FRIDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 1998
EAST RACCOON CITY — CEDAR AVENUE — 07:48am
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The front door clicked shut behind them.
The morning air was cool on Owen’s face — properly cool, the first real hint of autumn after a summer that had dragged on too long. He stood on the front step and didn’t move. His backpack was heavy on his shoulders. His jumper was too big at the sleeves. The concrete beneath his trainers was damp from the sprinklers that had run before dawn, and the air smelled of wet grass and something else — something faint and chemical, the way the air always smelled in this part of the city when the wind came from the direction of the factories.
The old Ford was reversing out of the driveway. Its exhaust was a pale plume in the thin September light, curling white against the grey of the road, and Owen watched it. Behind the passenger window, his mother’s profile was still and forward-facing. He could see the way her hair was tied back — light brown, shoulder-length, a few loose strands escaping near her temple. He could see the pale blue of her scrubs against the dark of the car seat. He could see the set of her jaw, the line of her neck, the way she was staring straight ahead through the windscreen.
She did not turn her head. She did not lift her hand.
Owen waited. A half-second. A full second. He had stood on this step a thousand mornings of his life — waiting for the bus, waiting for his mother to drive him, waiting for Jamie to finish whatever was taking Jamie so long. He knew the way the light hit the houses across the street at this hour. He knew the sound of the Henderson kids fighting over whose turn it was to sit in the front seat. He knew Mrs. Dey would be walking her terrier past in another ten minutes. He knew his mother always, always looked back — a wave, a smile, a quick lift of her hand as the car pulled away.
This morning she didn’t.
Something cold moved through him. Not fear — he didn’t know what to call it. Something that knew this was bigger than the argument. Something that knew she was telling him, in the only way she had left this morning, that he had really hurt her. He wanted to call out. He wanted to run after the car. He stood on the step with his backpack heavy on his shoulders and he did not move.
The car reached the end of the street. The brake lights flared red against the grey of the asphalt, bright and sudden, and then the car turned onto Wilson Avenue, and the lights went out, and the sound of the engine dissolved into the morning until there was nothing but the silence of the street and the distant hum of a lawnmower two blocks away and, somewhere far overhead, the low thrum of a helicopter. Owen didn’t look up. It was probably the traffic chopper from the news station, or one of the air ambulances ferrying patients to the hospital. The sound was distant and unimportant and already fading.
Jamie was standing beside him. He had been watching too.
“She’ll come around.” His voice was quiet. Not a joke. Not yet. It was the voice he used when he was being serious and didn’t want to admit it. “She always does.”
Owen rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. The yawn came from somewhere deep in his chest — involuntary and wide, cracking his jaw, making his eyes water. He was so tired. The shouting in the kitchen felt like it had happened days ago, in a different house, to a different boy. His limbs were heavy, his thoughts slow and muffled at the edges, his eyelids wanting to slide shut every time he blinked. He had slept badly — woken twice from dreams he couldn’t remember, lain awake in the dark listening to the house settle around him. The argument with his mother had drained the last of his energy. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
Jamie was watching him. His hands were in his pockets, his letterman jacket hanging loose off his shoulders, the sleeves too long. He looked tired too — Owen could see it now, the heaviness around his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his skin. But Jamie always looked tired in the mornings. Jamie stayed up too late listening to music with his headphones on, or talking to Megan on the phone until their mother shouted up the stairs that some people had school in the morning.
“You look like death, baby,” Jamie said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying.”
“I’m not swaying.”
Owen didn’t have the energy to argue. He stood there, letting the cool air wake him up, letting the tiredness settle into something manageable. Down the street, a car started. A door slammed. The Henderson kids were arguing about the front seat. The sound was thin and distant, the same sound they made every morning, the same words, the same rising pitch of outrage and betrayal. Owen had heard it so many times he no longer heard it at all.
Jamie shifted his weight. The letterman jacket rustled. “Come on,” he said. “School’s not going to walk itself.”
They stepped off the front path onto the pavement.
The Millers’ street was a modest one — two rows of houses facing each other across a stretch of asphalt, each house with its own small lawn, its own driveway, its own mailbox at the end of the path. The lawns were neat. The hedges were trimmed. A basketball hoop hung over one garage, its net frayed and swaying in the breeze. A tricycle lay on its side in a driveway, one wheel still spinning slowly. A sprinkler was already throwing water across a flower bed, the spray catching the light and breaking it into fragments.
At the end of the road, the Umbrella billboard caught the sun. A family — mother, father, daughter, all of them smiling, all of them clean and bright and impossibly happy — stood beneath the words Bright Raccoon 21 — Building Tomorrow Together. The poster was peeling at one corner, lifting in the breeze, the adhesive beneath it gone dry and yellow. Owen had passed that billboard every day of his life. He didn’t look at it now.
“Look,” Jamie said. He was looking at the street ahead, not at Owen. His voice was still quiet, still serious. “About Mom.”
Owen didn’t answer.
“She’s not going to stay mad.” Jamie tugged at his collar — a quick, automatic motion, two fingers hooked under the fabric, pulling it away from his neck. “She never stays mad at you. You’re the favourite. You know that, right?”
“I’m not the favourite.” Owen’s voice came out hoarse, still rough from the shouting in the kitchen. The words were quieter than he meant them to be.
“You cried at The Lion King.”
“That was years ago.”
“She still talks about it.” Jamie’s voice pitched upward in a poor imitation of their mother. “Owen was so upset, he wouldn’t stop crying for an hour. He had to be carried out of the cinema. I’ve never seen a child so moved by a cartoon.”
“Simba’s dad died.”
“Everyone’s dad dies in Disney films. You don’t see me crying about it.”
“You cried at Toy Story.”
There was a pause. Jamie’s stride faltered — just for a moment, just a half-step — and then he recovered.
“That was different,” he said. “That was about toys. Toys are different.” He glanced sideways at Owen, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re the favourite. Trust me.”
Owen didn’t thank him. He didn’t know how. He had never known how to thank Jamie for the things Jamie did, because Jamie never did them in a way that could be thanked. He taught you to ride a bike and then made fun of you for falling off. He beat up a bully and never told you it happened. He promised to fix things with Mom and then pretended he hadn’t promised anything at all. The kindness was always there, buried under the teasing, and Owen had learned to receive it without naming it. He walked a little closer to Jamie, his shoulder nearly brushing Jamie’s arm. Jamie let him.
They turned onto Cedar Avenue.
The houses here were the same as the houses on their street — neat lawns, trimmed hedges, cars in driveways that had been washed over the weekend. But quieter, somehow. Owen couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the way the light fell through the trees — long shadows stretching across the pavement, the sun still low enough to throw everything into sharp relief. Maybe it was just him, just the tiredness, just the hollow feeling in his chest where the argument had been.
A dog was barking in a back garden. High and rhythmic, its pitch rising and falling with no pause. A small dog, from the sound of it — a terrier, maybe, or a spaniel, the kind that barked at postmen and squirrels and passing cars. The barking went on and on, a single thread of sound that followed them down the block. No window opened. No voice called it in. No one shouted for it to be quiet. The barking just kept going, steady and insistent, until they turned the corner and it faded behind them.
Owen didn’t think about it. He was thinking about his mother. He was thinking about the way her eyes had gone wet in the kitchen, the way she had looked at him as if he had struck her. He was thinking about the words he had said and couldn’t take back.
I wish you’d stayed sick.
He turned the words over in his head and they didn’t get smaller. They were the same size they had been when they came out of him. The same size as when they had hit her in the face. They sat in him now like something he had swallowed and could not bring back up. He had not known he could say something like that. He had not known that those words even lived in him. But they had been in him, and they had come out, and now they belonged to the world, and his mother had taken them with her in the car.
Jamie tugged at his collar again.
They passed an alley between two houses — a narrow gap of shadow and gravel, the kind where bins were kept and cats hunted mice. Owen glanced down it without thinking. At the far end, something was moving. A shape. Low to the ground, hunched over something that might have been a pile of leaves or might have been something else. The shape was making a sound — wet, rhythmic, a sound Owen couldn’t place and didn’t try to. His eyes moved on. The alley was already behind them.
They passed a house with every curtain drawn. The paint on the front door was peeling in long strips, the wood beneath it pale and exposed. The door itself was open — not wide, just a few inches, just enough to see the darkness of the hallway inside. No car in the driveway. No lights on. No sound from within. The house next to it was bright and alive, its windows open, its curtains stirring in the breeze. But the dark house sat between them like a gap in a smile.
Jamie glanced at it. “Someone forgot to close the door.”
Owen didn’t answer. He was looking at the corner shop, a little further down the road, where the bins stood in their usual place beside the side door. A fat orange tom with a torn ear was curled on top of the bins, his tail wrapped around his body, his eyes half-closed against the morning light. Arthur. Owen had named him two summers ago, in the front of his notebook, in neat blue handwriting. He had drawn Arthur seventeen times — stretched in a patch of sun, washing one paw, staring down a pigeon on the fence. Every morning on the way to school, Arthur was there, and every morning Owen stopped to scratch his head.
This morning was no different.
Owen veered off the pavement without thinking, his feet carrying him the few steps to the bins. Arthur lifted his head as Owen approached, his green eyes blinking slowly, his torn ear twitching. He was warm under Owen’s hand, his fur thick and coarse, and when Owen scratched behind his jaw, Arthur pushed his skull into Owen’s palm and began to purr. The sound was low and steady, a small motor running in the quiet of the morning.
“You and that cat,” Jamie said. He had stopped on the pavement, his hands in his pockets. “Every single morning.”
“He likes me.”
“He likes anyone with food.”
“I don’t have food.”
“He doesn’t know that yet. He’s hoping.”
Owen kept scratching. Arthur’s eyes had closed entirely now, his head pressed into Owen’s hand, his purr deepening. The bins smelled of rubbish and old vegetables, but Arthur smelled of sun and dust and something warm. Owen would have stayed there for another minute, or two, or five, but Jamie made a sound — the particular impatient exhale he used when they were going to be late.
“Come on, baby. You can marry the cat later.”
Owen gave Arthur a final scratch behind the ears. Arthur opened one eye, regarded him with the slow dignity of a creature who had been briefly interrupted, and closed it again. Owen stepped back onto the pavement.
They kept walking. Arthur stayed on the bins, a fat orange shape receding behind them, his tail flicking once and then going still.
They passed a lawn where a sprinkler was running. It was an old kind, the kind that moved back and forth with a mechanical clicking sound, throwing water in a steady arc. The grass beneath it was already flooded, the water pooling at the kerb and running into the gutter in a thin, clear stream. The lawn next to it was dry, browning at the edges. No one came to turn the sprinkler off. No one came to move it to a different patch of grass. The clicking sound followed them for half a block before it faded into the morning.
Owen yawned again. The tiredness came in waves — he would feel almost awake, almost normal, and then it would roll back over him, heavy and warm, pulling at his limbs.
I wish you’d stayed sick.
He hadn’t meant it. He knew he hadn’t meant it. But he had said it, and the saying was a thing she would remember, and he didn’t know how to undo something his mother would remember. You couldn’t take a thing out of someone’s head once it was there. He would have to live, all day, with the fact that his mother was driving to work this morning carrying those words inside her. He would have to wait until the evening, until she came home, until he could sit her down and look at her face and apologise properly. The waiting was the worst part. He hated the waiting.
Through a gap in a hedge, there was something on the grass of a back garden. A shape. A bundle of something dark, motionless. Owen’s eyes passed over it and moved on. He was rubbing his face. He was thinking about the apology he would give her. He was wondering if she would let him, or if she would hold the hurt for a while longer to make a point. The shape behind the hedge was already behind them. He didn’t turn back to check what it was.
Jamie wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
They passed beneath a tree whose canopy hung low over the pavement — an old oak, its branches thick with leaves that were only just beginning to turn. The shadow under it was deep, the morning light struggling to reach the ground. In the fork of one of the lower branches, something was caught. A shape. A dark mass, heavy and still, its outline wrong — too large for a bird, too still for a squirrel, too silent for anything living. Owen walked under it without looking up. The shadow passed over him and was gone.
“Someone stayed up too late… playing Crash,” Jamie said. The words came out with a tiny hitch in the middle, a half-beat pause where no pause should have been, as if his tongue had tripped over something invisible.
Owen shook his head. “Didn’t sleep great.”
“You never sleep great.”
“I slept worse.”
Jamie tugged at his collar again — a sharper pull this time, his fingers hooking deeper under the fabric. “You and me both, baby.” His voice was rougher now, the words blurring slightly at the edges, the way a voice sounded after a long night or a bad cold.
They walked past a bus shelter. It stood on the corner, a single glass panel with a bench beneath it and a timetable behind grimy plastic that no one ever looked at. An Umbrella Health poster was taped to the glass — the same logo from the radio, the same slogan. Your Partner in Community Wellness. The poster was peeling at one corner, the adhesive gone yellow and dry. Across the street, a pharmacy had its OPEN sign lit, a pale blue neon rectangle in the window. But the door was closed. The aisles inside looked still and empty, the counter unattended, the shelves of cold medicine and bandages and cough syrup standing in the dim fluorescent light with no one to buy them.
At the next corner, a green Honda was parked in a driveway. The driver’s door was open. Mr. Patterson was standing beside it — a big man, broad through the shoulders, the kind of man who waved at everyone and shovelled his neighbours’ paths in winter. He was leaning against the door frame, one hand resting on the roof of the car, his face turned toward the street. He had been standing like that for a while. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t going to work. He was looking past Owen and Jamie at something that wasn’t there.
His lips moved. No sound came out.
Jamie raised a hand. “Morning, Mr. Patterson.”
Mr. Patterson didn’t answer. His eyes did not adjust. His hand stayed on the roof of the car. After a moment Jamie lowered his own hand, and they kept walking. Owen glanced back once. Mr. Patterson was in the same position. He hadn’t moved.
On the opposite pavement, Mrs. Dey was walking her terrier. She had lived on the next street over for as long as Owen could remember. Every morning she walked the dog. Every morning she waved. She was wearing the same green coat she always wore, the one with the wooden buttons. The dog was ahead of her on its lead — a small brown-and-white thing with a bark that sounded like a squeaky toy. But this morning the dog wasn’t barking. It was pulling, hard, its legs scrabbling at the tarmac, its whole body straining away from her toward the road. The lead was wrapped around her hand, pulled taut. The dog’s claws clicked on the pavement, a rapid frantic sound.
Mrs. Dey lifted her free hand to wave. Her fingers trembled — a fine shaking, the kind you got when you were overtired or when you’d had too much coffee or when your hands weren’t working quite the way they were supposed to.
“Morning, boys!” Her voice was bright, the same as always. Her smile was real. Her eyes were tired, the skin beneath them dark and hollow.
Owen lifted his hand again and let it drop. They kept walking. The terrier was still pulling, its claws clicking on the pavement, the sound fading behind them.
In the doorway of the next house, a young woman was standing with one hand braced against the door frame. She looked about twenty-five, maybe younger, in a dressing gown and bare feet. Her other hand was scratching her wrist — an absent, rhythmic motion, her fingernails leaving pale tracks on the skin. Two small children were playing on the front lawn. A boy and a girl, maybe six and eight, rolling in the grass, their laughter thin and bright in the morning air. The boy had a red plastic truck. The girl was chasing him with a handful of leaves.
“Stay where I can see you,” the woman called. Her voice was hoarse — not just tired, but fraying, the edges of the words crumbling away. She didn’t look at the boys as they passed. Her hand kept moving, scratching, scratching. The children kept laughing. The red truck rolled into the grass and stopped, one wheel spinning in the air.
Jamie didn’t say anything about her. Neither did Owen. The children’s laughter followed them for half a block, and then it faded, and the street was quiet again.
The bus stop on Cedar and Flint had a single shelter. It stood at the corner near the pharmacy, the same kind of shelter as the last one — a bench, a glass panel, a timetable shellacked in grime. The morning sun was behind it now, throwing the shelter into silhouette, and as they approached, Owen saw there was someone on the bench.
A woman. She was slumped forward, her head hanging down, her hair falling across her face in a dark curtain. She was wearing a blouse — pale, maybe white, stained at the collar — and one shoe. The other foot was bare, the skin grey against the pavement. She wasn’t moving. Her arms hung at her sides, the fingers loosely curled, touching the ground. She looked like she had been there for hours.
Owen barely registered her. His eyes were tired. He was thinking about his mother. He was thinking about what he would say when he got home. I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’ll drink the water, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t stay mad, please don’t stay mad. The woman on the bench was a blur at the edge of his vision, a shape among other shapes, no more remarkable than the bus shelter or the pharmacy sign or the trees throwing long shadows across the road.
Jamie glanced at her as they approached. “Someone had a long night,” he said. His voice was light, the words coming out in his usual dismissive tone, though the s in someone caught slightly, a whisper of friction that wasn’t normally there.
They drew level with the shelter.
And the woman jerked.
Her arm snapped outward — wrong angle, too fast, the elbow bending the wrong way. Her hand opened and closed on nothing. Her torso lurched sideways, a sudden violent spasm, and a sound came out of her throat. Wet and thick. A cough that wasn’t a cough. A gag that wasn’t a gag. The sound hit the air and hung there, ugly and wrong, and Jamie’s whole body went tight.
His hand came across and brushed Owen’s shoulder — not a shove, just a pressure, steering him to the far edge of the pavement without breaking stride.
“What?” Owen said.
“N-nothing.” Jamie’s voice was clipped, the lightness gone. The word caught on itself, a tiny stumble at the front of it, and he swallowed hard. “Keep walking.”
Owen looked back. But the shelter was already behind them, and the woman was just a shape on the bench. Her arm was still out at that strange angle. Her head was still hanging. He hadn’t got a proper look. He hadn’t seen her face. He hadn’t seen anything except the way she had moved — too fast, wrong — and the sound she had made, which was already fading from his memory.
Jamie’s hand stayed on his shoulder for another few paces. Then it dropped. He didn’t say anything else. Owen didn’t ask.
They walked a little faster.
They walked past a milk float. It was pulled up at the kerb, its engine humming quietly to itself, a low electric whine. The back was full of bottles, crates of them, the glass catching the light. The driver wasn’t in the cab. The door was open. The seat was empty.
They walked past a postman. He was standing in the middle of a driveway, holding a handful of letters. He was staring at the house in front of him — a neat brick house with a red front door and a pot of geraniums on the step. He wasn’t moving toward the door. He wasn’t putting the letters through the slot. The letters were fanned out in his hand, and his face was blank.
They walked past another alley. At its mouth, a heap of clothing lay on the ground — or what looked like clothing. It was moving in a slow, undulating shift, as if something underneath it was breathing. A sound came out of the alley: a wet crack, then silence. Owen was looking at his feet. Jamie was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight.
They walked past another house with its front door standing wide open — not ajar, but wide, the darkness of the hallway visible from the street. No one came out. No one went in.
Jamie was breathing too hard. The walk was barely a mile and a half, flat and easy, a walk they had done a thousand times. But his chest was rising and falling like he’d been running. His face was flushed — not the pink of exertion, but something deeper, a heat that didn’t belong to the cool September morning. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The sheen came back almost immediately, a faint glisten on his skin.
He tugged at his collar. The fabric was stretched out of shape now, the neck of his t-shirt pulled wide. The skin beneath it was red and raw, marked from the constant pulling. He had been doing it all morning — at breakfast, on the walk, every few minutes — and Owen had noticed without really noticing. It was just something Jamie was doing.
Owen looked at him. “Are you okay?”
Jamie opened his mouth. The word fine was already there, Owen could see it — automatic, ready, the word Jamie always used when someone asked if he was okay. And then it came out, thick and blurry at the edges, but still the same word, still the same deflection. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating. And you’ve been pulling at your collar since breakfast.”
“It’s warm.” Jamie tugged at the collar again as he said it, an automatic motion that contradicted the words before they were even out of his mouth. “And I’m fine. Stop fussing.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Thanks. That’s really flattering. I’m blushing.” Jamie wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His voice was thick, the words running together at the edges. “It’s just a cold. Everyone’s got it. Mom had it. The news said there’s a flu going around. I’m not going to the doctor for a cold.”
“You could see the school nurse,” Owen said. “When you get in. It’s not a doctor. It’s just the nurse.”
Jamie shook his head. The motion was heavier than it should have been, his chin dipping toward his chest and then lifting slowly, as if his head weighed more than he expected. “I’m not going to the nurse. I’m going to first period, and then I’m going to second period, and then I’m going to forget I even have a cold, and by lunch I’ll be fine.” He glanced sideways at Owen. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m dying. I’m not dying. I’ve got a cold. It’s September. It’s what happens.”
Owen didn’t push. He walked beside his brother, their footsteps falling into the same rhythm on the pavement, and he didn’t say anything else about doctors or nurses or the way Jamie’s voice was fraying at the edges. Jamie had made up his mind, and Jamie never changed his mind once he’d made it up. That was one of the things about him.
The school was visible now, its low brick shape rising at the end of the street. A sign stood near the gate — EAST RACCOON ELEMENTARY — the letters faded from years of sun and weather. Kids were converging on it from every direction — walking, running, backpacks bouncing, voices carrying in the still air. The flag hung limp on the pole. The crossing guard in her fluorescent vest was already at her post, holding up her sign. Everything looked the way it always looked.
Jamie stopped at the gate. He turned to Owen. His face was flushed beneath the sweat. His collar was stretched out of shape, the skin beneath it red and raw. He looked unwell — properly unwell, the way their mother had looked yesterday when she was lying on the sofa with a blanket over her legs. But he was trying to grin anyway. The same grin he had thrown Owen across the breakfast table, across the bedroom, across every morning of their lives.
He reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. It was the same gesture their father had made in the kitchen — clumsy, automatic, the hand too heavy and then gone. The only way either of them knew how to say it.
“I’ll talk to Mom,” Jamie said. The words were clear — he was making an effort now, pulling himself together for this last thing. “Don’t… don’t worry about it.” A pause. He blinked. His tongue came out and touched his lip, and then he said, “Don’t be weird about the water, baby.”
“I’m not weird.”
“You’re the… you’re the weirdest person I know.” The grin widened, cracking through the exhaustion. For a moment he looked almost like himself. Then he let the grin go. “See ya later.”
He turned. He walked west, toward Ennerdale Street, toward the high school, toward the river. One hand came up and pulled at his collar. His stride was a little slower than it should have been. He didn’t look back.
Owen watched him. He watched the letterman jacket — the sleeves too long, the shoulders too wide — until Jamie reached the corner. The crossing guard lowered her sign. A car passed. Jamie turned, and the corner was empty, and he was gone.
The morning light was thin and gold and cool. The flag hung limp on the pole. Kids were still arriving, streaming past Owen into the school, their voices bright and distant, their backpacks bouncing. The crossing guard raised her sign again. Somewhere behind him, a car horn sounded — two short blasts, and then silence. Overhead, the helicopter was a distant pulse, barely audible now, moving west toward the centre of the city where the riots were still burning.
Owen stood there for a moment longer. The yawn came again, deep and unstoppable, and he let it come. His eyes watered with the force of it. He was so tired. But the cold air had woken him up a little, and the walk had shaken some of the heaviness from his limbs, and he was going to make it through the morning. He was going to stay awake. He would apologise to his mother when he got home. Jamie would talk to her. It would be fine.
He turned and walked through the school doors.
The hallway swallowed him — bright fluorescent lights, the smell of floor wax and packed lunches, children’s paintings on the walls. Finger-painted trees. Autumn leaves. A poster of the solar system. A bulletin board with an announcement about flu season, the Umbrella logo in the corner. Owen walked past it without seeing it. He walked toward his classroom, toward his seat near the window, toward the ordinary morning that was waiting for him.
Behind him, the street was empty. The bus stop was empty. The pharmacy OPEN sign flickered once and held steady. The sprinkler on Cedar Avenue kept throwing water across the grass, the kerb still pooled, the gutter still running. The milk float hummed at the kerb with no one at the wheel. The postman stood in the driveway with his letters, staring at the red front door. In another driveway, Mr. Patterson was still leaning against his car. Mrs. Dey’s terrier was still pulling at its lead, its claws clicking on the pavement, its whole body straining away from her. In the alley behind the laundromat, the heap of clothing had stopped moving. In the fork of the old oak tree, the dark shape hung motionless, cradled by branches, waiting for the wind.
The door closed.59Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnaFKZafEsG
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