SEVENTEEN

Summer ended, and fall came, and the world left them alone.

The first snows fell in the last week of October. Wolgast was chopping wood in the yard when he saw, from the corner of his eye, the first flakes falling, fat feathers light as dust. He’d stripped to his shirtsleeves to work, and when he paused to lift his face and felt the cold on his damp skin, he realized what was happening, that winter had arrived.

He sunk his axe into a log and returned to the house and called up the stairs. “Amy!”

She appeared on the top step. Her skin saw so little sunlight that it was a rich, porcelain white.

“Have you ever seen snow?”

“I don’t know. I think so?”

“Well, it’s snowing now.” He laughed, and heard the pleasure in his voice. “You don’t want to miss it. Come on.”

By the time he got her dressed—in her coat and boots but also the glasses and cap, and a thick layer of sunscreen over every exposed inch of her skin—the snow had begun to fall in earnest. She stepped out into the whirling whiteness, her movements solemn, like an explorer setting foot on some new planet.

“What do you think?”

She tipped her face and stuck out her tongue, an instinctive gesture, to catch and taste the snow.

“I like it,” she declared.

They had shelter, food, heat. He’d made two more trips down to Milton’s in the autumn, knowing that once winter came the road would be impassable, and had taken all the food that was left there. Rationing the canned goods, the powdered milk, the rice and dried beans, Wolgast believed he could make their stores last until spring. The lake was full of fish, and in one of the cabins he’d found an auger. A simple enough matter, then, to set up fishing lines. The propane tank was still half full. So, the winter. He welcomed it, felt his mind relax into its rhythm. No one had come after all; the world had forgotten them. They would be sealed away together, in safety.

By morning a foot of snow had piled around the cabin. The sun burst through the clouds, glaringly bright. Wolgast spent the afternoon digging out the woodpile, cutting a trail to connect it to the lodge, and then a second trail to the small cabin he planned to use as an icehouse, now that the cold weather had arrived. By now he was living an existence that was almost entirely nocturnal—it was easiest simply to adopt Amy’s schedule—and the sunlight on the snow seemed blinding to him, like an explosion he was forced to stare directly into. Probably, he thought, that was how even ordinary light felt to her, all the time. When darkness fell, the two of them went back outside.

“I’ll show you how to make snow angels,” he said. He lay down on his back. Above him, a sky effulgent with stars. From Milton’s he’d recovered a jar of powdered cocoa, which he hadn’t told Amy about, planning to save it for a special occasion. Tonight they’d dry their wet clothes on the woodstove and sit in its glow and drink hot cocoa. “Move your arms and legs,” he told her, “like this.”

She got down in the snow beside him. Her tiny body was as light and agile as a gymnast’s. She moved her nimble limbs back and forth.

“What’s an angel?”

Wolgast thought a moment. In all their conversations, nothing of the sort had ever come up. “Well, it’s a kind of ghost, I guess.”

“A ghost. Like Jacob Marley.” They had read A Christmas Carol—or, rather, Amy had read it to him. Since that night in summer when he’d learned she could read—not just read but read expertly, with feeling and expression—Wolgast had merely sat and listened.

“I guess, yes. But not as scary as Jacob Marley.” They were still lying side by side in the snow. “Angels are … well, I guess they’re like good ghosts. Ghosts who watch over us, from heaven. Or at least some people think so.”

“Do you?”

Wolgast was taken aback. He’d never gotten completely accustomed to Amy’s directness. Her lack of inhibition struck him on the one hand as quite childlike, but it was often true that the things she said and the questions she asked him possessed a bluntness that felt somehow wise.

“I don’t know. My mother did. She was very religious, very devout. My father, probably not. He was a good man, but he was an engineer. He didn’t think that way.”

For a moment, they were silent.

“She’s dead,” Amy said quietly. “I know that.”

Wolgast sat upright. Amy’s eyes were closed.

“Who’s dead, Amy?” But as soon as he asked this, he knew whom Amy meant: My mother. My mother is dead.

“I don’t remember her,” Amy said. Her voice was impassive, as if she were telling him something he must surely know already. “But I know she’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I could feel it.” Amy’s eyes met Wolgast’s in the dark. “I feel all of them.”

Sometimes, in the early hours just before dawn, Amy dreamed; Wolgast could hear her soft cries coming from the next room, the squeak of the springs of her cot as she moved restlessly about. Not cries exactly but murmurs, like voices working through her in sleep. Sometimes she would rise and go downstairs to the main room of the lodge, the one with the wide windows that looked out over the lake; Wolgast would watch her from the stairs. Always she would stand quietly for just a few moments in the glowing light and warmth of the woodstove, her face turned toward the windows. She was obviously still asleep, and Wolgast knew better than to wake her. Then she would turn and climb the stairs and get back into bed.

How do you feel them, Amy? he asked her. What do you feel?—I don’t know, she’d say, I don’t know. They’re sad. They’re so many. They’ve forgotten who they were. Who were they, Amy? And she said: Everyone. They’re everyone.

Wolgast slept, now, on the first floor of the lodge, in a chair facing the door. They move at night, Carl had told him, in the trees. You get one shot. What were they, these things in the trees? Were they people, as Carter had once been a person? What had they become? And Amy. Amy, who dreamed of voices, whose hair did not grow, who seemed rarely to sleep—for it was true, he’d realized she was only pretending—or to eat; who could read and swim as if she were remembering lives and experiences other than her own: was she part of them, too? The virus was inert, Fortes had said. What if it wasn’t? Wouldn’t he, Wolgast, be sick? But he wasn’t; he felt just as he’d always felt, which was, he realized, simply bewildered, like a man in a dream, lost in a landscape of meaningless signs; the world had some use for him he didn’t understand.

Then on a night in March he heard an engine. The snow was heavy and deep. The moon was full. He had fallen asleep in the chair. He realized he’d been hearing, as he’d slept, the sound of an engine coming down the long drive toward the lodge. In his dream—a nightmare—this sound had become the roar of the fires of summer, burning up the mountain toward them; he had been running with Amy through the woods, the smoke and fire all around, and lost her.

A blaze of light in the windows, and footsteps on the porch—heavy, stumbling. Wolgast rose quickly, all his senses instantly alert. The Springfield was in his hand. He racked the slide and released the safety. The door shook with three hard pounds.

“Somebody’s outside.” The voice was Amy’s. Wolgast turned and saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Upstairs!” Wolgast spoke to her in a harsh whisper. “Go, quickly!”

“Is anybody inside there?” A man’s voice on the porch. “I can see the smoke! I’ll step away!”

“Amy, upstairs, now!”

More pounding on the door. “For godsakes, somebody, if you can hear me, open the door!”

Amy retreated up the stairs. Wolgast moved to the window and looked out. Not a car or truck but a snowmobile, with containers lashed to its chassis. In the headlights, at the foot of the porch, was a man in a parka and boots. He was positioned in a crouch, his hands on his knees.

Wolgast opened the door. “Keep back,” he warned. “Let me see your hands.”

The man lifted his arms weakly. “I’m not armed,” he said. He was panting, and that was when Wolgast saw the blood, a bright ribbon down the side of his parka. The wound was in his neck.

“I’m sick,” the man said.

Wolgast stepped forward and raised his gun. “Get out of here!”

The man sank to his knees. “Jesus,” he moaned. “Jesus Christ.” Then he tipped his face forward and wretched onto the snow.

Wolgast turned to see Amy, standing in the doorway.

“Amy, go inside!”

“That’s right honey,” the man said, lifting a bloody hand to give a listless wave. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do what your daddy says.”

“Amy, I said inside, now.”

Amy closed the door.

“That’s good,” the man said. He was on his knees, facing Wolgast. “She shouldn’t see this. Jesus, I feel like shit.”

“How did you find us?”

The man shook his head and spat onto the snow. “I didn’t come looking for you, if that’s what you mean. Six of us were holed up about forty miles west of here. A friend’s hunting camp. We’d been there since October, after they took out Seattle.”

“Who’s they?” Wolgast asked. “What happened to Seattle?”

The man shrugged. “Same thing as everywhere else. Everybody’s sick, dying, ripping each other to shreds, the Army shows up, then poof, the place goes up in smoke. Some people say it’s the U.N. or the Russians. It could be the man in the moon, for all I know. We headed south, into the mountains, thought we’d ride out the winter and then try to make it into California. Then those fuckers came. None of us even got a shot off. I hauled ass out of there, but one of them bit me. Bitch just swooped down out of nowhere. I don’t know why she didn’t kill me like the rest, but they say they do that.” He smiled weakly. “I guess it was my lucky day.”

“Were you followed?”

“Fuck if I know. I smelled your smoke at least a mile from here. Don’t know how I did that. Like bacon in a pan.” He lifted his face with a look abject wretchedness. “For godsakes, I’m begging you. I’d do it myself if I had a gun.”

It took Wolgast a moment to understand what the man was asking. “What’s your name?” Wolgast asked.

“Bob.” The man licked his lips with a dry, heavy tongue. “Bob Saunders.”

Wolgast gestured with the Springfield. “We have to move away from the house.”

They walked into the woods, Wolgast following at five paces. The man’s progress was slow in the deep snow. Every few steps he paused to brace himself with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

“You know what’s funny?” he said. “I used to be an actuarial analyst. Life and casualty. You smoke, you drive without a seat belt, you eat Big Macs for lunch every day, I could tell you when you were going to die pretty much to the month.” He was clutching a tree for balance. “I guess nobody ever ran the tables on this, did they?”

Wolgast said nothing.

“You’re going to do this thing, aren’t you?” Bob said. He was looking away, into the trees.

“Yes,” Wolgast said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” He breathed heavily, licking his lips. He turned and touched his chest as Carl had done, all those months ago, to show Wolgast where to shoot. “Right through here, okay? You can shoot me through the head first, if you want, but make sure you put one in here.”

Wolgast could only nod, caught short by the man’s frankness, his matter-of-fact tone.

“You can tell your daughter I drew on you,” he added. “She shouldn’t know about this. And burn the body when you’re done. Gasoline, kerosene, something hot like that.”

They were approaching the bank above the river. In the moonlight, the scene possessed an unearthly stillness, bathed in blue. Wolgast could hear, beneath the snow and ice, the river’s quiet gurgle. As good a place as any, Wolgast thought.

“Turn around,” he said. “Face me.”

But the man, Bob, seemed not to have heard him. He took two more steps forward in the snow and stopped. He had begun, unaccountably, to undress, removing his bloody parka and dropping it into the snow, then unfolding the suspenders of his bibbed snowpants to pull his sweatshirt over his head.

“I said, Turn around.”

“You know what sucks?” Bob said. He had removed his thermal undershirt and was kneeling to unlace his boots. “How old’s your daughter? I always wanted to have kids. Why didn’t I do that?”

“I don’t know, Bob.” Wolgast raised the Springfield. “Get up and face me, now.”

Bob rose. Something was happening. He was fingering the bloody tear on his neck. Another spasm shook him, but the expression on his face was pleasurable, almost sexual. In the moonlight, his skin seemed almost to glow. He arched his back like a cat, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.

“Whoa, that’s good,” Bob said. “That’s really … something.”

“I’m sorry,” Wolgast said.

“Hey, wait!” With a start, Bob opened his eyes; he held out his hands. “Hang on a second here!”

“I’m sorry, Bob,” Wolgast repeated, and then he squeezed the trigger.

• • •

The winter ended in rain. For days and days the rain poured down, filling the woods, swelling the river and lake, washing away what remained of the road.

He’d burned the body just as Bob had instructed, dousing it with gasoline and, when the flames died out, soaking the ashes with laundry bleach and burying it all beneath a mound of rocks and earth. The next morning he searched the snowmobile. The containers strapped to the frame turned out to be gas cans, all empty, but in a leather pouch slung from the handlebars he found Bob’s wallet. A driver’s license with Bob’s picture and a Spokane address, the usual credit cards, a few dollars in cash, a library card. There was also a photograph, shot in a studio: Bob in a holiday sweater, posed with a pretty blond woman who was obviously pregnant and two children, a little girl in tights and a green velvet dress and an infant in pajamas. All of them were smiling fiercely, even the baby. On the back of the photograph was written, in a feminine hand, “Timothy’s first Christmas.” Why had Bob said he’d never had children? Had he been forced to watch them die, an experience so painful that his mind had simply erased them from his memory? Wolgast buried the wallet on the hillside, marking the spot with a cross he fashioned from a pair of sticks bound together with twine. It didn’t seem like much, but it was all he could think to do.

Wolgast waited for others to come; he assumed Bob was just the first. He left the lodge only to perform the most necessary chores, and only in the daytime; he kept the Springfield with him at all times and left Carl’s .38, loaded, in the glove compartment of the Toyota. Every few days he turned the engine over and let it run, to keep the battery charged. Bob had said something about California. Was it still safe there? Was any place safe? He wanted to ask Amy: Do you hear them coming? Do they know where we are? He had no map to show her where California was. Instead he took her up to the roof of the lodge one evening, just after sunset. See that ridge? he said, pointing to the south. Follow my hand, Amy. The Cascades. If anything happens to me, he said, follow that ridge. Run and keep on running.

But the months passed, and still they were alone. The rains ended, and Wolgast stepped from the lodge one morning to the taste and smell of sunshine and the feeling that something had changed. Birdsong swelled the trees; he looked toward the lake and saw open water where before had been a solid disk of ice. A sweet green haze dressed the air, and at the base of the lodge, a line of crocuses was pushing from the dirt. The world could be blowing itself apart, yet here was the gift of spring, spring in the mountains. From every direction came the sounds and smells of life. Wolgast didn’t even know what month it was. Was it April or May? But he had no calendar, and the battery in his watch, unworn since autumn, had long since died.

That night, sitting in his chair by the door with the Springfield in his hand, he dreamed of Lila. Part of him knew this was a dream about sex, about making love, and yet it did not seem so. Lila was pregnant, and the two of them were playing Monopoly. The dream had no particular setting—the area beyond the place where the two of them sat was veiled in darkness, like the hidden regions of a stage. Wolgast was gripped by the irrational fear that what they were doing would hurt the baby. “We have to stop,” he told her urgently. “This is dangerous.” But she seemed not to hear him. He rolled the dice and moved his piece to find he had landed on the square with the image of the policeman blowing his whistle. “Go to jail, Brad,” Lila said, and laughed. “Go directly to jail.” Then she stood and began taking off her clothes. “It’s all right,” she said, “you can kiss me if you want. Bob won’t mind.” “Why won’t he mind?” Brad asked. “Because he’s dead,” Lila said. “We’re all dead.”

He awoke with a start, sensing he wasn’t alone. He turned in his chair and saw Amy, standing with her back toward him, facing the wide windows that looked toward the lake. In the glow of the woodstove, he watched as she lifted a hand and touched the glass. He rose.

“Amy? What is it?”

He was stepping forward when a blinding light, immense and pure, filled the glass, and in that instant Wolgast’s mind seemed to freeze time: like a camera shutter his brain caught and held a picture of Amy, her hands lifting against the light, her mouth open wide to release its cry of terror. A rush of wind shook the cabin, and then, with a concussive thump, the windows burst inward and Wolgast felt himself lifted off the floor and hurled back across the room.

One second later, or five, or ten: time reassembled itself. Wolgast found himself on his hands and knees, pushed against the far wall. Glass was everywhere, a thousand pieces of it on the floor, their edges twinkling like shattered stars in the alien light that bathed the room. Outside, a bulbous glow was swelling the horizon to the west.

“Amy!”

He went to where she lay on the floor.

“Are you burned? Are you cut?”

“I can’t see, I can’t see!” She was thrashing violently, waving her arms in formless panic before her face. There were pieces of glass glimmering all over her, affixed to the skin of her face and arms. And blood, too, soaking her T-shirt as he leaned over her and tried to calm her.

“Please, Amy, hold still! Let me look to see if you’re hurt.”

She relaxed in his arms. Gently he brushed the bits of glass away. There were no cuts anywhere. The blood, he realized, was his own. Where was it coming from? He looked down then to find a long shard, curved like a scimitar, buried in his left leg, halfway between his knee and groin. He pulled; the glass exited cleanly, without pain. Three inches of glass in his leg. Why hadn’t he felt it? The adrenaline? But as soon as he thought this, the pain arrived, a late train roaring into the station. Motes of light dappled his vision; a wave of nausea surged through him.

“I can’t see, Brad! Where are you!”

“I’m here, I’m here.” His head was afloat in agony. Could you bleed to death from a cut like that? “Try to open your eyes.”

“I can’t! It hurts!”

Flash burns, he thought. Flash burns on the retina, from looking into the heart of the blast. Not Portland or Salem or even Corvallis. The explosion was straight west. A stray nuke, he thought, but whose? And how many more were there? What could it accomplish? The answer, he knew, was nothing; it was just one more violent spasm of the world’s excruciating extinguishment. He realized that he’d allowed himself to think, when he’d stepped out into the sun and tasted spring, that the worst was behind them, that they would be all right. How foolish he’d been.

He carried Amy to the kitchen and lit the lamp. The glass in the window over the sink had somehow held. He sat her on a chair, found a dishrag, and quickly tied it around his wounded leg. Amy was crying, pressing her palms to her eyes. The skin of her face and arms, where she’d faced the blast, was a bright pink, already beginning to peel.

“I know it hurts,” he told her, “but you have to open them for me. I have to see if there’s any glass in there.” He had a flashlight on the table, ready to scan her eyes the moment she opened them. An ambush, but what else could he do?

She shook her head, pulling away from him.

“Amy, you have to. I need you to be brave. Please.”

Another minute of struggle, but at last she relented. She let him pull her hands away and opened her eyes, the thinnest crack, before closing them again.

“It’s bright!” she cried. “It hurts!”

He struck a bargain with her: he would count to three; she would open her eyes and keep them open for another count of three.

“One,” he began. “Two. Three!”

She opened her eyes, every muscle in her face taut with fear. He began to count again, running the flashlight’s beam over her face. No glass, no trace of visible injury: her eyes were clear.

“Three!”

She closed her eyes again, shaking and fiercely weeping.

He dressed Amy’s skin with burn cream from the first aid kit, wrapped her eyes with a bandage, and carried her upstairs to bed. “Your eyes are going to be fine,” he assured her, though he didn’t know if this was so. “I think it’s just temporary, from looking at the flash.” For a while he sat with her, until her breathing quieted and he knew she was asleep. They should try to get away, he thought, to put some distance between themselves and the blast, but where would they go? First the fires and then the rain, and the road off the mountain had all but washed away. They could try it on foot, but how far could he hope to get, barely able to walk himself, leading a blind girl through the woods? The best he could hope for was that the blast was small, or farther away than he thought it was, or that the wind would push the radiation in the other direction.

In the first aid kit he found a small sewing needle and a ball of black thread. It was just an hour before dawn when he descended the stairs to the kitchen. At the table, by lamplight, he removed the knotted rag and his blood-soaked pants. The cut was deep but remarkably clean, the skin like torn butcher’s paper over a blood-red slab of steak. He’d sewed on buttons, once hemmed a pair of his pants. How hard could it be? From the cabinet over the sink he retrieved the bottle of Scotch he’d found at Milton’s, all those months ago. He poured himself a glass. He sat and took the Scotch, quickly, tipping his face back to drink without tasting, poured a second, and drank that, too. Then he rose, washed his hands at the kitchen sink, taking his time, and dried them on a rag. He sat once more, wadded the rag, and put it in his mouth; he took the bottle of Scotch in one hand and the threaded needle in the other. He wished he had more light. He drew a long breath and held it. Then he poured Scotch over the cut.

This, it turned out, was the worst part. After that, sewing the wound closed was almost nothing.

He awoke to find he’d slept with his head on the table; the room was ice-cold, and the air held a strange chemical smell, like burning tires. Outside a gray snow was falling. On his bandaged leg, throbbing with pain, Wolgast hobbled from the lodge onto the porch. Not snow, he realized: ashes. He descended the steps. Ashes fell onto his face, into his hair. Strangely, he felt no fear, not for himself or even for Amy. It was a wonder. He tipped his face upward, receiving them. The ashes were full of people, he knew. A raining ash of souls.

· · ·

He could have moved them to the basement, but there seemed no point. The radiation would be everywhere, in the air they breathed, in the food they ate, in the water that ran from the lake to the pump in the kitchen. They kept to the second floor, where at least the boarded-up windows offered some protection. Three days later, the day he removed Amy’s bandages—she could see after all, just as he’d promised—Wolgast began to vomit and couldn’t stop. He wretched long after the only thing left to come up was a thin black mucus, like roofing tar. The leg was infected, or else the radiation had done something to it. Green pus ran from the wound, soaking the bandages. It gave off a foul smell, a smell that was in his mouth too, in his eyes and nose. It seemed to be in every part of him.

“I’ll be fine,” he told Amy, who was, after everything that had happened, the same. Her scalded skin had peeled away, exposing, beneath it, a new layer, white as moonlit milk. “Just a few days off my feet and I’ll be right as rain.”

He took to his cot under the eaves in the room next to Amy’s. He felt the days passing around him, through him. He was dying, he knew. The fast-dividing cells of his body—the lining of his throat and stomach, his hair, the gums that held his teeth—were being killed off first, because wasn’t that what radiation did? And now it had found the core of him, reaching into him like a great, lethal hand, black and bird-boned. He felt himself dissolving, like a pill in water, the process irrevocable. He should have tried to get them off the mountain, but that moment was long passed. At the periphery of his consciousness, he was aware of Amy’s presence, her movements in the room, her watchful, too-wise eyes upon him. She held cups of water to his broken lips; he did his best to drink, wanting the moisture but wanting, even more, to please her, to offer some assurance that he would become well. But nothing would stay down.

“I’m all right,” she told him, again and again, though perhaps he was dreaming this. Her voice was quiet, close to his ear. She stroked his forehead with a cloth. He felt her soft breath on his face in the darkened room. “I’m all right.”

She was a child. What would become of her, after he was gone? This girl who barely slept or ate, whose body knew nothing of illness or pain?

No, she wouldn’t die. That was the worst of it, the terrible thing they’d done. Time parted around her, like waves around a pier. It moved past her while Amy stayed the same. And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years. However they had done it, Amy would not, could not die.

I’m sorry, he thought. I did my best and it wasn’t enough. I was too afraid from the start. If there was a plan, I couldn’t see it. Amy, Eva, Lila, Lacey. I was just a man. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Then one night he awoke and he was alone. He sensed this right away: a feeling in the air around him of departure, of absence and flight. Just lifting the blanket required all the strength he could muster; the feel of its weave in his hand was like sandpaper, like spikes of fire to the touch. He rose to a sitting position, a monumental effort. His body was an immense, dying thing his mind could scarcely contain. And yet it was still his—the same body he’d lived in all the days of his life. How strange it was to die, to feel it leaving him. Yet another part of him had always known. To die, his body told him. To die. That is why we live, to die.

“Amy,” he said, and heard his voice, the palest croak. A weak and useless sound, without form, speaking a name to no one in a dark room. “Amy.”

He managed his way down the stairs to the kitchen and lit the lamp. Under its flickering glow, everything appeared just as it had been, though somehow the place seemed changed—the same room where he and Amy had lived together a year, yet someplace completely new. He could not have said what hour it was, what day, what month. Amy was gone.

He stumbled from the lodge, down the porch, into the dark forest. A lidded eye of moon was hanging over the tree line, like a child’s toy suspended on a wire, a smiling moon face dangling above a baby’s crib. Its light spilled over a landscape of ashes, everything dying, the world’s living surface peeled away to reveal the rocky core of all. Like a stage set, Wolgast thought, a stage set for the end of all things, all memories of things. He moved through the broken white dust without direction, calling, calling her name.

He was in the trees now, in the woods, the lodge some nameless distance behind him. He doubted he could find his way back, but this didn’t matter. It was over; he was over. Even weeping was beyond his power. In the end, he thought, it came down to choosing a place. If you were lucky, that’s what you got to do.

He was above the river, under the moon, among the naked, leafless trees. He sank to his knees and sat with his back against one and closed his weary eyes. Something was moving above him in the branches, but he sensed this only vaguely. A rustling of bodies in the trees. Something someone had told him once, many lifetimes past, about moving in the trees at night. But to recall the meaning of these words required a force of will he no longer possessed; the thought left him, alone.

A new feeling moved through him then, cold and final, like a draft from an open door onto the deepest hour of winter, onto the stilled space between stars. When daybreak found him he would be no more. Amy, he thought as the stars began to fall, everywhere and all around; and he tried to fill his mind with just her name, his daughter’s name, to help him from his life.

Amy, Amy, Amy.

III

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 505