Chapter Two: To Be A Slave

            Alistair cracked an eye open, revealing a dark and yellow tinted wagon that was hot and stuffy. He was dazed and confused, his head swimming and his mouth fuzzy from dehydration. He licked his lips, shocked at how dry and cracked they felt. This wasn’t his bedroom, why was he here? His father would be furious…

            His father. Oh.

It came back, the violence of three days earlier, when Aldrich had tried to usurp the throne for himself. He remembered the seven deaths that he’d seen, he remembered his father kneeling on the ground about to join them. It had been so confusing, so terrifying, to Alistair the wolves seemed to just appear out of nowhere…and then, then suddenly everyone was screaming…before he could even think, four of the royal guards had appeared behind him and locked him in chains. He protested, but they gave him no quarter, dragging him away and throwing him in a damp cell. Since then the young wolf had been told nothing, left seemingly to rot, starving and nauseas from the terrible food they’d given him. It felt like an eternity, until late last night, when four dark figures barged in and hit him over the head.

            He must have blacked out, because the wolf found no recollection in his memory beyond that point, definitely nothing about a hot wagon. Groaning, he tried to move, shocked when his paws refused to obey. He looked down at them, a slight gasp escaping his muzzle as he realised they were locked with iron manacles. The manacles were loose enough to slip up and down his wrist, but tight enough that they could never be pulled off over his paws. Two small loops were smelted to the sides, and they had been chained on a short leash to the floor of the wagon. The youth cried out, his heart racing as he began to panic.

            “Help!” He called out, looking around the dark wagon. He found few light sources, save the small holes in the roof letting in the yellow afternoon light.

            “Shut ya maw.” A rough, gravelly voice snapped from outside, flicking the reigns of the horses that pulled the wagon. Alistair’s outrage instantly vanished as cowered, unable to stop shaking. He was still wearing the clothes he’d been dressed in the other day at court, but now they were filthy with muck and wetness from the cell.

            “I…I’m Alistair Varden, son of Lord Aldrich Varden…there’s obviously been a mistake here.” He called out feebly, getting nothing back but a cruel laugh. His father had been a traitor, and Alistair knew it. But he wasn’t, so…why was he here? Where were they taking him? Were they going to execute him? He tried pulling on the manacles to no avail; they gave nothing, trapping him in this awkward kneeling position.

            The boy’s ears pricked up as he felt the wagon come to a stop, the rough voiced driver saying something he couldn’t make out. There were some cries of acknowledgement, before he heard a large gate being opened, slowly creaking in protest as it went. The wagon started moving again, and within a few seconds Alistair was plunged into total darkness. He felt tears welling up in his eyes, trying in vain to choke them down. This isn’t fair, it’s not right. I’m innocent. He thought. Why hadn’t the King just denounced him? He could have lost rank in the court and survived just fine…what of his friends? What of the furs his father had employed? What of the girl who had been promised to him? Laris. He felt a pang of sadness at her name. He hadn’t known her very well, but she’d seemed pleasant enough. The promise of betrothal had been in place for years, for it suddenly to be gone felt…wrong.

            “Alrighty.” Another deep and aggressively masculine voice called out. “Get his highness outta there, quickly now.” It continued, and Alistair looked up right as the back doors were opened. He tried to pull away as a burly jackal with matted fur climbed in, shuffling over to him and undoing the locks on the manacles. The youth held them up, but before he could rub his sore wrists the thuggish jackal grabbed a scruff of fur on the back of his neck. He exhaled sharply as the ruffian dragged him to the exit, shoving him out. Alistair tripped, still stunned, and fell right off the carriage, landing on a hard stone floor with a shout. He groaned, curling his body into a tight ball, spikes of pain shooting up his arm.

            “On yer feet, lordling.” The voice growled, reaching down and grabbing the fur at the back of his neck again. Alistair squealed and stood up hastily, his breathing heavy and his mind racing. He slumped, cowering in front of the large jackal. Were they all jackals? Was this some kind of kin thing?

            “Who are you? Why am I here?” Alistair said indignantly, sounding a lot less assertive than he wanted to. He sounded instead like a frightened whining pup; instead of the outraged Lord he thought he should be, it was almost embarrassing. He was too frightened to be ashamed now however, concerned only with going home and putting this nightmare behind him.

            “Look at me.” The voice said, and Alistair tentatively raised his head. He looked into the eyes of a scruffy jackal, his fur matted and his eyes yellow. His teeth were marked and stained, some of them broken. His left ear had two gold rings punched through it. “You don’t ask questions anymore. You’re my property now, understand?”

            “Wh…what?” Alistair began, but the jackal instantly smacked him across the face, shocking him into crying out. He held his paws up to the stinging cheek, amazed that someone would do that to him.

            “Understand? You talk only when I ask a direct question. Got it?” The jackal asked, a slight growl in his throat. Alistair just nodded shakily, tears in his eyes. “Good. Glad we can be on the same page. My name is Randor, Walter Randor. You’re lucky old Leidal sold ya to me, the other Slave Masters of the city are downright criminals.” Alistair couldn’t help but look up again, surely he’d heard wrong?

            “S…Sanrivagh did this? He wouldn’t, there’s a…” He was about to say mistake, but Randor raised a paw up threateningly, silencing the wolf. He stared at the youth, contemplating if it was worth hitting him again, before slowly lowering the paw to his side. Alistair felt like he’d been punched in the gut, Sanrivagh? He was a friend, an old one too. The old fox was lovely and kind…why? Why would he do something like this?

            “You’re a slave, boy. No more damned feasts, no chasing after girls, now ya get to muck it with the rest of us. See how real wolves live.” Randor grumbled, turning away and waving to someone. Alistair felt a tug of pride, he wanted to point out that they weren’t actually wolves, but he knew it would only earn another admonishment. There had to be a mistake, surely King Hulrich would realise soon enough that something was wrong? They couldn’t punish him for his father’s crime, Aldrich had already been executed. What more did they want?

            “This is our latest then eh? The mongrel prince himself?” A new voice said, right as yet another jackal sauntered over, his fur even more matted and unkempt than Randor’s. Alistair kept his head down, unsure how to act.

            “Listen here lordling.” Randor said, using a rough and calloused paw to grip Alistair’s muzzle and hold it close to his own. Alistair could smell his breath; it reminded him of rotting meat and cheap ale. “Ya goin’ with Turin here, he runs the best of your lot in the whole city. You’ll be down at the docks most days, and I do not, for any reason, want to hear about you causing any stirrings, y’hear?”

            “I…yes, I hear you.” Alistair muttered, his eyes darting away submissively. Randor held his muzzle for a moment longer, before releasing it and shoving him towards Turin. Turin instantly smacked him on the back of the head.

            “I hear you master. You’re a thing now prince, get used to it.” He snarled, turning and walking away. Alistair gave one last longing look back to the doors, before following. Behind them two more of the jackals followed, batons held at their sides. “If yer thinkin’ that I’m to go easy on you just cause you used to be high royalty, you’ve got another thing comin’. Dock work is the hardest in the city, and I won’t have your lazy lordling hide slowing us down.” Turin said absentmindedly, disdain in his voice. Alistair had never before been spoken to like that; furs had always talked with him as an equal or a greater. Aldrich had been the Prince of War, his family was important.

            The four of them turned down a long stone corridor, walking deeper into the building. Alistair could hear hammers working, as well as slaves pushing things around, grunting from the effort. He looked up just in time as Turin stopped. They were outside a heavy iron door, and Turin quickly knocked a paw on it, the thuds echoing around inside. There was some shuffling about within, before Alistair heard a loud clanking sound and the door swung inwards. As soon as the air within was exposed to him the Timberwolf could feel heat like never before. The room inside was tinted bright orange and red, and the Ox that answered the door was covered in soot and dust. This was a forge.

            “I’ve got a new recruit here Sammy, a lordling no less, make sure to bow.” He said with a nasty chuckle, an act mirrored by the Ox. “You just about ready for ‘im? We gotta make quick time.” The Ox looked back into the forge for a second, before nodding.

            “Yah, bring it in here.” He spoke with a deep voice, opening up the door to its full width and welcoming the four inside. Alistair immediately felt his paws begin to sweat. It was hot.

            “He’s dressed like a prince. Probably thinks he’s better than us.” Turin said to the guards, and Alistair heard one of them chuckle. The Slave Lord walked around to the front of the trembling wolf. “C’mon, gotta get this over with. Strip.” Alistair’s eyes went wide, and he looked around as if to check if the Jackal was being serious. He was.

            “Wh…what? My clothes?” The wolf asked timidly, not comprehending. Turin nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and brought his baton down on Alistair’s back. The youth cried out, falling forwards and crashing to the ground. His back ached from the blow, and his vision was blurry from crying.

            “Take. Them. Off.” Turin said through gritted teeth. Alistair slowly began to obey, unbuttoning his expensive yet tarnished coat. He let it fall to the floor, before sliding his shirt up over his head and exposing his chest. Turin laughed. “Ah, pudgy little lordling ain’t you? We’ll get that fixed quick-smart, don’t you worry.” He said, poking at the youth’s soft stomach. Alistair looked up, to check if that was enough, but the Slave Lord just gestured to continue. The wolf climbed to his feet and unbuttoned his trousers, sliding them down and climbing out of them until he was clad only in his underwear, loose cotton shorts that ended midway down his thighs. He was ashamed, blushing furiously and feeling incredibly vulnerable. Nobody had ever seen him this exposed before, save his mother when he was a pup. “Ugh, that’ll do I guess.” Turin grunted, looking over to the Ox, who was busying himself in front of the forge. One of the guards from behind stepped up and put a paw forcefully onto Alistair’s shoulder.

            “On your knees.” The voice said softly, more gentle than all the others. It sounded like a voice that was regretful. Alistair slowly obeyed, looking up to see the Ox pulling a large metal rod out of the burning embers of the forge. On the end was a large round pattern, slightly bigger than the size of a dinner plate. He nodded to Turin, who looked to the guards.

            “He’s a squirming little pup, hold him tight now.” He instructed, each of the guards firmly grabbing one of Alistair’s arms. They held him still. The Ox followed Turin around the kneeling wolf, examining his naked back with the smoking metal in paw. Alistair heard them talking, and only a second later, he felt the pain.

            Searing, burning pain. It was like someone had lit his back on fire. He could hear the flesh and fur crackling beneath the brand. He tried to move but found he could not, the pain and the guards alike paralysing him. The tendrils of heat wormed their way deeper into his body, wrapping around his heart and sending waves of agony washing through him. Through his nose he could smell the fur, the skin, cooking alive. It was disgusting, turning over his stomach and bringing tears of revulsion to his eyes.  

            Feeling more alone than ever before, Alistair screamed.

               “Up ya get, mongrels!” A booming voice called, echoing through the Slave Hall and cutting through Alistair’s slumber. He cracked his eyes open, wincing as he felt the throbbing pain on his back return. The flesh there was scabbed and sore, stretching and cracking every time he moved. It no longer ached as it had when he’d arrived in the hall last night, but it still hurt. The pain Alistair had felt yesterday, when the two Slavers pressed the hot metal to his body had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It was by far the most agonising procedure he’d ever had done, and he’d had both a rotten tooth torn out of his mouth, and a broken arm re-set. The skin had fiercely itched afterwards, and lying on the unforgiving floor of the hall Alistair had writhed and groaned, breathing heavily and causing some of the other slaves to curse at him to be silent. He had been exhausted however, and finally, mercifully, slipped into unconsciousness. Now that he was awake however, his body felt like a horse had kicked it. It was disgusting, and he could still smell it, the stench churning his stomach.

            “Oi, get up mutt. Don’t want Turin on our backs because some new whelp made us late.” A passing slave snarled at him, roughly nudging the Timberwolf with a foot. Alistair yelped, clambering to his feet. He was still shirtless, but had been given some uncomfortable trousers to wear. He looked around for more clothes, but saw that all the other slaves were basically dressed the same. Feeling embarrassed, he fell in line with the others shuffling outside. Looking back at his mat, Alistair saw that it was stained with blood and pus from the burn. He hoped it wouldn’t get infected…what kind of medical treatment would this Turin have for him? Surely nothing good. Outside the post-dawn air was cold, bringing a chill to Alistair’s body. He shivered, holding his paws up and shielding his forearms and chest as best he could. He tried to keep his eyes down, following the other slaves as they all made their way out of the barracks and into the courtyard. The Slaver Encampment was a large, multilayered encampment in the western side of the district. There was a relatively large courtyard inside the main gates, where Slaves spent their downtime, as well as enough barracks to house all the different groups owned by Randor.

            “C’mon, by the gate! Hurry it.” Turin called, his large paws resting on his hips. He wore a workers outfit, with the addition of a large leather belt around his waist. On one side the belt held a coiled whip, whilst the other had a hanging baton like that of his guards. Alistair worriedly eyed the cruel tools with a side glance, wondering if the whip was just for show…or if he really used it on them. How could this sort of thing be legal? I never knew… He thought. Of course, the palace had slaves but…Alistair had never understood…he felt ashamed. He felt betrayed, and he felt forgotten.

            “Yer new. Just keep ya head down lad.” A deep voice said from behind him, not unkindly. Alistair looked back to see a large bear, greying fur at his muzzle. “Try ya best to take it easy, Turin don’t normally hit the ones with a new brand. Doesn’t want to risk messing it up.” The bear explained. Alistair jumped as he heard a loud unlatching sound at the front, the gate to the encampment swinging open and Turin waving the line of twenty five or so slaves through.

            “Docks again you lot. A new ship came in, and you’ll be emptying her of the cargo. Come on, move along.” The Slave Lord cried, watching as they all shuffled miserably past him. No, not miserable. Alistair thought. That was the wrong word. These slaves weren’t miserable, they were apathetic. They didn’t care.

            “Thank you.” Alistair whispered back, grateful for the shred of kindness. The other slaves had so far only looked at him with resentment and revulsion. He didn’t know why they hated him already, they hardly knew him. Was it because he was of higher blood? They couldn’t possibly know that… “My name is Alistair.” He added, still whispering. The bear waited until they’d walked past Turin, heading towards the Victory Docks.

            “I’d keep that to yourself lad. Mine’s Resh.” The bear said after a moment. Alistair wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he decided to take the advice for now. Turin and his two accompanying guards slammed the encampment gate closed behind them, following from the rear. This was a totally different way to view the city. Alistair had been to the docks before of course, to take ships to visit other cities, but he’d always come with a guard. He’d never wandered through as a commoner…no, less than a commoner. It was so hard to think like a slave. To think of himself as a piece of property that some other fur owned. He was no more than a hammer, or a chair. Almost worse in fact, he had to be fed, allowed sleep, a chair did not. The slave line came to sudden a jarring halt, and Alistair almost walked straight into the back of the one in front of him. Some kind of cat by the shape of him, the brand on his back old and scarred. Turin marched down the length of the file.

            “S’that one over there, the old green piece. Cargo’s in the lower hold.” He said in a loud voice as he marched, pointing to an old green freighter sitting at dock. Alistair realised with a shock that he recognised the kind of ship it was. It was bringing wine and spices for the castle, the kinds of things he’d often indulged in…Before. It felt strange, to know that he’d be lifting and carrying delicacies that would go to Sanrivagh, or Hulrich, the ones who had done this to him.

            “I’ll have five of you to go down in the hold, and pass the crates up to the rest of yous. You’ll circle off and load it into the waiting carriages, front to back.” Turin called, picking out five furs from the front to go down into the hold and heft the crates up. Alistair’s stomach turned, he knew how heavy they could be. Could he even lift them?

            “Lad.” The bear whispered, putting a paw on his shoulder and leaning in to speak straight into his ear. “Some of those are damned heavy. Don’t try to lift one by yourself. You’ll see the others doing it, but they’re used to the weight. Turin doesn’t mind two of us lifting, so long as nothing is dropped. That’s worse.” The bear shuddered. “Much worse.”

            “Okay.” Alistair said back softly, nodding. He was anxious, nerves building up in his stomach at the thought of so much work. How long did they have to work for? Were they allowed breaks? He realised with a start that he wasn’t even sure what day it was. He thought it must be Fifth Day or Sixth Day, but couldn’t be certain. It had all seemed to just blend together. “Resh…what day is it?” He whispered to the bear. He could practically hear the fur shrug.

            “Don’t matter. It ain’t Eighth Day. We stop at noon then. Today we’ll go till dusk.” Resh answered morosely. Dusk? Could they really be worked that long? Even until noon seemed insane. Alistair felt tears welling up in his eyes again, willing himself not to cry. He squeezed his eyes shut, the tears seeping out and running down his face, wetting his fur. He tried to recompose himself, before a sharp bark interrupted his darkness.

            “Lordling!” It called. Turin. The young wolf opened his eyes to see the jackal standing there, a paw resting threateningly on his baton handle. Alistair realised the slave in front of him had moved towards the ship. “Move it, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.” He snickered, bringing a murmured apology from Alistair as he scurried forwards. He followed the cat he was behind up onto the ship deck, careful to keep his balance as he went up the entry plank. They had to carry crates down this slippery thing? He cursed. Looking into the cargo hold as a large Akita slid a crate out for the others to take.

            An Akita. That was a rarer kin, and Alistair didn’t quite know what to make of it. There was only one Akita house in the court, and they’d kept to themselves most of the time. He found himself staring in curiosity, before Resh nudged him and gestured to the crate. Shaken out of his stupor, he moved to the other side, crouching down and grabbing the support strut. Resh did the same and together they lifted it. Allgod, this is heavy. He groaned internally, beginning to make his way off the ship.

            After one hour Alistair hurt. He was sweating and out of breath. After two he was exhausted and in agony. By the end of the day he felt like he was dead. All scraps of lasting energy had drained from his limbs, and his muscles and joints throbbed at him angrily. They were furious. His coat was filthy and his paws raw, the delicate flesh beneath his fur stripped away from the constant work. He rolled his neck, hearing a revolting popping noise as he did so. On the walk back to the encampment, he nearly fell five separate times, so tired that he could hardly see. His vision was blurry, his mouth dry. He held a paw up to his face, examining it. It wouldn’t stop shaking, his entire body trembling from the over-exertion. He’d never been this tired before in his life, it was unreal. Resh had said he’d get used to it, but that it was always hard. Alistair couldn’t imagine ever being used to this torment. When the slaves re-entered the courtyard, they all made the same motion, going over to the side of the space where a row of barrels was filled with water and shoving their faces into it. Alistair followed Resh’s guidance, lining up behind the others as he was told. When it got to his turn the Timberwolf hesitated, the water was murky, filthy. He’d never have drunk this Before. But he’d only been allowed one drink stop during the day, and the sun had been hot. His face felt dry and achy. Swallowing his repulsion, Alistair stepped forwards and plunged his head into the water, shocked at the sensation. He opened his mouth and gulped as much as he could, before pulling up and stepping away. Dripping from the muzzle, the Timberwolf wandered back to the barracks and found his mat again. It was just underneath a small, dusty window, and had blood stains on it from the branding, weeping the night before. Sighing and too tired to even cry, he collapsed and fell asleep.  

            The youth had a brief memory of being woken up by the bear, a bowl thrust into his paws. He slurped at the meal greedily, asking for more and getting only an amused laugh. That’s all there is. The bear said, taking the bowl back. Unable to stay conscious any longer than that, the wolf fell back into his dreamless sleep.

            He was woken again later by pain. It was his back, itching and crawling. He could feel the blood dripping out, drying in his fur and matting it. He groaned, tears coming to his eyes again now. He choked out a sob, doing his best to be quiet, curling up protectively. He let his tail fall across his legs, taking it with his paws and wringing it like a stuffed toy. His whole body shook. He was cold, and everything ached. It felt like he’d fallen off a building and broken every single bone he had. Each movement, no matter how small, sent waves of nausea through his body, culminating in a throbbing, pounding headache the likes of which he’d never experienced.

            “Why? Why me? Father why? Please…just take it back.” He muttered, mewling like a pup. The other slaves must have been disturbed by him, but tonight they did not shush him. They all remembered their first day of work. They knew what it was like.

            “Hey, pup.” A voice said softly, accompanied by a paw being laid gently onto Alistair’s shoulder. He was facing the wall, and slowly, wincing as he did so; the wolf sat up and turned to look at the owner of the voice. It was the Akita from earlier in the day. Alistair had forgotten he even saw him, a rough looking one, with dark orange back fur and a light cream tone running under his jaw and down his chest. His eyes and face looked hard, but concerned. Alistair reached a paw up and wiped at his eyes, sniffling.

            “What?” He breathed, too tired to even speak properly. He was confused, what did this fur want with him? Why couldn’t he just be left alone?

            “Can I see your back?” The Akita asked softly, leaning around to look as he did so, not waiting for an answer. He inhaled sharply through his teeth upon seeing it. “Okay. I got a guard to bring me these a little while ago, and you need them. Turin won’t harass you for them either. Now lean forwards.” The voice said firmly, prompting Alistair to instantly obey. He leaned forwards and saw the Akita bring up a small roll of bandage, stretching it out and gently laying it across the swollen brand. Alistair winced as the material touched his sore flesh, cursing and biting into his tongue. The Akita ignored his motion, wrapping the bandage forwards and tightly winding it around his chest.

            “Why?” Alistair asked meekly, prompting the Akita to shake his head.

            “Because if it gets infected, things will only be worse. Now be still.” He commanded, tightening the bandage and tying it off. The affectionate contact of a fur taking care of him was a relief to Alistair, he needed some kindness. He felt so weak and afraid. He wished the Akita would hug him. “Tell me your name.” The fur instructed, sitting back and checking the bandage. Alistair knew he was just trying to distract him from the pain, but he answered anyway.

            “Uh, Alistair.” The wolf said timidly. Resh had said to keep his name to himself, but how could he when this one had been so kind? The Akita raised an eyebrow sceptically.

            “That’s not the sort of name a slave usually has.” He said after a second. He wasn’t accusing Alistair, merely noting a fact.

            “I’m…” Alistair bit his tongue. He couldn’t, they’d hate him.

            “Yes?” The Akita asked, leaning closer. Alistair looked into those eyes, and found himself unable to lie. It was like a parent, asking if you really had taken that last biscuit.

            “Alistair Varden.” He said cautiously, unsure how the fur would react. The name didn’t seem to mean much to the fur. “Varden is…was an important noble house.” He explained. The Akita was silent, before nodding. His face was unreadable.

            “Uh, okay. I don’t even want to know how you ended up here then. No wonder Turin hates you. Wouldn’t your family just…buy you back?” He asked. Alistair hung his head shamefully. Of course he didn’t know. Who would tell a slave about Empirical news? He just shook his head, tears welling up again. His father might have been a traitor, but he still missed him. He’d barely thought of him until now, and he didn’t want to. There was too much going on for him to have time to grieve.

            “No.” Alistair said. Looking away.

            “I see.” The Akita replied, sitting back and crossing his legs. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t be called that. The others will hate you for it. They might even try to hurt you. The nobles…they have other names, right? Do you have any other names?”

            “Um, well…” Alistair began, but the Akita quickly cut him off again.

            “Normal names.” He began pointing at sleeping slave bodies. “Resh, Misha, Lug, Benny, Dirk…like that?” He looked back at Alistair, raising a paw to his own chest. “Garret.”

            “Well…” Alistair began, blushing. “My second name is Balearoth? It was my uncle’s name…” He said, knowing that was not what the Akita wanted to hear. The fur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

            “Allgod damn you boy, that’s worse. What is wrong with you noble types?” He bemoaned. Alistair just stared at him, trying to ignore the itching on his back. Admittedly, it felt a little better with a bandage on, the compression acting as a way of…containing the pain. It made no sense, but it was working.

            “Sorry.” Alistair replied. The Akita just shook his head, as if thinking. After a moment he looked up, staring straight at the wolf.

            “We’ll have to work with it. Listen to me; from now on…your name is going to be Bailey. Okay? It’s not great, but it’s better than the other two choices.” He explained. Alistair felt a bit of his old pride flare up. Bailey? That was…that was a child’s name.

            “B-but…” He began to protest, but Garrett shushed him.

            “With any luck, it’ll make the others see you as being younger than you really are; might keep them off your back for a bit. It can be rough here.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened to you. Nobody deserves this life.” Alistair watched the Akita as he stood up.

            “Thank you.” He whispered. Garrett ignored him, walking back over to his own mat. He lay down and turned away from the young wolf. Alistair lay back gingerly, facing the wall again.

            Bailey. He turned the name over in his head, trying to imagine it fitting. Trying to imagine others calling him by it, and struggling. At least the Akita had been kind enough to try and keep something close to his real name. He’d hate to be named Lug, Benny or Dirk of all things. They sounded more like the grunts one made while working, rather than a furs name. But this was his life now, and he had to get used to it.

            Bailey. Fine.