AFTER THE IMPACT

In my dreams, there was always sunlight. It was never the sickly, flickering glow of the bunker’s dying halogen strips, nor the amber wash of auxiliary emergency tubes. It was real, golden, unfiltered sunlight—the kind that soaked straight through your clothes and warmed your bones, bright enough to make you squint until your eyes watered and the world dissolved into pure, shimmering warmth. I was five years old again, sitting on a tall oak stool at the kitchen island of our house north of Toronto. The air smelled of sweet vanilla batter sizzling in salted butter, maple syrup, and my father’s freshly ground coffee. My mother was standing by the stove in an oversized gray knit sweater, her dark hair pinned loosely against the back of her head, humming along to some upbeat pop song on the counter radio—a melody whose words I had spent fifteen years trying and failing to piece back together. Across the granite island, my father sat in his crisp Canadian Armed Forces service dress shirt, his black hair cropped in regulation neatness, his posture commanding yet relaxed as he scrolled through an operational briefing on his digital tablet. Sitting directly across from me was Kyle. Ten years old, all knobby elbows and knees, sporting a mouthful of gleaming metal braces and boasting the exact sharp, icy-blue eyes our father had given him. He had a wicked, mischievous grin plastered across his face as he balanced a crispy strip of bacon between his thumb and forefinger, aiming it straight at my tall glass of orange juice. “Don’t you dare, Kyle,” I warned in my high, lisping voice. “Target acquired,” Kyle whispered under his breath, narrowing his eyes like a fighter pilot. “Payload away.” He flicked the bacon. I squeaked, flailing my small arms to bat it out of the air, but my elbow caught the rim of the glass. The heavy tumbler tipped, sending a bright cascade of orange juice sloshing across the granite counter, dripping over the beveled edge and splashing onto the hardwood floor. “Kyle, stop antagonizing your brother,” my mother scolded gently, turning from the stove with a spatula in hand. Her smile was soft and effortless, crinkling the corners of her warm hazel-green eyes—the very eyes she had passed down to me. She crossed the kitchen, tore a length of paper towels from the holder, and knelt beside my stool to wipe the sticky mess from my bare knees before ruffling my messy black hair. “You all right, Jess?” “Kyle shot at me,” I mumbled, crossing my arms and glaring across the counter. Kyle leaned back, chewing nonchalantly on another piece of bacon, entirely unapologetic. “Did not. Gravity took over. You’re just clumsy, shrimp.” “Both of you, quiet down for a second,” Dad commanded. His voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed that effortless, deep timber of military authority that instantly brought the kitchen to a standstill. He reached over, picked up the remote on the counter, and turned up the volume on the flat-screen mounted above the refrigerator. A polished news anchor in an expensive navy suit sat behind an immaculate glass desk. His expression was the picture of practiced composure, radiating calm and absolute professional reassurance. Behind his left shoulder, a slick graphic spun on a continuous loop: a high-resolution 3D digital rendering of Earth, with a bright blue-and-silver celestial body trailing crystalline ice particles along a wide, sweeping parabolic curve. *“...and observatories in Hawaii, Chile, the Canary Islands, and the Algonquin Radio Observatory continue to track the celestial body in real time,”* the anchor announced, his cadence measured and soothing. *“The comet, designated Apollo, is expected to make its closest orbital approach to Earth within the next several hours. Senior astrophysicists at the Canadian Space Agency, NASA, and international monitoring stations maintain that the core will safely clear our atmosphere, posing no immediate threat to the planet. While visual phenomena—including intense atmospheric ionization, spectacular aurora displays, and localized meteor showers—may be visible to the naked eye later this afternoon across the northern hemisphere, officials are advising the public to remain calm. Normal routines should be maintained. There is no cause for panic, and civil authorities stress that hoarding of fuel and shelf-stable supplies is completely unnecessary...”* My father set his coffee mug down onto the counter. The ceramic made a sharp, distinct *clack* against the stone. His jaw tightened, the muscles along his cheek flexing into rigid ridges. Even then, before the sky tore open, he possessed that veteran tactician’s instinct—the deeply ingrained military skepticism that never quite trusted the sanitized reassurances of a morning broadcast. My mother stopped wiping the counter, her shoulders stiffening beneath the gray wool. “Mark?” she asked, the easy morning warmth suddenly draining from her voice. “They’re still saying it will pass clear. That’s what the six o’clock briefing said, wasn't it?” Dad didn’t answer her. He didn't have time to. Because right at that second, the broadcast died. The television screen fractured violently into jagged horizontal ribbons of static and harsh color distortion. A deafening, piercing electronic tone—the high-frequency shriek of the national Emergency Broadcast System—blared from the speakers, so loud and sudden that Kyle and I both clamped our hands over our ears, wincing against the auditory assault. Through the wide kitchen windows overlooking our backyard, the bright morning sky began to warp. The clear, peaceful blue evaporated in an instant, devoured by an unnatural, bruised purple that rapidly curdled into a suffocating, fiery copper. The shadows on the floor reversed direction, stretching and twisting as the atmosphere overhead ignited with violent ionization. Then came the roar. It was not thunder. It sounded like an iron freight train falling out of heaven at supersonic speed, a deafening tear in the fabric of the sky that vibrated straight through the floorboards and deep into the bones of my chest. The memory accelerated, fracturing into the violent nightmare I had relived a thousand times over fifteen years. Strong hands hauled me off the stool. My father’s harsh, barked commands pierced through the catastrophic noise. We were running toward the front foyer, abandoning the sizzling breakfast, our warm home, and the entirety of our normal lives sitting untouched on the kitchen island. Outside, our quiet suburban neighborhood had transformed into a scene of absolute pandemonium. Sirens from fire engines and police cruisers wailed from every direction, colliding in a deafening wall of acoustic panic. Enormous plumes of thick, greasy black smoke were already rising against the horizon over downtown Toronto. Terrified people were sprinting frantically down the sidewalks carrying duffel bags, sobbing toddlers, hunting rifles, and plastic totes. Gunshots echoed sharply three streets over. Across the asphalt, a neighbor we had known for years hurled a concrete garden brick through the windshield of a parked sedan, screaming hysterical obscenities as the car’s anti-theft horn began to honk in rhythmic desperation. Dad shoved Kyle and me into the rear bench of our heavy-duty military-spec SUV, slamming the heavy door shut behind us with enough force to rattle the frame. Mom threw herself into the front passenger seat, her hands trembling violently as she thumbed the central power locks. Dad slammed his boot onto the accelerator. The massive V8 engine roared, tires screeching against the pavement as we tore down the street. He drove with brutal, calculated aggression, swerving violently around abandoned sedans, discarded shopping carts, luggage, and terrified civilians who threw themselves directly against our side mirrors and windows, beating their bloody fists against the reinforced glass and begging for a ride. *“Keep your heads down!”* Dad bellowed over the roar of the engine, his knuckles stark white on the steering wheel. *“Kyle, grab your brother! Both of you stay down!”* I couldn't help myself. Paralyzed by a morbid, childish curiosity, I raised my chin just high enough to peer over the bottom edge of the passenger window as we merged onto the arterial road leading toward the designated military extraction bunker. The sky was raining liquid fire. Massive, incandescent streaks of atmospheric debris were punching through the clouds in rapid succession, tearing through the stratosphere and leaving blinding trails of white-hot slag across the sky like burning claws ripping open a black canvas. The concussive booms from atmospheric detonations shook the SUV, rattling the windowpane against my forehead. Then, at the major highway intersection, a twenty-ton commercial freight transport barreled through the red light at full speed. The impact was cataclysmic. There was no time to swerve, no time to brace. Just the horrific, metallic scream of shearing structural steel, the explosive detonation of safety glass into millions of crystalline shards, and the violent, sickening disorientation of our two-ton vehicle flipping end over end across the gouged asphalt. When the world finally stopped spinning, crushed against the shattered concrete stanchion of a collapsed highway overpass. The interior cabin was instantly suffocating. Thick, acrid white smoke poured from the ruptured firewall, filling my lungs with the toxic chemical stench of battery acid, vaporized coolant, and the unmistakable, terrifying hiss of spraying high-octane gasoline. “Mark! Kyle!” Mom’s voice was ragged, wet, and frantic. Blood poured from a deep, jagged laceration along her hairline, dripping across her pale cheek. “I’ve got Kyle! I’m out!” Dad was already outside, having kicked his warped driver’s door open with savage, adrenaline-fueled strikes. The metal frame groaned in protest as he reached into the rear footwell, his powerful hands unhooking Kyle’s tangled limbs and dragging him out through the twisted door opening. “Sarah, get out! The fuel lines are ruptured! Get out right now!” “Jesse!” she screamed, twisting her torso around inside the crushed, inverted wreckage. I tried to move, but I was pinned. The rear passenger bench had buckled upward beneath the weight of the collapsed roof pillars, and the three-point seatbelt mechanism had jammed tight across my five-year-old chest. The heavy steel latch was mangled inside the receiver housing, locking me in place like an iron vise. “Mommy!” I wailed, hot tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on my cheeks. “I’m stuck! Mommy, I can’t move! It hurts!” Through the fractured dashboard vents, a bright, hungry tongue of orange fire burst into the cabin. The dry synthetic upholstery and dashboard plastic ignited in seconds, spreading with monstrous speed. My father was shouting from outside, screaming for her to bail out before the secondary tank blew, but my mother didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look at the open doorway. She crawled through the narrow space between the crushed front seats, ignoring the razor-sharp jagged edges of torn sheet metal that sliced through her gray sweater, carving bloody gashes into her forearms and shoulders. Her hands found mine. Her palms were warm, trembling, and slick with her own blood. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here. Look at me, Jesse. Look right at my eyes.” “Mommy, it’s too hot!” I choked on the black smoke, coughing violently as the heat began to scorch my face. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’ve got you.” She seized a broken iron bracket from the sheared seat frame and jammed it violently into the locked seatbelt housing, using every ounce of her strength to pry the mechanism apart. The latch gave way. Flames were licking across the headliner above our heads now, the heat unbearable, the air turning into pure suffocating poison. Mom wrapped her bleeding arms around my torso, hoisting me toward the blown-out rear cargo window. “Climb, Jesse! Reach for your father! Crawl out, baby, go!” “Mom, you have to come too! Take my hand!” “Go! Now!” Her hands shoved hard against the bottoms of my sneakers, thrusting me through the jagged perimeter of the broken rear window frame. My father’s strong, soot-stained arms caught me instantly under the armpits, hauling me out into the cold, chaotic morning air. He dropped me onto the cracked pavement beside Kyle, who was curled on his side, sobbing and clutching a broken wrist. Without a second’s hesitation, Dad turned back to the burning vehicle, throwing the upper half of his torso through the rear window frame to reach her. “Sarah! Grab my wrists! Push with your legs!” Through the thick swirl of oily black smoke, I caught sight of my mother’s face. She was struggling frantically she reached out with both arms, stretching her fingers across the smoke-filled cabin, her fingertips brushing Dad’s outstretched hands— Then the main fuel reservoir ruptured. A blinding, deafening fireball erupted from the center of the vehicle. The concussive blast threw my father violently backward across the asphalt, sending Kyle and me tumbling over the shattered concrete rubble. The wave of pure, blistering thermal energy washed over my bare face like an industrial furnace, instantly singeing my eyebrows. Through the roaring, crackling inferno that engulfed the entire vehicle, there was no scream. There was no final goodbye. Just the sickening crackle of burning steel, the hiss of melting tires, and the sound of my father dropping to his knees on the ruined highway, letting out a raw, guttural, shattered roar that sounded like an animal being torn apart from the inside out. I shot upright in my bunk, gasping for breath, both hands flying upward in pure instinct to shield my face from the phantom flames. My chest heaved violently in the pitch darkness, my ragged gasps echoing off the damp concrete walls. Sweat ran down the back of my neck in cold rivulets, plastering my shaggy black hair to my temples, while my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged beast. No fire. No smoke. No sunlight. Just the cold, heavy, twice-recycled air of Sub-Level 3, carrying its permanent, inescapable aroma of machine grease, hydraulic fluid, damp stone, and the sharp metallic tang of aging copper pipes. I blinked into the gloom, waiting for my pupils to adjust to the faint amber light bleeding through the door’s inspection grate. Slowly, my pulse descended from full-blown panic to its usual baseline. I dragged both rough palms down the length of my face, feeling the coarse rasp of my dark five-o’clock shadow. *Fifteen years,* I thought bitterly, staring up at the bare concrete ceiling suspended above my mattress. *Fifteen years living in a hole in the dirt, and every single time I close my eyes, I’m still five years old watching her burn.* I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, planting my bare feet on the icy concrete, and paused. Lying on the far side of the narrow bunk, buried beneath the coarse olive-drab wool of a standard-issue military blanket, was a completely naked woman. Her back was turned to me, her long, tangled dark brown hair splayed across the pillow, the smooth, pale curve of her spine and shoulder rising and falling in rhythmic, undisturbed sleep. I stared at her for a few silent seconds, my brow furrowing as the lingering alcohol fog from the night before slowly cleared from my frontal lobe. What the hell was her name again? Chloe? Clara? Something with a hard *C*. She worked in civilian logistics over in Sector D. Last night had been one of those rare, covert gatherings down in the abandoned maintenance corridors of Tunnel 4. Someone in mechanical engineering had managed to ferment several gallons of rotting potato mash into high-proof moonshine, and a dozen people had gathered in the dark to get recklessly drunk anything to momentarily forget that we were sealed beneath a poisoned, radioactive continent. I had drank more than my fair share, leaned against the rusted conduits, flashed my best charming smirk. She had looked at me like I was a ticket out of the communal misery, and within an hour, she was eagerly following me up the stairwell. I stood up, completely naked, ignoring the draft that drifted across the concrete floor. I felt no guilt about the encounter, and certainly no romantic affection. s*x in the bunker was identical to the contraband moonshine: a quick, dirty distraction designed to burn off the suffocating boredom, a physical reminder that your blood was still pumping before you had to put your boots back on for another grueling day of combat drills and maintenance details. Down here, the atmosphere was entirely different. The air was noticeably colder, biting through my undershirt with a sharp chill that smelled heavily of gun oil, cleaning solvent, and cold iron. The illumination was shifted entirely to low-intensity tactical red, designed to preserve the night vision of the scout teams preparing to breach the heavy blast doors into the outside world. I pushed through the reinforced double doors into the primary armory staging bay. Standing beside the long steel workbench nearest the primary airlock was my older brother. Kyle was methodically inspecting the intake seals on an M50 chemical-biological-radiation respirator, his thick, calloused thumbs running along the silicone gasket with practiced precision. “You’re late,” Kyle said, without bothering to lift his eyes from the mask. “I’m right on time for morning briefing,” I countered, leaning my hip against the edge of the workbench and crossing my arms over my chest. “And unlike you, some of us actually know how to blow off steam instead of polishing gas masks at zero-five-hundred.” Kyle let out a low, humorless chuckle and finally glanced up. His sharp blue eyes swept over me in a single, assessing pass, noting my rumpled undershirt, my casual posture, and the faint, sweet scent of fermented mash that still clung to my breath. “You’re going topside,” I said, the statement slipping out before I could stop it. “Recon run. Sector 2 North,” Kyle confirmed, tapping the base of the loaded magazine against the workbench before sliding it smoothly into the mag-well of his customized carbine. “The automated atmospheric relay on the old CN Tower transmission spire went completely dark seventy-two hours ago. Command wants eyes on the repeater array to see if the solar collectors were smashed by an ash squall or if something ripped the cabling out. We cycle the airlock in twenty minutes.” A sudden, fierce surge of adrenaline hit my chest, tightening the muscles in my throat. “Miller’s knee is swollen up like a basketball—I saw him limping while he was guarding the ration gate. He can’t run point on a three-mile surface trek through structural debris. Give me his slot, Kyle. Put me on your team.” Kyle paused, his fingers resting lightly against the carbine’s receiver. He slowly turned his head and stared at me with an expression of cold, unyielding exhaustion. “No.” “Kyle, stop treating me like dead weight!” I stepped closer, the frustration that had been festering for months boiling straight to the surface. “I took top marks on the marksmanship range yesterday! Ninety-eight percent target acquisition at four hundred meters in zero-visibility simulated ash storms! I’ve logged more hand-to-hand hours in the combat cage than any junior recruit in this installation. I’m twenty years old! I’m faster than Miller, I shoot better than Vance, and I know every single CBRN emergency protocol by heart!” “Shooting paper silhouettes in an air-conditioned bunker basement doesn't mean a damn thing, Jesse!” Kyle snapped. “You’ve never smelled the surface. You’ve never had an acid rain squall start eating through your outer rubber seals while you’re pinned down in the basement of a collapsed hospital. You’ve never had to put a bullet between the eyes of a feral survivor who’s trying to tear your windpipe out with their bare teeth just to steal your water filtration straw!” “I can handle it!” I growled, my hands balling into tight fists at my sides. “You were eighteen when Dad first took you out through the blast doors!” “And I was ten years old when the sky caught fire!” Kyle leaned across the workbench, his blue eyes flashing with sudden, violent intensity. “I remember what the world was before it burned, Jesse! You don’t remember a damn thing! You were five! To you, the surface is some thrilling action movie where you get to play the hero, shoot a few mutants, and swagger back down here to brag to the girls in Sector D! It’s not a game! It’s a freezing, toxic, lightless graveyard full of horrors and desperate bastards who will cut your throat while you sleep just to scavenge the copper wiring out of your radio!” “I am not a child anymore, Kyle!” “Then start acting like a man!” “That is enough. Both of you.” The voice cut through the armory like a sharpened bayonet. Kyle and I instantly clamped our mouths shut, our bodies freezing as we turned toward the open threshold of the staging bay. Commander Mark Connelly stepped into the room. “Commander,” Kyle said immediately, snapping his heels together and executing a sharp, instinctive nod of deference. I didn't salute. I held my ground, though the cold stare of my father made my gut churn with familiar, bitter anxiety. “Dad. I’m ready. Clear me for the Sector 2 recon fireteam.” My father walked slowly across the concrete floor, his polished combat boots striking the floor with rhythmic, authoritative *thuds*. He stopped less than two feet from where I stood. He was several inches taller than me, his sheer physical presence seeming to drain the air from the room. “I heard your shouting from halfway down the primary corridor,” Dad said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any warmth. “A soldier who cannot master his own temper in the staging bay has no business drawing a weapon in the field.” “I’m not losing my temper,” I said, fighting to keep my voice completely level. “I’m asking for my operational deployment. I passed the Tier-1 tactical marksmanship course. I passed the high-stress breach-and-clear evaluations. I’ve done every single thing you demanded of me.” “You memorized manuals,” Dad replied coldly, dismissively. “You fired standard ammunition in a controlled indoor environment with optimal lighting and an advanced medical bay thirty yards away. That makes you a qualified range technician, Jesse. It does not make you a scout.” “Then how am I ever supposed to become one if you keep me locked in this subterranean cage?” I demanded, the deep-seated resentment spilling into my tone. “Every other guy my age is running perimeter patrols or working topside salvage details! You treat me like I’m made of fragile glass!” “Because out on the surface, glass shatters,” Dad said. He turned his back on me with brutal indifference, walking over to the computer terminal mounted beside the primary airlock control panel. “You possess zero operational discipline. You spent last night consuming illicit contraband alcohol until the early hours of the morning. You prioritize your own ego and your base impulses over the security of this facility. You are reckless, entitled, and dangerously arrogant.” “I’m the best long-range shooter in this entire defense sector!” I yelled, taking a furious step toward his back. Kyle’s hand shot out, his fingers locking around my bicep in an iron grip. “Jesse. Stand down right now.” I violently wrenched my arm out of Kyle’s grasp, glaring at our father’s rigid spine. “Is that what this is really about, Dad? My discipline? Or are you just terrified that if you let me out of your sight for five minutes, I’ll end up dead like Mom?” The temperature in the armory plummeted to absolute zero. Kyle sucked in a sharp, audible gasp of breath, his face going pale. “Jesse, shut your damn mouth!” My father went completely, unnervingly still. For three agonizing seconds, nobody breathed. The only sound in the staging bay was the low, electric hum of the red tactical lights overhead and the distant, rhythmic dripping of condensation from the air ducts. Slowly, deliberately, Commander Mark Connelly turned around to face me. His face was completely devoid of emotion, but his eyes were so cold they felt like ice picks driving into my skull. “Your mother,” he said, every single syllable measured, quiet, and devastating, “died burning in a car because you were completely helpless. That was fifteen years ago. If you step through that airlock with that pathetic, arrogant attitude, you will not survive fifteen minutes in the ruins. And I will not waste ammunition, rations, and good men retrieving your frozen corpse from the ash.” The words struck me with the force of a high-caliber round to the solar plexus, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs. “Corporal Miller’s knee has been evaluated and cleared by medical staff,” Dad continued, his voice snapping back to the brisk, emotionless cadence of a commanding officer. “He will take his assigned position on Kyle’s fireteam. Jesse, you are assigned to Level 4 auxiliary logistics. You will report to Sergeant Hayes for inventory inspection on the secondary water filtration valves at zero-seven-hundred.” “Inventory,” I spat, my voice trembling with pure rage. “That is a direct military order,” Dad said, his eyes drilling straight through me. “Dismissed.” I looked at Kyle. My brother looked away, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulged, his hands busying themselves with the straps of his tactical rucksack. He wouldn't stand up for me. He never did. When Commander Connelly spoke, Kyle was a loyal soldier first, second, and always. My brother didn't exist in this room. “Understood, Commander,” I whispered, the words tasting like copper and ash in my mouth. I spun on the heels of my combat boots and stormed toward the staging bay exit, each step slamming hard against the poured concrete floor. I reached the reinforced steel doorway, my hand grabbing the heavy iron frame, preparing to shove my way out into the corridor— And then the entire bunker dropped. It wasn't a sudden fall, but a violent, deep-strata shudder—a low-frequency, subterranean groan that didn't travel through the air, but ripped directly through the ancient Canadian Shield bedrock beneath our boots. The vibration resonated violently in my teeth. It rattled the cartilage in my knees and thumped against the center of my chest like a physical blow. *SKRRRRRR-CLANG.* High above us, the massive structural steel I-beams anchored into the solid rock ceiling screeched in agonizing protest. A thick shower of pulverized gray stone dust rained down from the ceiling, blanketing my hair, face, and shoulders. Then, the overhead intercom speaker crackled to life with a burst of harsh, static-laden interference. *“Command, this is Engineering Sub-Five,”* a technician’s strained, hurried voice reported through the speaker. *“We just registered a major pressure spike across the main geothermal exhaust manifold. Compressor three backfired in the lower loop. We’re venting the excess steam into auxiliary shaft B right now. No structural breaches detected on the primary bulkheads.”* My father reached out, unhooking the comms microphone from the console and keying the transmission channel with steady fingers. “Acknowledged, Engineering. Maintain continuous monitoring on the manifold pressure seals. If the internal pressure exceeds eighty PSI, isolate and shut down geothermal loop three immediately.” *“Copy that, Commander. Resetting the exhaust safeties now.”* Dad hung up the microphone, exhaling a slow, controlled breath as he turned his attention back to Kyle’s field equipment. “Just a compressor backfire in the lower exhaust lines. The atmospheric scrubbers are maintaining positive pressure.” Kyle slowly rose from his combat crouch, though his piercing blue eyes lingered on the cracked concrete ceiling for several seconds longer. He reached up, brushing the thick layer of rock dust from his tactical harness. “That felt heavier than a compressor backfire, Dad.” “The deep bedrock shifts whenever seasonal permafrost melts along the upper geological fault lines,” Dad dismissed smoothly, not even bothering to look up from his tactical datapad. “It’s routine geological settling. Finish suiting up, Kyle. The primary airlock cycles in eight minutes.” “Sir,” Kyle replied, pulling the thick rubber hood of his NBC suit over his head. I stood frozen in the doorway, staring down at the layer of gray dust coating the toes of my boots. I looked back over my shoulder one last time. My father was already ignoring my existence, his eyes locked on his data screens, while Kyle snapped his respirator faceplate into place, preparing to step out through the blast doors into the sunlit ruins of the surface. A cold, unbreakable resolve hardened deep in my gut, burning away the humiliating sting of my father’s rejection. They thought I was a helpless child. They thought I was meant to spend the rest of my life rotting in the dark with four hundred starving civilians, counting rusted plumbing valves and waiting for the concrete ceiling to finally cave in. They were dead wrong. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my youth waiting for this tomb to collapse. If my father refused to give me an assignment and hand me a rifle, I would take them myself. The very next time that surface airlock cycled open, I was going through it. And no one down here was going to stop me.