Three knots, one rope

Chapter 1: The Market That Moved Like a River

In the village of Alderwick, the forest began right where the last fence ended, as if the trees were waiting for a single careless step. By day the pines looked like green umbrellas. By night they stood like a choir in dark coats, humming secrets into the wind.

On the first Saturday of frost, the village held its Winter Market. Lanterns swung on ropes. Bread steamed. Apples shone like polished marbles. People flowed between stalls in a busy river of elbows and wool sleeves.

Three girls slipped into that river together.

Mara, with ink-stained fingers and a mind that never stopped building strange little ideas, walked in front. She wore a scarf the color of autumn leaves and carried a small notebook like it was a pocket-sized map to hidden worlds.

Nell rolled beside her, wheels whispering over the cobbles, her laugh quick as a sparrow's hop. She wore mittens with one missing button and never minded.

Junie followed close, tall and quiet, her eyes sharp as winter stars. She didn't talk much, but when she did, her words landed clean and true.

“Remember,” Mara said, tapping her notebook, “we stay together. Like… like three knots in the same rope.”

Junie raised an eyebrow. “That rope better not snap.”

Nell grinned. “If it snaps, I'm tying it back with extra loops.”

They had one mission, promised to Junie's little brother: buy candied chestnuts and a jar of honey. Simple. Easy.

But crowds have a way of swallowing simple things.

The market hummed and tugged. A man with a basket of geese waddled past, feathers flying. A woman sold ribbons that fluttered like captured birds. A fiddler played a tune that sounded like laughter trying not to be heard.

Mara slowed. “Let's practice,” she said. “In a crowd, we hold a shape. Triangle. Always a triangle.”

Junie nodded. “Point, point, point.”

Nell rolled a small circle and stopped, lining up neatly. “I'm a point with wheels.”

They formed their triangle and moved on.

That was when a voice slipped between the sounds, smooth as oil on water.

“Such sensible girls,” it said. “Such careful little candles in the dark.”

Mara turned. Behind a stall of winter pears stood a traveler in a long gray coat. His smile was wide, friendly—too friendly, like a door left open in a storm. His eyes, though, were bright and still, like two cold coins at the bottom of a well.

“You're new,” Mara said, because her mouth liked questions the way fire liked wood.

“New to your village,” the traveler agreed. “Not new to the world. I've walked roads you've only dreamed of.”

Junie's gaze narrowed. “Roads are full of trouble.”

“Oh, yes,” the traveler sighed, as if trouble were a song he knew by heart. “But also full of gifts. Secrets. Shortcuts.”

Nell leaned in just enough to smell the traveler's coat. It carried a faint scent of wet leaves and something sharper—like iron after rain.

Mara smiled politely. “We don't need shortcuts. Just chestnuts and honey.”

The traveler chuckled. “Ah. Ordinary needs. Yet you are not ordinary girls. I can see it. Especially you,” he said to Mara, “with your little book of plans.”

Mara's fingers tightened around her notebook.

Junie stepped closer, making their triangle smaller. “We're fine.”

“Of course,” the traveler said, hands lifted as if he were surrendering. “Be fine. Be safe. Stay together. That is wise.”

He looked at each of them, slow, like counting. “Still,” he murmured, “even the wisest can be separated. It happens in crowds the way shadows happen at sunset.”

Then the traveler bowed and faded into the river of people, and the market swallowed him like a mouth closing.

Nell shivered. “Did he just… admire us?”

Junie's voice came low. “He measured us.”

Mara tried to laugh, but it sounded thin. “Well, we'll be un-measurable. Come on. Triangle.”

They walked on, but Mara couldn't stop thinking about that smile—wide as a gate, and just as inviting to walk through.

Chapter 2: A Ribbon of Lies

They found the chestnut seller near the fountain, where steam rose like friendly ghosts. Nell bought a paper cone and handed it to Junie's little brother—only Junie's little brother wasn't there. He was supposed to meet them by the clock tower, along with Junie's mother.

Mara checked her notebook. “Clock tower. Then honey.”

They moved, careful at first. Triangle. Steps matching. Wheels whispering.

But the crowd thickened, and the air grew louder—louder than it should have been. A group of dancers burst into the lane, swirling skirts like storm clouds. People clapped, shoved, laughed.

“Triangle!” Mara called.

Junie grabbed Mara's sleeve. Nell rolled close.

And then—like a ribbon snapped in the wind—someone bumped Nell's chair. Hard.

Nell jerked. Her mitten brushed Mara's arm, and in that heartbeat, the triangle loosened.

“Sorry!” cried a stranger, already gone.

“Nell?” Mara spun.

“I'm here!” Nell called, but her voice came from behind, muffled by bodies.

Junie reached out. “Hands!” she ordered.

Mara stretched her fingers backward, searching for Nell's. She touched wool, then nothing.

A bell rang from the tower. Someone shouted about a dropped purse. A child squealed with delight.

The market became a moving maze.

Mara's heart thumped like a frightened rabbit. “Nell!”

“I'm right—” Nell began.

A voice cut between them, soft and pleased. “There you are,” the traveler said.

He stood at Mara's side as if he had always belonged there. His gray coat looked almost silver in the lantern light.

“You lost a friend,” he said gently. “Crowds are hungry beasts.”

Junie's eyes flashed. “We're not lost. We're together.”

The traveler's smile twitched. “Two is not three.”

Mara swallowed. “We'll find her. Nell! Keep talking!”

“I'm talking!” Nell's voice floated again, but thinner now, stretched like a thread.

The traveler leaned closer to Mara as if sharing a secret. “I can help,” he whispered. “I know where the crowd will open. Follow me, quick, before the river carries her away.”

Junie planted her boots. “No.”

The traveler's eyebrows rose. “No?”

Junie's voice stayed steady. “We stay grouped. That's our rule.”

Mara stared past the traveler's shoulder, trying to spot Nell's dark hair, her missing-button mitten, anything. She saw only hats and scarves, faces bobbing like corks.

“Nell!” she shouted again.

“Over here—” Nell called, then coughed, “—I think someone stepped on my wheel—no, I'm okay—”

The traveler sighed like someone tired of children. “Your rule is sweet,” he said. “But rules break when the world pushes. I can lead you to her. Or you can stand here and listen to her voice fade.”

Mara's brain, usually a bright lantern, flickered. Fear breathed on it, cold and damp.

Junie grabbed Mara's wrist. “He's wrong. We find her by staying smart, not by following strangers.”

The traveler tilted his head. “Stranger,” he repeated, tasting the word. “A stranger could still be kind.”

His gaze slid to Junie. “You look like the kind who guards doors. But you cannot guard every door at once.”

Mara saw it then: the traveler's words were ribbons—pretty, fluttering, and tied to nothing. Lies with bows.

Still, Nell's voice sounded farther.

Mara shut her eyes for one second and remembered her own rule: three knots in one rope. If she ran after Nell alone, the rope would split. If she followed the traveler, the rope might lead into the forest.

She opened her eyes. “Junie,” she said quickly, “call Nell's name and have her answer with a rhyme.”

Junie blinked. “A rhyme?”

“A signal,” Mara insisted. “Like a lighthouse flash. Nell loves rhymes.”

Junie turned and shouted, “NELL! RHYME WITH ‘HONEY'!”

From the crowd came Nell's voice, clearer, playful even through fear: “MONEY! I'm near the ribbon lady—she has shiny—um—”

“Ribbon stall!” Mara repeated. “We go to the ribbon stall. Together.”

The traveler's smile tightened, as if someone had pulled a thread. “Clever,” he murmured. “But you will tire. The river always wins.”

Junie stepped forward, blocking him with her shoulder. “Move.”

For a moment the traveler didn't. His eyes gleamed. Not coin-bright now, but wolf-bright—like moonlight on teeth.

Then he stepped back, as polite as a gentleman. “As you wish,” he said, and vanished again into the crowd, leaving only that sharp scent—wet leaves and iron.

Mara and Junie pushed toward the ribbon stall, repeating Nell's rhyme like a spell.

“Honey—money—honey—money,” Mara muttered, and the words steadied her heartbeat.

Chapter 3: Three Knots, One Rope

The ribbon stall stood under a striped canopy. Ribbons dangled in rows—red like berries, blue like deep water, silver like fish bellies. They shivered in the breeze as if whispering news.

And there was Nell, right beside the table, holding her chestnut cone in one hand like a torch.

“I knew you'd find me,” Nell said, trying for a brave grin. Her cheeks were pink from cold and panic. One wheel had a smudge of mud, but she looked unhurt.

Mara grabbed Nell's mittened hand. Junie took Nell's other side. Their triangle snapped back into place, firm and warm.

“I hated that,” Nell admitted. “The crowd felt like it had hands.”

“It does,” Junie said. “A hundred hands. That's why we don't let go.”

Mara nodded, and her voice trembled a little. “We need something better than ‘triangle' in our heads. Something we can feel.”

The ribbon seller, an older woman with kind eyes, leaned forward. “Lost in the market, were you? Happens quick.”

“Not lost,” Junie said automatically.

The woman chuckled. “Not lost, then. Just… tested.”

Mara looked at the ribbons. An idea, bright as a match, sparked in her mind.

“Could we buy three ribbons?” Mara asked. “Strong ones.”

The seller lifted a spool of braided cord—thicker than ribbon, soft but sturdy. “This one won't snap unless you want it to.”

Mara bought it with the coins meant for honey. Junie's mouth opened to protest, then closed when she saw Mara's face.

Mara tied the cord loosely around her own wrist, then around Junie's, then around Nell's, leaving enough slack so they could move but not enough to drift apart.

Nell lifted her wrist. “We're like… three boats tied to the same dock.”

Junie tested the cord. “Or three climbers on one rope.”

Mara smiled. “Three knots. One rope.”

They continued through the market, their cord hidden beneath sleeves. People bumped them, but the rope tugged gently, reminding them to return to their shape.

And as they moved, Mara listened—not just with ears, but with the part of her that noticed patterns. The crowd shifted strangely, as if guided. Where the girls went, the river seemed to thicken; where they didn't, it parted.

Someone was steering the market like a shepherd steers sheep.

At the honey stall—empty, oddly empty—Mara felt the air cool. The lanterns above flickered in the wind, as if blinking warnings.

Junie frowned. “Where's the honey seller?”

Nell pointed. “There—by the alley.”

A figure stood near the narrow lane between buildings. A gray coat. A silver-smile.

The traveler lifted a jar of honey in one hand, as if he'd simply found it waiting for him. The honey inside glowed like trapped sunlight.

“You need this,” he called softly. “And I know a faster way to the clock tower. Your mother will worry.”

Junie's shoulders stiffened. “We know the way.”

“But the crowd is thick,” the traveler said. “The river will slow you. Come. Just for a moment. I will guide you.”

Mara saw how he held the honey: like bait on a hook.

She tightened her grip on her notebook. “Why do you care so much?”

The traveler's eyes warmed, almost human. “Because I dislike seeing children frightened.”

Nell whispered, “I don't believe him.”

Junie said, “We don't follow.”

The traveler sighed, and for the first time his patience cracked. “You think you are brave,” he said. “But bravery is only fear wearing a mask. I can peel it off.”

As he spoke, the alley behind him looked darker than it should have been, like a mouth open in a wall.

Mara's stomach knotted. Yet another thought sparked: lies need space to echo. If you keep close, they have nowhere to grow.

Mara spoke loudly, so Nell and Junie could hear clearly. “We move together. We speak our plan out loud. We don't take gifts from strangers.”

Junie nodded and repeated, “Together. Plan out loud. No gifts.”

Nell added, “And if anyone tries to split us, we yell like geese.”

The traveler's smile returned, but it was thinner now, stretched over something sharp. “Then I will take my honey elsewhere,” he said calmly.

He stepped back into the alley—and the light seemed to lean away from him.

Mara felt the cord between their wrists, warm and real. She looked at her friends and spoke the plan again, like a bedtime refrain meant to tame nightmares.

“Clock tower,” she said. “Find Junie's mother and brother. Then home. Together.”

Together, together, together—each step stitched the word into their courage.

Chapter 4: The Wolf in a Gentleman's Coat

The clock tower rose at the market's edge, its stones pale as old bones. The bells above sat silent, as if listening.

Junie's mother wasn't there.

Junie's little brother wasn't there.

Only the wind waited, brushing the girls' cheeks like cold fingers.

Nell swallowed. “Maybe they went home.”

Junie shook her head, jaw tight. “They said they'd meet here. They wouldn't forget.”

Mara scanned the square. Her mind worked like a lantern again—searching corners, noticing what didn't fit.

Then she saw it: a trail of something dark on the snow-dusted cobbles. Not blood. Not dirt. Crushed winter pears, smashed and sticky, leading away from the market toward the forest path.

Junie crouched and touched the smear. “Fresh.”

Nell's voice went small. “Why toward the forest?”

Because the forest is where stories go when they want to become dangerous, Mara thought. The forest is a book with too many pages, and all of them whisper.

A shadow moved near the path's entrance.

The traveler stood there, hands behind his back, looking almost lonely. “I told you,” he said, voice gentle as a blanket. “Crowds separate. Worry separates. Even families separate.”

Junie stepped forward. The cord between their wrists tightened, holding them close.

“Where are they?” Junie demanded.

The traveler's eyes gleamed. “Safe,” he said. “Safe enough. But they wandered. The boy followed a shiny ribbon. Your mother followed the boy. I offered to help.”

Mara's stomach turned. “You offered,” she echoed, tasting the lie.

The traveler sighed. “You don't trust kindness. That is a sad way to live.”

Junie's voice rose. “Stop talking like that. Tell us where they are.”

The traveler's smile slid away, like a mask falling. The air sharpened.

“I am tired of games,” he said.

And then he did something simple—he stepped out of the lantern light.

For a heartbeat, the gray coat seemed to unravel into fur-darkness. The traveler's shoulders rose, broader. His shadow grew a snout. His breath steamed heavier, like an animal's breath.

When he stepped back into view, he wore the same coat, the same boots—but his eyes were no longer coin-cold.

They were forest-cold.

Junie whispered, “Wolf.”

The word was a stone dropped into silence.

The traveler—no, the wolf—bowed his head slightly, as if amused by being recognized. “Grand,” he murmured. “You have read your old tales.”

Mara's knees wanted to shake. She did not let them. She held her notebook like a shield made of paper and stubbornness.

“What do you want?” Mara asked, her voice steadier than her hands.

The wolf's smile was a crescent moon—pretty from far away, dangerous up close. “I want you to learn,” he said. “How easily you can be pulled apart. How sweet fear tastes when it runs.”

Nell's voice cracked, but she still managed humor, thin and brave. “That's… weird. You're weird.”

The wolf chuckled, low. “Yes. And you are children. Brave children, trying to be a rope.”

He leaned closer. “Come into the trees,” he whispered. “I will show you your family. I will show you a shortcut. I will show you the end of your worry.”

Mara felt the cord at her wrist. She looked at her friends. Junie's face was pale but hard as flint. Nell's eyes were wide but steady.

Mara spoke the plan aloud, slow and clear, like stepping stones across ice.

“We don't go into the forest alone,” she said. “We don't follow you. We go to the guardhouse. We bring adults. We stay in the light. Together.”

The wolf's nostrils flared. “Adults?” he repeated, as if the word tasted sour.

Junie said, “Yes. Adults. Real ones.”

The wolf's eyes narrowed. “Run, then,” he whispered. “Run and see if your rope holds.”

He took one step toward them.

And the girls ran—together, together—cord tugging them into one moving shape, their breath in clouds, their footsteps drumming a single rhythm on the stones.

Behind them, soft as falling ash, the wolf laughed.

Chapter 5: A House with Bright Windows

They reached the guardhouse at the edge of the square, a stout building with a red door and windows bright as open eyes. Light spilled out warmly, like soup poured into bowls.

Mara banged on the door. Junie banged too. Nell banged with her palm, then with determination.

A guard opened—broad-shouldered, sleepy, with a mustache like a bristly caterpillar.

“What in the—”

“Wolf,” Junie said. “Forest path. He has my mom and brother.”

The guard blinked, then saw their faces and the cord binding their wrists.

“Inside,” he said sharply.

They rushed in. The warmth hit them, and for a moment Mara's fear melted into shaking.

Mara spoke quickly, telling everything: the traveler, the honey, the alley, the smashed pears. Her words came out like a hurried string of beads, but each bead was true.

The guard listened, no longer sleepy. He called for two more guards, and they grabbed lanterns and thick staffs.

“Stay here,” the mustached guard ordered.

Junie lifted her chin. “We know the path.”

The guard hesitated, then looked at the cord on their wrists, at their set faces. “Fine,” he said. “But you stay behind us. No hero tricks.”

Nell muttered, “What if we're allergic to hero tricks?”

Even Junie almost smiled.

They stepped out into the cold again. The market noise had dulled, as if the world were holding its breath. Beyond the last stalls, the forest waited—black lace against the sky.

The guards led the way, lanterns bobbing like captured stars.

At the forest edge, the smashed pears continued, a dark trail like bruises on the snow.

Mara's mind raced. Wolves in stories were more than teeth; they were temptation. They offered easy paths. They offered sweet words. They offered the chance to step away from your friends and become a single, frightened thing.

She tightened the cord. “Together,” she whispered.

Nell whispered back, “Together.”

Junie didn't whisper. She said it like an oath. “Together.”

They followed the trail to a small cottage half-hidden among fir trees. Smoke curled from the chimney, thin as a question mark. The windows glowed.

“A house,” Nell breathed. “That's… not good.”

In old tales, houses were supposed to be safe. But sometimes, Mara remembered, the forest dressed traps in warm clothes.

The mustached guard signaled silence. He crept to the door and listened. From inside came a voice—Junie's mother, tight with fear, but steady.

“I won't,” she said. “I won't open.”

Then another voice, smooth as oil: “Dear lady, it is only me. The traveler. I brought help.”

Mara's skin prickled.

The guard raised his staff and knocked hard. “Open in the name of Alderwick!”

Inside, a chair scraped. The door opened a crack. Junie's mother's face appeared, pale and fierce. Behind her, Junie's little brother clutched her skirt, eyes round as coins.

Junie surged forward, but the cord checked her just enough to keep her with the others.

“We're here,” Junie said, voice breaking.

Her mother's eyes filled. “Thank the skies.”

But before the door could open wider, a shadow slid across the window—long, hunched, hungry.

The wolf was inside the house.

Chapter 6: The Courage to Hold Fast

The wolf's voice came from somewhere near the hearth, calm as a lullaby. “Ah,” he said. “The rope returns.”

The guards pushed the door wide and stepped in, lanterns throwing wild shapes on the walls. The cottage smelled of pine smoke and spilled tea.

Junie's mother backed away with her son, staying close to the window where the light was strongest.

And there—near the table—stood the wolf in his gentleman's coat.

His smile was polite. His eyes were not.

“You broke in,” the mustached guard growled.

The wolf placed a hand over his chest as if offended. “I was invited,” he purred. “By worry. Worry always invites me.”

Mara's heart hammered, but she forced herself to think like the creative girl she was: fear is a fog, and you need something solid to grab.

She saw the table. She saw a coil of twine by the fireplace. She saw a broom leaning by the door. Ordinary things, brave when used well.

The wolf's gaze slid to the girls' wrists. “Such a pretty cord,” he said. “A necklace for three.”

Nell lifted her chin. “It's not for you.”

The wolf chuckled. “Everything is for me, in the end. Children grow tired. Hands slip. Night falls.”

Junie stepped in front of Nell and Mara, though they were tied together anyway. “Not tonight.”

The wolf took one slow step forward. The guards raised their staffs.

“Careful,” the wolf warned softly. “I am only a story wearing skin. You cannot beat a story.”

Mara's breath caught. Then she remembered something else about stories: they change when someone tells them differently.

Mara spoke, loud and clear, to her friends and to the room. “We don't have to fight him like a monster. We fight him like a lie.”

The mustached guard glanced at her, confused, but listening.

Mara continued, voice steadying as she spoke. “Lies need people alone. Lies need whispers. Lies need you to forget what you promised.”

She looked at Junie's mother. “Stay by the window. Keep the light.”

Junie's mother nodded, gripping her son's hand.

Mara looked at the guard. “Keep him talking. Don't step into the dark corners.”

The guard tightened his grip. “I can do talking.”

Nell leaned toward Mara, whispering, “What do we do?”

Mara's mind flicked to the coil of twine by the hearth. Rope. More rope. If the wolf thought separation was his feast, then togetherness was poison.

She pointed with her chin. “Twine.”

Junie understood. She moved with quick purpose, tugging Mara and Nell with her because of the cord. They reached the hearth, grabbed the coil, and with fingers that shook but did not fail, they tied the twine to their cord, extending it.

In seconds they had a longer line—still linking the three of them, but now long enough to loop around the table leg.

Mara whispered, “Anchor.”

They looped it once, twice. The rope became a boundary, a rule you could trip over if you tried to break it.

The wolf watched, amused. “Building little fences,” he said. “Adorable.”

The mustached guard stepped forward, lantern held high. “You're not adorable,” he snapped. “You're under arrest for breaking into this home and threatening this family.”

The wolf's lips curled. “Arrest,” he repeated, tasting it like a joke. “With what chains? With what courage?”

Junie's voice cut in, sharp as a snapped branch. “With ours.”

The wolf lunged—not at the guards, but sideways, trying to slip between Mara and Nell, aiming for the weak place where he could split the rope.

But there was no weak place. The cord tugged. The twine held. The table leg anchored them like a tree root.

Nell shouted, loud as a goose, “NOPE!”

Junie shoved the table slightly, just enough to block the wolf's path. The guards surged, staffs raised, lantern light splashing into every corner the wolf tried to hide in.

The wolf recoiled, blinking, his eyes narrowing against the brightness. For all his teeth and tales, he hated being seen clearly.

“You ruin the fun,” he hissed.

Mara swallowed, then said the bravest thing she could think of: the truth, simple and plain.

“We're scared,” she admitted. “But we're scared together.”

For a moment, the wolf's face twisted—not with rage, but with something like frustration. As if the lock he loved no longer fit the door.

The guards advanced. The wolf backed toward the open window, shadows clinging to him like smoke.

“This is not finished,” he murmured. “Crowds will come again. Forests will wait again.”

Junie stepped forward. “And we will remember.”

The wolf's smile flickered, and then he slipped out the window into the night—fast, silent, swallowed by the trees.

The cottage felt suddenly smaller, warmer, safer. Like a story that had chosen a gentler ending.

Junie's mother pulled Junie into a fierce hug. Then she hugged Nell. Then Mara. The rope between the girls pressed against their wrists, warm as a heartbeat.

“You did well,” she whispered. “You stayed together.”

Mara looked at the window, at the dark beyond. “He'll try again,” she said quietly.

Junie's mother nodded. “Then you'll be ready again.”

Chapter 7: The Lesson of the Rope

They walked home with the guards and lanterns, the forest kept at a respectful distance by light and footsteps and the simple fact of many people moving as one.

Back in the village, the market was closing. Stalls were folding like tired wings. The fiddler's song had softened into a slow, sleepy tune.

In Junie's kitchen, cocoa steamed in mugs. The warmth smelled like milk and safety. Junie's little brother sat at the table, eyes heavy.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I saw a ribbon and I—”

Junie touched his hair. “Next time you tell us before you chase shiny things.”

Nell grinned. “Or you chase the shiny thing with a whole squad.”

Mara untied the cord from their wrists. The skin beneath was slightly marked, three faint red rings like reminders.

Junie looked at them. “We should keep it,” she said. “Not as a leash. As a symbol.”

Mara nodded. “A promise.”

Nell lifted her mug. “To being annoying about staying together.”

They clinked mugs gently.

Later, when Junie's brother was tucked into bed and the house grew quiet, Mara sat by the window with her notebook. Outside, the forest was a dark sea, and the wind moved through it like a slow tide.

She wrote:

When lies come dressed like kindness, do not swallow them whole.

When crowds push and pull, become a rope, not a loose thread.

Courage is not the absence of fear.

Courage is holding fast when fear tries to untie you.

Mara closed the notebook. In the glass, her reflection looked older than this morning—still a child, yes, but a child with a new weight in her eyes.

Junie came to stand beside her. “You were right,” she said softly. “About saying the plan out loud.”

Mara shrugged, but her smile was real. “My brain likes blueprints.”

Nell rolled in behind them and yawned. “My brain likes bedtime.”

They headed to the small guest room where Mara and Nell would sleep. The blankets were thick. The air smelled faintly of cedar.

As Mara lay down, she listened to the house settling, to the quiet breathing of her friends, to the far-off hush of the forest.

Somewhere out there, she knew, the wolf still existed—maybe in fur, maybe in words, maybe in the slippery voice that offers a shortcut when you're tired.

But here, in this room, three girls had learned a simple spell stronger than any pretty lie.

Stay together.

Speak the plan.

Hold fast.

And with that steady thought, like a lantern left burning, Mara let her eyes close and drifted into sleep.