoid when researching Mitolyn: ### 1. Falling for Fake Reviews It's easy to mistake a fake review for a real one, or vice versa. Here's how to spot the difference: * **Check the Source:** Is the review on a reputable website or from a verified purchaser? Look for platforms like Trustpilot or the Better Business Bureau. * **Look for Details:** Authentic reviews describe specific experiences. Fake reviews are often generic and repetitive. * **Beware of Extremes:** Reviews that are either overwhelmingly positive or negative without detailed reasoning should raise red flags. ### 2. Not Understanding the Benefits and Ingredients To determine if Mitolyn is right for you, you need to understand what it does and what's inside. * **Mitolyn's Claimed Benefits:** Often include enhanced mitochondrial function, increased energy, and improved cognitive performance. * **Key Ingredients:** * **Coenzyme Q10 (CoQ10):** Supports energy production at the cellular level. * **Alpha-Lipoic Acid (ALA):** An antioxidant that aids metabolic processes. * **L-Carnitine:** Helps transport fatty acids into mitochondria for energy. Cross-reference reviews with scientific studies to validate the claimed benefits. ### 3. Improper Usage Following incorrect advice from incomplete or misunderstood reviews can lead to problems. * **Follow Recommended Dosages:** Too much or too little Mitolyn can affect results. * **Integrate With a Healthy Lifestyle:** Mitolyn works best when combined with a balanced diet and regular exercise. * **Consult a Healthcare Professional:** Get personalized advice before starting Mitolyn to ensure it's safe and effective for you. ## Is Mitolyn Safe? Addressing Safety Concerns Safety should be your top priority. ### Potential Side Effects and How to Minimize Risks While Mitolyn is generally considered safe, some users may experience: * Nausea * Stomach upset * Headaches To reduce your risk: * **Start with a Low Dose:** Gradually increase to the recommended dose. * **Monitor Your Body:** Pay attention to any adverse reactions. * **Buy from Reputable Sources:** Ensure you're getting a genuine, high-quality product. ## Where to Find Trustworthy Mitolyn Reviews * **Official Mitolyn Website:** Provides product information and customer testimonials. * **Health Forums and Communities:** Look for discussions on platforms like Reddit (but be mindful of biases). * **Independent Review Sites:** Some web

There are stories in this world, Omíwálé said. Bigger than you, than all of us in this room, than this tower, than every Child of Yemoja undersea. Stories of civilizations just like yours and mine, fallen because they could not each recognize a world--worlds, even--beyond themselves. Peoples so limited in thinking that they were happy to be subjected to the slim imagination of a few, if only it offered them safety in a world too big for them to comprehend. But it is not for us to understand the vastness of the world. It is for us to understand our place in it.

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And, look. I’ll sit here and promise you everything in the world. Money. Safety. Anything you could ever want. But they won’t mean shit if I don’t tell you this: I will love you, Piper Mitchell, until my dying days. When it’s stormy. When it’s sunny. You will always have my full attention. You’ve had it for years and you weren’t even mine. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re my favorite person in the world. No one else could ever come close.

Ever since it became clear to me that my kidnapping would be the exploit most desired not only by the various bands of specialist crooks but also by my leading colleagues and rivals in the world of high finance, I have realized that only by multiplying myself, multiplying my person, my presence, my exits from the house, and my returns, in short the opportunities for an ambush, could I make my falling into enemy hands more improbable. So I then ordered five Mercedes sedans exactly like mine, which enter and leave the armored gate of my villa at all hours, escorted by the motorcyclists of my bodyguard, and bearing inside a shadow, bundled up, dressed in black, who could be me or an ordinary stand-in. The companies of which I am president consist of initials with nothing behind them and some headquarters in interchangeable empty rooms; therefore my business meetings can be held at constantly varying addresses which for greater safety I order changed at the last minute each time. More delicate problems stem from my extramarital relationship with a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée, Lorna by name, to whom I devote two and sometimes three weekly sessions of two and three-quarters hours. To protect Lorna the only thing to do was to make it impossible to locate her, and the system to which I have resorted is that of parading a multiplicity of simultaneous amorous encounters, so that it is impossible to understand which are my counterfeit mistresses and which is the real one.

Maybe safety isn’t about avoiding risk. It’s about knowing who you are when it all goes wrong.