In which Sunny gets cornered
…1 September, 1993, Sorting Day…
Albus was an enthusiastically frivolous man, a surprise to many who didn’t know him very well. Most expected him to have a stoic demeanour, one worthy of someone who earned the titles of Voldemort’s Only Fear, or Grindelwalt’s Great Fall, and it wasn’t uncommon for children to react with startled surprise at his gentle friendliness, his silly jokes, his– oh, how did that one eloquent Daily Prophet author put it? Ah, yes. His barbaric eccentricity. Such joyous little names and given attributes, quite the disport to ponder over his morning teas.
This was all to say that Albus indulged in all sorts of games as means of entertaining himself. From chess to takhte nard to revisiting memorized plays and books before rereading the pieces to see how accurately he’d remembered. He had many routines and small activities scattered throughout his working hours, and he’d perish the day he declined an offer of a good game of blackjack with dear Minerva at night.
Though there was one fact he wouldn’t admit to anyone but himself: his favorite games were, customarily, the ones he won.
And that was precisely why the Sorting game was his favorite.
He adored conjecture above all mental stimuli, and each year when the Sorting occurred, Albus sat back as the children arrived one by one and played.
He’s had this gift of perspicacity ever since he was very young, being able to instinctually gauge the personalities and intentions from those around him. Not an infallible thing, as nothing in this world was perfect, but very nearly so. There was always something about another’s mannerisms that bespoke of their nature from the very beginning, be it a too-wide smile, a tendency for caring touch, or merely a feeling that clung to them as they stepped across the trails of life. A sense of knowing even when he couldn’t discern the source of his own knowledge. The human mind was a fascinating entity, capable of infinite feats that occurred without awareness of the beholder, and Albus knew himself well enough to know he’d never be capable of comprehending his own sensibilities. A fate all intelligent beings fall prey to, tragically.
He’d sensed Tom's latent darkness the same way he felt Harry’s overflowing kindness, Lily Potter’s empathy, Hermione’s wit, Pomona’s compassion, Filius’ wisdom, Minerva’s determination.
“Ronald Weasley,” Professor McGonagall once read aloud to the Great Hall two years ago.
Albus had seen those bright eyes walk forward, the way the boy looked back at Harry Potter, seeking the reassurance of companionship with one glance, noticed how he shook with every step but moved in a steady beat. Nervous of the future, yet confident he could face it.
Loyal, something about him promised. Brave.
Gryffindor, Albus ventured before the child sat.
“Gryffindor!” the Hat cried out only five seconds later.
This went on through many decades now. He’d watch how some children were more considerate of their fellow classmates, how others took in the castle with wondrous curiosity, how a few had calculating gazes or overexcited mannerisms. Sometimes it was nothing tangible to begin with, but rather a feeling that derived from what he suspected was a more mystical origin.
About a hundred new students every year, and for the last twenty Albus had only made eleven mistakes.
Naturally, when dear Atticus’ ward– ah, forgive him, Atticus’ employee– stepped forward this year, Albus was excited to give his attempt. An older student was to be Sorted. That was not an addition to his game he’s commonly had the pleasure of having.
Sunny stood amidst the crowd of first year students, and he blended in seamlessly with his youthful appearance and short stature. But, if Albus were to be so terribly honest, his appearance was the only thing that worked in his favor.
He noticed that closed and defensive posture first, followed shortly by this daze that swarmed the boy, submerging him in a fog of unnatural apathy. This odd indifference directed towards everything around him. Albus looked down at the empty expression that sat on that pale youthful face, stared into those dark eyes that did not meet his gaze, and searched– for compassion, or wonder, or ambition, or anything at all.
Yet the more he looked, the more it felt as if he were gazing upon nothing but a void.
That was unsettling by itself. But more than that, there was this… air about him, something that felt distinctly off in a way Albus couldn’t quite grasp. Judging by the cheerful children surrounding the boy and the way that the other Professors behaved with an adequate measure of curiosity or indifference, Albus knew he was the only one who noticed.
Worry nagged at him, and Albus neglected his guess of a House by the time the young man sat down on the Hat’s stool. Thanks to what little he knew from Atticus’ letters and their brief Floo conversations, it did not come as a surprise to see the boy be distant. But even then he did not expect this level of distance, the kind he’s seen in hardened adults with callous histories, from soldiers who’ve seen death and survived to tell the tale, from haunted souls who struggled to find peace in grounded reality and fled to live inside a world of their own fabrication.
It had been a long time since he’s seen that in someone so young. It was alarming, but Albus tried not to latch onto that idea so quickly. There was always a chance the boy was merely overwhelmed.
Yet there was no tremble to his body, no hint of concern or anxiety.
Or any emotion at all, most worryingly of all.
Until the Hat fell on his head.
The difference was as immediate as it was staggering. Sunny flinched, body jolting to life as if he had just gained awareness of reality. The first reaction he’d shown since he stepped foot into Hogwarts. He began to visibly shake, and tremble, and from where Albus sat he could see the white knuckled grip the boy had on the edges of the stool. The heavier breathing. The nervous slouch.
Ah, there it was.
Counterintuitively, the sight of such distress was an immediate relief. Finally, he thought, there was the kind of reaction he’s seen countless times from many children throughout the ages. That anxious panic before the Hat’s decision, genuine and innocent in the right ways. That ‘off’ sensation had also dwindled. It wasn’t gone, no, but Albus suspected that may be his own mind seeing signs for something he hadn’t any business digging into.
Perhaps he had misread things.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Albus paused, and– after a beat of quiet contemplation– relaxed, returning to his game. The Hat didn’t call out a House immediately. That allowed him time to think.
Unfortunately, he only had the ‘distant version’ (so to speak) of the boy to base his guess on, but that ought to be enough. He’s been more accurate with less information before. The child’s stance had been rigid but calm, closed off in a protective manner while simultaneously open to immerse every little thing about the room for himself– it wasn’t wonder, however, that drove that gathering of information, nor was it intrigue, but rather… a sense of need?
He had a feeling the boy valued self-preservation. A taught behavior or an inherent one only time would tell.
Perhaps Slytherin, then.
He thought of those dark eyes. That shifting air.
Someone who would do anything to remain in the safety that previous distance had created.
Yes, something inside him said, it fit.
Hm.
Slytherin it was.
Albus drank from his goblet, and waited. That last bit was a delightful surprise by itself. It wasn’t often that they earned a Hat Stall, if that’s what this boy was about to be.
About two more minutes passed in silence and hushed conversation, two long minutes that every hungry and waiting person in the Great Hall felt with what must be an excruciating clarity. Albus himself was in no rush, merely watching and brushing his fingers across the goblet’s surface and humming a low tune to himself that none would hear.
“RAVENCLAW!” the Hat suddenly cried out, and Albus could not help the affronted surprise that flickered inside of him. He glanced up, watched the boy leave the stool, walk to his new House’s excited table and not meet a single beaming smile with one of his own.
Well, well, well.
He was wrong.
Interesting.
He brought the cup to his lips, and hid his smile at the news.
About time. After so many years, he almost worried his game would turn dull.
.
..
.
“Not Slytherin?” he asked once he was in the privacy of his office, gently placing the Hat back on the same spot of the same shelf as always.
The Hat, knowing Albus too well by now to not immediately understand who he spoke of, chuckled.
“Hah! Finally, your streak was getting far too long now. No, Headmaster, not Slytherin. He surprised you, I take it?”
“Indeed he did. May I ask why the change? I know you sensed the same ambition in the boy as I did.”
“His creativity was too great to ignore. And there’s something… special, about that mind of his, outside of its cunning nature. And in any case, I’ve stopped considering desperation as an ambition a long time ago. It is better this way.”
Albus paused at that, the words unintentionally striking a chord.
He thought of a young charming boy from a muggle orphanage, the one who stole toys from children and scared them with corpses of animals to keep them at bay. The boy who was so afraid of death and desperate to ensure that nobody would ever hurt him again, willing to do anything to stop a fate that was as natural as life. The boy who ripped himself into a monster for the sake of triumphing over something so small as time.
Albus sighed, a sound heavy with regret for the child he was too blind to save.
“Yes,” he agreed, suddenly somber. “It is better this way.”
—
A lullaby.
Always that same lullaby. For nights and nights on end.
It breezed across the light green grass in a melodic gust, the notes gentle as they flooded between the blades, the words slow as they scattered through the dirt. Words that he couldn’t understand, no matter how hard he tried. Sung by a stranger’s voice. A stranger. A stranger, a stranger, a stranger, yet the song belonged to someone familiar. Familiar in ways that felt wrong.
But wrong to him, not to this world. A song he was never meant to hear. Only inspire.
*Wake up.
Sunny stared at Omori, his laying body frozen, his gaze unblinking.
The child stared back as they bent down, back arched but knees straight, equally as still though they could move if they wished. Their eyes were open wide with swirling suppressed madness. Strands of their hair swayed with the wind, black contrasting white in a calm, dull dance of strings and skin.
They spoke, the same two words, said for the fourth time that night.
*Wake up.
Sunny heard. But didn’t listen.
He should wake. He knew that. Yet, he didn’t want to.
There was something about that song. Something about the voice.
It made him want to listen.
To follow.
To find.
Omori waited, always so patient. But even then, when it came to Sunny, their patience always ran thin.
They took out the Knife, that same Knife as always, blade shiny-sharp and surface smooth enough to reflect the purple sky above. Sunny vaguely wondered what his mind would choose to reflect should they have been in Whitespace instead. Mari’s shifting silhouette, maybe. Or the light bulb’s string, the twisted image of a noose he’d always been too terrified to remember.
Sunny watched as Omori lowered and sat on his thighs, their weight barely felt. Watched as the blade tilted into a slit to his eyes as it was raised higher. Aim dead center.
He didn’t dread its end. Omori did this often, now. Whenever he didn’t wake. Whenever he refused.
He hated it.
He needed it.
*Wake up.
Sunny liked to think that it was an apology as much as an order, but it was hard to cling to that hope when Omori raised the blade higher, when they looked at him with that empty, indifferent gaze, apathetic to the methods and the consequence as they unceremoniously sank the knife down down down down without hesitation or sympathy or care or–
–he woke up with a jolt.
His eyes snapped open to see the tilting curved ceiling of his Sleeping Pod, breathing in quick, short breaths, heart thundering between his ribs and pounding between his ears.
The world spun and spun and spun, blankets heavy and the air pressurized to a torturous degree, but Sunny kept as quiet as possible, kept his breathing soft and measured, ignored the near-painful burst of adrenaline and the rising terror and the coldness in his lungs and focused on doing what he did best– he waited. Waited and waited until his body released the tension it clung to so eagerly, waited until his breathing slowly evened, waited until the shadows faded back into just that, shadows, not faces or eyes or something else entirely.
It took a while, too long of a while, but he got there eventually.
He always did.
His pulse slowed alongside the flow of his blood and the rush of his thoughts, and the pressure in the walls and the air gradually lifted to permit him a measured breath out his nose as his eyes slid back shut. Thud… thud… thud… the sound of his lethargic heart continued to beat in his skull, a reminder that he was, regrettably, very much alive to experience his body calm back down from a panic he logically knew was unnecessary.
The worst part was, in Sunny’s opinion, the awful chill after the crippling heat. Sweat dampened his clothes and his blankets and sticked his hair against his neck and face, the general cold of the room colder to his skin, and that sleepy dazed weight to his limbs lingered to a degree that it was a mental struggle to bring himself to move and warm himself again.
But Sunny had centuries of practice with this at this point. He took in a deep, deep breath, let it out slowly, and shuffled to the side, turning over and shifting everything into a freshened up state. The ruffled blanket was aired out before it settled again, its cool embrace quickly growing warm and comforting.
Hmmm… much better.
Sadly, the relief didn’t last long.
He’d turned away from the curtains during his scuffle, now facing the window, the same window that allowed him to see the sky outside if he looked through the corner of his eyes just so. A sky that was not black with twinkling stars, but rather a light grey blue.
…what a pretty view… should buy something to paint… love the dawn before sunrise… hits different… all gray and blue and shit… real nice shit… should buy some more paint… buy some… some… I’d buy a sunrise… yeah… for twenty bucks… huh… did Kel ever pay me back…
It took more than a second for his melatonin-filled brain to catch up.
… it really is a nice morning… I really truly should get my paints… paints… mints… yeah… haha… paint rhymes with mint… wait no it doesn’t… what the fuck…
His eyes grew heavier, and he yawned, letting them flutter closed.
…morning…
…morning…
A beat passed.
…meet me in the morning…
Sunny stiffened.
The memory of his promise shot through him like a bullet.
“Tomorrow morning. Before everyone else wakes up, so nobody finds out.”
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
Never did he wake up so fast.
Sunny sprung to life as if someone lit his mattress on fire, scrambling so quickly that Mewo– who was sleeping peacefully near his legs– cried out a very annoyed “yeowl!” followed by many (very hostile) hisses.
“Sorry, sorry, I have to go, I have to go right now but I’ll be back later, I promise–” Sunny whispered hurriedly, moving faster than the speed of sound as he threw together Mewo’s breakfast and set her bowl by the window.
He didn’t bother to change out of his pyjamas. There was no time for that. He grabbed his wand and twisted his rat’s nest of a hair into an amalgamation he would choose to call a bun before stabbing the beige stick into it, fastening it with dexterity he did not expect from himself.
Shit. He was so fucked.
Sunny jumped out of bed, just barely snapping his curtains back shut as he hopped on one foot, shoving the other into his boot before repeating the process in reverse.
Shit, shit, shit, why did he keep forgetting about Sirius, fuck him, goddamnit, bitch-face, motherfucker, son of a bitch–
“Blimey, Suzuki. Are you Americans always so terribly vulgar, or is that a personal choice of vernacular?”
Sunny froze.
Slowly turned to glance around.
There was nobody else in the room outside of their beds. Just him. He frowned, anxiety spiking for a second as the idea of having brand new random hallucinations sparked up, but then he heard it again. The voice. Goldstein’s voice.
“Turn to the skies, Suzuki,” said Goldstein, and then his always-impossible-to-read-tone turned very audibly amused. “Huh. They never do look up, do they. I suppose movies aren’t so unrealistic after all.”
…what?
Sunny only understood once he turned back to his Pod and tipped his head upwards.
Oh.
Goldstein stared down from the upper bunk, hands still grasping his open curtains. Even so early in the morning the boy looked ready for a damn photoshoot, not a blond strand out of place, velvet green pajamas matching his moss colored eyes. He grinned down at Sunny with infuriatingly perfect teeth, smiling at him with the same level of patronization one would use towards the small family pet.
“There you are, you’ve done it! Miraculous work my dear friend. It really is a difficult thing to do, sometimes. Following the sound of a voice.”
Sunny just stared. Blinked. Goldstein went back into his pod, curtains momentarily shielding him from view, only to peek back out with a… quill and scroll paper?
“Now, would you care to repeat what you said please? For educational purposes you understand, I rarely ever hear you speak and I have yet to memorize your speech patterns. I managed to jot down the last few things you mentioned, but if you could restart from ‘goddamnit’ or ‘bitch-face’ I would be so very grateful–”
Sunny promptly decided he did not have time for this.
He turned around and kept walking, picking up his pace as he headed for the door.
Goldstein cut himself off mid sentence and practically choked, letting out a melodramatic gasp behind him. “Oh, no, come now Suzuki! Don’t be like this! Wait just a moment, I only need a few more pieces of data, it will be very quick I assure you–”
Sunny just took that as motivation to walk faster and he practically burst out the door, shutting it quickly behind him as broke into a run and sped down the spiral staircase, jumping two steps at a time.
When he reached the ground floor the Commons were empty, dim grey light gusting through the windows and filling the room in soft brightness. It wasn’t a surprise to see it so vacant. The sun wasn’t completely out yet, though it was getting dangerously close to that hour, so pretty much all of the students were still in their dorms sound asleep.
All of the students except one.
Or, well, two.
Sunny wasn’t that surprised when he heard stomping footsteps trailing his own, but he sure as hell was disappointed.
He managed halfway across the room before he stopped, forcing his feet to plant in place. He couldn’t afford being followed. He couldn’t afford wasting time either, but not much he could do about that now. Sunny closed his eyes with a deep inhale, smothered the rising annoyance down, and let out a deliberately slow exhale.
“Your… your talent regarding speed is astonishing, Suzuki, I must admit I’m… rather impressed–” said Goldstein somewhere behind him, and the only reason Sunny didn’t think he was joking was the fact he was audibly out of breath. He glanced back. Goldstein was by the end of the staircase, catching his breath as he stood straight with this stiff perfect posture. He was smoothening out invisible wrinkles from his sleeves, and the other’s momentarily frustrated expression cleared into a delighted one as soon as he saw Sunny standing there, not moving. “Yes, there we go! I knew you’d see sense. Now, if you could–”
Sunny turned his body around to face Goldstein completely, keeping his expression as neutral as he could. For the first time, he was grateful he didn't have a reputation of friendliness to uphold. He pointed a finger at the other boy, punctuating every word with a forward jab.
“Leave. Me. Alone.”
He didn’t allow Goldstein any time to come up with a response, spinning back and speed-walking out of the Commons.
“Please wait just a minute, I only wish to–”
Sunny didn’t hear the rest of that, opening and slamming shut the entrance door with a bit too much force.
.
..
.
There were no windows in the corridors of the dungeons, the only source of light being the rows of torches that ran down the walls. Because of this, the lower floors were always darker than the rest of the castle, and the early morning emptiness made its natural gloom all the more unnerving.
Sunny kept his pace brisk, trying to drown out the other’s voice with his footsteps.
He failed pathetically.
“...and so I dug the sparrow out of my purse, held it to the skies and screamed, burn, child of the sun! There was an explosion of feathers and light, the most glorious spectacle of a most tragic death, and I soon woke up to a real sun shining down my face, warming my cheeks, the yellow glow breaching through my lashes and stirring me awake. Quite the glorious morning to accompany such a strange dream, no?”
Goldstein had followed Sunny out. Because of course he did, for whatever reason, and suddenly being ‘out of breath’ was no issue for the guy who spoke as if every dialogue was an essay he was trying to rack up a word count for.
“Indeed, indeed, I can see it in your eyes. The sympathy to my fear, the empathy of the emotions I go through nightly, the morbid curiosity that grows within you, the need to know more… fret not, my dear friend, I have infinities of stories to share. In fact, a few nights ago–”
This was worse than Mikhael’s stunt of ‘the Maverick’.
Sunny came to an abrupt stop with a deep, deep groan, sliding a hand down his face. Goldstein stopped walking as well, standing beside him right beneath a flickering torch that bathed the top of his blond hair and pale face in shades of gold. He tilted his head, but before he could open his mouth to begin yet another ramble about something stupid, Sunny cut in.
“What do you want?” snapped Sunny, tone a bit sharper than he originally intended but fuck this guy anyway. He crossed his arms, not bothering to stop his glare from surfacing. “You followed me all the way down to what, just tell me about your dreams the whole time? I’m not talking to you. I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone and go back to sleep. You’re more pleasant when unconscious and you’ll have more dreams that way, won’t you? Win win for everyone involved.”
He wasn’t usually this bitchy to anyone, but Harry told him a few days ago about Goldstein’s direct involvement regarding the Something ‘prank’. Sunny had strong suspicions that Goldstein was the one who got the ‘design’ right the first time and spread the news around. Suspicions that were all but confirmed when Harry continued to explain how Goldstein was one of the biggest gossipers in the school.
Suffice to say this guy wasn’t his favorite person right now.
Goldstein said nothing for a moment, blinking at him with a look of feigned innocence that made Sunny’s blood boil hotter every passing second. “Why, that’s such a rude thing to say Mr. Glower! Merlin, has your mother never taught you any manners? You’re smearing the good American name with all your attitud–”
“Get to the point goldilocks.”
The boy actually stopped dead this time, seemingly taken aback. Sunny wasn’t sure if it was because of the nickname (which he threw in out of spite, if he got called “Mr. Glower” one more time he’d choke a bitch) or just his general bluntness, but either way the shock didn’t last. Goldstein sighed, a very long, dramatically breathy sigh, pushing the bangs of his hair back with exaggerated grace. He should be in a shampoo commercial.
“Oh, very well. I’ll reveal my intentions to you, dearest Suzuki, as your heart of stone will not soften even as I beg you on my bruised knees for your collaboration.”
Sunny stared at him, one eyebrow raised, unimpressed. Goldstein placed a hand over his chest.
“The truth is, the reason as to why I am here following your steps, sharing with you my voice and my thoughts, the motives behind my every action this beautifully blue Sunday morning–”
“Goldstein.”
Goldstein dropped his hand and dropped his over-expressive face as well. He sighed again, but this time it was a much shorter one. He crossed his arms and gave a glare that felt strangely calculated in its deepness.
…was this guy trying to copy Sunny’s posture right now?
“You’re no fun,” stated Goldstein bluntly.
“Well you’re fucking annoying,” retorted Sunny, uncrossing his arms to test a theory. Goldstein uncrossed his arms a second after, and oh he was going to punch this dude. He blinked at him, incredulous. “And will you stop copying me?!”
Goldstein snorted then, a giggle escaping him as his glare shattered into a look of pure childish glee– but quickly he cleared his throat and got back to glowering, furrowing his brows deeper. “No.”
Fuck. This. Bitch.
Sunny bit back a frustrated scream and spun around, stomping his way down the corridor with a level of fast-paced speed he didn’t expect from himself. Nope, he wasn’t dealing with this, he refused, he just needed to find the Kitchen, snatch some food, leave the castle and lose Goldstein along the way. Everything would work out just fine.
“What in Merl– oh fine, fine, fine! Alright, I concede!” called Goldstein from behind, rushing forward. Sunny was pulled back by a fist clutching his shirt, stumbling into a stop. Goldstein grabbed his shoulders and turned him around forcefully. “Alright, I see my mistake, I surrender, I do, I promise.”
Sunny didn’t fall for that (definitely fake) apologetic tone. He stabbed his pointed finger into the other’s chest, punctuating every word.
“What. Do. You. Want.”
Goldstein let go of his shoulders, taking a step away as he locked his hands politely by his front. After a beat where he straightened out his posture, pulling his shoulders back and taking in a sharp breath in the nose, he offered a smile, showing all teeth.
“I want to be your friend, Suzuki.”
He what.
Sunny blinked at him.
“You what.”
Goldstein didn’t miss a beat, nodding. “Yes, I know, an astounding achievement. But your ears do not deceive you! I, Augustus Goldstein, wish to be your companion forevermore–”
Sunny held a hand up, squinting his eyes at the other. “Right. Sure. What do you actually want?”
Goldstein had the gall to look offended. “Why, I really do just wish for your hand in friendship, my deepest desire is for you to accept my very genuine request–”
“Uhuh.” Sunny deadpanned. He let his hand drop, placing both of them by his hips like a disappointed parent. “And where exactly did this sudden interest even come from? You had the entire year to do this. And even if you were being honest, you decided that following me out the Commons at the crack of dawn on a random Sunday morning is the perfect time to do this?”
“Well, dearest Suzuki, there is no time like the present is there?”
“Are you serious?”
“My sincerity knows no bounds.”
Was this dude real?
Technically not, if Sunny were to consider his original reality as the baseline. Best not think about that.
“You do realize I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
The statement didn’t seem to deter Goldstein at all. He tilted his head, smiling again. “Very well then, I see I cannot convince you of my genuinity in any way. Say, in this case, what if we make a deal?”
“A deal,” Sunny echoed, impassive.
“Indeed! You’ll allow me to ask you questions, to get to know you better as friends tend to do, and in return you can ask me some questions as well. That way I’ll be able to help you find the Kitchens you so dearly need to get to in order to feed your new pet. What do you say?”
Sunny opened his mouth to shoot back a quick retort– a very strong no– but then froze. It took a moment for the other’s words to fully process in his head, long enough for silence to fall and settle. It grew heavier every passing second, the crackle of nearby fire the only soft noise that breached the dense quiet.
His chest chilled, face blanking as color slowly drained away, a sudden coldness sinking the room temperature and wrapping ice around his goosebumped skin.
He stared at Goldstein.
Feed your new pet.
“...how do you know that?”
Goldstein stared back, his smile stretching into a cheshire cat grin.
“Ah, a question. Perfect, wonderful! Are you agreeing to the deal then? I knew you’d come around.”
He walked forward, moving past Sunny– who in his shock couldn’t manage to say another word– and continuing to head down the corridor in leisurely deliberate steps. Sunny turned around, slowly, too frozen to even blink. He watched Goldstein stroll further and further away with that nonchalance, his own feet planted in place, unable to bring himself to follow.
“Alas, I was the one who suggested the deal first. So if you’ll indulge me, you shall answer me before I answer you. Don’t concern yourself, I’ll start with something very simple.”
Goldstein stopped, and glanced back, a glinting grin growing wider with every word.
“What’s your dog’s name?”