The Cellar Beneath Ontonagon County

My name is Wade Farrell. In 2014, I was 44 years old and farming 90 acres of bad ground about 8 miles south of Rockland in Antonic and County. That's the top of Michigan, the piece that hangs over Wisconsin. If you've never been up there, what you need to understand is the snow. The county runs around 200 inches in a normal year. People hear a number like that and they picture a rough Christmas. What it means is that from December to April, you plan your whole life around the snow. 90 acres and I worked maybe 30. The rest was cut over, Jack Pine and Popple that came back on its own after the loggers took everything worth taking 100 years ago. I ran beef cattle for 6 years and got out of it in 2009. After that, it was custom work with the tractor plowing driveways through the winter and hauling 3 days a week for an outfit in Bruce Crossing. The farm didn't pay. It hadn't paid for anybody since my grandfather who I think honestly believed it was going to. I'll get the seller out of the way now because as soon as I say what's down there, people have already decided what kind of man I am. I built a survival shelter under the north end of the house. Call it a bunker if you want. That's what everybody else calls it once they see the inside. It's poured concrete 24 x 30, 8 foot ceiling with an interior stair coming down out of the kitchen and a bulkhead into the side yard that I kept chained. I put three years into it, about $18,000 in materials and everything else was my own hands, mostly evenings and cliff on the weekends he wasn't working. For bunks, a chemical toilet and a shower off a 40 gallon tank, a two burner propane cooktop. Shelves down both long walls, floor to ceiling, and on those shelves I had 11 months of food for four people. I knew it to the case. I did tell people when they asked and I heard how it sounded coming out of my mouth. In the corner passed the bunks I'd put an old TV into DVD player and one of those zip binders with 200 and some discs in it, most of them the kids. There were four cameras down there as well, one in each corner wired up through the ceiling to a box in the office of the kitchen. No screen on it, you watched it on the computer. I bought the biggest drive the thing would take and I shut the over right off and the kid at the counter in Houghton told me that was a waste of about $200. If somebody ever came into my house, I wanted a picture of them. The generator was a 7,000 watt propane unit sitting on a stand I welded up in the attached garage, ran about a gallon an hour under load, less if we were careful with the heaters. The cord into the gas line came down through a 4 inch sleeve I'd cord through the block wall and that sleeve carried sound so if you were sitting on the bottom bunk you could hear a wrench land on the garage floor. People assumed there was a moment that started all of it. There was. My wife, Edie, died from an accident two years before this and looking back, that's where the whole thing really started. Edie went down on the concrete step outside the barn on a Thursday morning in February of 2012. There was an inch of new snow over ice and none of us had salted it. She hit the back of her head. She was talking when I got to her. She said my name and she said something about the milk crate she'd been carrying which had gone end over end and was lying about 6 feet off with the jars still in it, unbroken, all four of them. I called 911 from the yard at 752. The woman on the phone was calm and she was good at her job and she told me not to move my wife. Head and neck, she said, don't move her, don't put her in a vehicle, keep her warm, we're on our way. So I did that. I got the barn coat over her and my hand under her head where the concrete was and I knelt there in the wet and I waited because that's what I'd been told to do by the person whose job it is to know, 51 minutes. The ambulance was coming 22 miles out of ontanagon and the plow that would have opened our road had been pulled onto M38 for a semi that jackknifeed at the fire steel bridge. Nobody did anything wrong. I've had it explained to me more than once by people who weren't unkind about it. My truck was in the driveway the entire time with three quarters of a tank in it. She died two days later in Marquette without waking up. The bleed was in her head. It was never her neck at all. Anyway, that's the answer to why there's a seller under my house and I've never given anybody a shorter one. Cliff moved into the upstairs room that spring and never quite moved out. He is my brother. He's five years younger than me and when the power goes down at two in the morning in a blow, Cliff is the guy who's already got his boots on. His marriage came apart in 2011 and he'd tell you about the truck he lost in it before he'd tell you about her. Ask Cliff how he's doing and you'll get 10 minutes on a transformer. Grady, my son, was 13 that winter and he had maybe four words for me on any given day. I'd been the same at his age. Reeny, my daughter, was eight. She repeated herself when she was working something out, said it twice, said it a third time from another room. She'd been sleeping with her boots on for about a year by then and I'd stopped fighting her about it. The last clear morning was the Saturday. I took Grady and the sled out to the back 40 to cut a couple of face cords and we went the long way round through the cedar on the low ground, which is where the deer yard up every winter. They've yarded there my whole life. My dad used to walk me back in January to look at them. 30 or 40 standing in that trampled ground close enough you'd wonder why they weren't running. There wasn't one deer in it. The floor of the yard was all churned up and every track in it headed the same direction north, up toward the ridge and to the open cutover, which is the worst ground in the county for a deer in February. Nothing was bedded. There wasn't fresh sign anywhere I looked. No blood, no kill, no drag and if it had been wolves there'd have been a kill in there somewhere. Grady stood with his hands in his coat. Where'd they go, he said. I told him wolves. He believed me or he didn't care and honestly I wanted it to be wolves because wolves is a thing you can be annoyed about. We cut our wood and dragged it back and I split most of it that afternoon and my shoulder was sore for three days after which I remember better than I remember the rest of that week. Cliff spent that afternoon in the yard with the hood up on his own truck on a water pump he could have done in the shed in half the time. He ran the generator up while he was out there 20 minutes under load with both heaters going. It ran clean. Reenie wanted to sleep in the shelter that night. She'd been asking since Thursday. She said it twice at supper and once more from the stairs after she'd been sent up and I told her Sunday. Walt Stallings came up the driveway a little before noon on the Sunday. Walt milks 50 head half a mile east of me and he's been on that ground since before I was born. He didn't get out of the truck. He had the window down and his wipers going. He told me the forecast had gone stupid three to four feet they were saying with the wind behind it. The county had already put out that they'd be pulling the plows off the back roads once it got going which they always say and which they had never once in my experience actually done. He said the church in Rockland was opening up for anybody that wanted to come in and that the road was still open right now and that if it was him he'd come into town while the going was easy. I said no to the church. I told him I had 11 months of food down there, 400 gallons of water and a generator under my own house and I wasn't going to sit on a cot in a church basement with 40 people I'd have to make conversation with. I said it lightly. He laughed at it. I don't remember what I told him to the other thing. I'd have said we were fine. He said something about his tank eaters and then he sat there another few seconds like he was going to say something else and then he didn't. He put it in reverse and backed down the driveway rather than turning around in the yard which he always did and which I've never known the reason for. That was the last vehicle I saw in my driveway. We went down Sunday night around 9 and it was more like packing for a trip than anything else. Rini took three trips by herself, a lamp with no cord, a stuffed dog, the binder which she wouldn't let gravy touch. Cliff brought his boots down and set them at the foot of the stairs where he'd know where they were. I did a walk of the house first, killed the water at the main, opened the taps, checked the propane, tank red 71%, which is 355 gallons or thereabouts, and at a gallon an hour I'd figured a month and a half if we were sensible about the heaters. That's the number I gave them when they asked, a month and a half. I want to be straight up the first two days. They were good, they were better than good. We ran the generator in blocks four hours after breakfast and four again at night. In between it was the little propane heater and a lot of blankets. Nobody complained about it once. Cliff cooked. He'd take a case-lot pouch that tastes like wet cardboard and do something to it with hot sauce and dried onion. You'd eat it and ask for seconds. He wouldn't tell anybody what he put in it. He had a routine about that and he'd been doing it since we were kids. The shower was 40 gallons and I'd said four minutes each once every other day and it turned into the main business of the household. Rini timed everybody on the microwave clock. She'd stand outside the curtain announcing what was left. Cliff ran two minutes over on the Monday and there was a formal hearing about it that ran most of the evening with Grady acting for the prosecution. Cliff told us all about a job outside you and in 2006 where a guy he worked with put a bucket truck into a ditch and how they got it out. It took him 20 minutes. There's no end to that story. He's told it to me maybe six times in my life and it's never once got anywhere. Grady talked. My son who gave me four words a day through the whole of that school year sat on the end of a bunk with a plate on his knees and talked for two hours about a video game I've still never seen and about a kid named Trevor or Travis who'd said something to him in November and I just let him go. I didn't ask him anything. I'd learned by then that if I asked he'd stop. We played cribbage. He beat me three games running on the Monday and got insufferable about it and Cliff took his side and Rene kept score wrong on purpose to make it worse. She watched the same movie three times one of the ice age ones with the squirrel. She'd say the lines just before the characters said them quietly, mostly to herself and then she'd say them again after. The storm was a noise over our heads and that was all it was. You could hear the wind but you heard it as a sort of pressure in the house rather than a sound and every so often there'd be a crack from up in the rafters that was just the roof taking load. The snow was up past the kitchen windows by Monday morning. Grady went halfway up the stairs and opened the door at the top and stood there looking at it. He came back down and said it's at the glass. That was the report. That was all of it. I had bars on my phone Sunday and none by Monday afternoon. The landline had gone sometime in the night which happens up there three or four times a winter when the ice loads a line. It didn't concern me. Cliff said the co-op would have cruised out as soon as the wind dropped under 40 and not one minute before. They do the highway first, the burglant side second and we'd be somewhere behind that. If you'd asked me that Sunday what I'd do in a real emergency I'd have said I'd call somebody. That was the plan. That was the whole plan and I'd never once looked straight at it. The furnace upstairs was dead with the power out and the house above us went cold in about a day and a half and after that it made different noises. Nail pops, that flat bang a cold stud makes. Cliff explained it to Reenie and she accepted it completely and repeated it back to me twice that evening. Both times as though I hadn't been there. Monday night I shut the generator down at nine like always. You do it from below. There's a kill switch I wired in down there so nobody has to go out in it. The lights died and we were in the dark and dark down there is a real dark. No windows. You can hold your hand where you know your hand is and there's nothing. I'd been in my bunk maybe 20 minutes when it started up again. You hear it through that sleeve before you hear it anywhere else. There's the starter, then the catch, then it settles into the note it runs at. The lights came up in the corner where I'd left the lamp switched on and everybody sat up. Cliff was already off his bunk with a hand on the wall. "Did you hit it?" he said. I said I hadn't. I was six feet from the switch and I'd been lying down since nine and Grady had been on the bunk under me the whole time and would have felt me move. There's no auto start on that unit. It's a manual pull and hold with a choke. I put it in myself, I ran the line myself, I know what's in it and there is no circuit anywhere in that garage that starts that engine without a hand on it. Cliff went up the stairs as far as the door and put his ear to it and stood there a while. Then he came back down. The regulator was probably icing, he said. They'll surge and die and pick back up when the ice lets go and he'd seen it a hundred times on job sites. He said the word "surge" twice. He was talking to the room and not to me. I said that sounded about right. That's the thing I'd change if I could change one thing. Not the church, not Walt, not any of the big ones. I'd change that. I said it sounded about right because Grady was sitting up watching my face when I said it and he lay back down. Rene had her arms round at the stuffed dog and she was looking past me at the stairs. She said, "It's okay now." Then she said it again about 10 seconds later, the way she does. We let it run the rest of the night which we'd never done because nobody wanted to be the one to say we should shut it off. That cost us 11 or 12 gallons and I did the arithmetic in my head lying there and decided not to say anything about it in the morning. It ran fine. It ran smooth as anything all night, no surge, no miss. I knew it then. I went to sleep anyway. The carbon monoxide alarm went off at 10 past six on the Tuesday morning. It's four fast beeps, then a gap, then four more. I'd put two of them down there. Both were going. Cliff had Rene out of her bunk and up against the far wall by the water before I had my feet on the floor. He was saying numbers at me, parts per million, what's a nuisance and what's a problem. I was already at the sleeve with my palm flat on it. The exhaust ran out through the garage's side wall about three feet off the ground. That's where you put it. Three feet is above anything in a normal winter. The snow had been at five feet on Monday morning and it hadn't stopped since. I'd caught a four inch hole through my own foundation to bring a cord and a gas line into the room where my children sleep and I'd never thought about what else that hole would carry. That part was mine. I did it in 2013 with a rented coring rig and I was pleased with the job. We killed the generator and opened the bulkhead an inch on the chain and let it clear. 20 minutes and both alarms went quiet and stayed quiet. Then it was a question of who was going up and it took about five minutes and I lost it. Cliff's argument was that he'd cleared exhaust off 100 units and whether worse than that and I hadn't. My argument was that it's my house. His second argument was the one that ended it. He said it flat, not unkind, the way you'd read a number off a meter. He said, you've got two kids down here weighed. I've heard that sentence maybe five hundred times since at night in my own voice as much as his. He took the flat shovel off the hooks by the stairs and the pry bar in case the service door was frozen and he said give him 20 minutes and he said don't start the generator till he knocked. He'd be standing at the pipe. Then he went up and I heard the deadbolt on the kitchen side and that was that. We sat in the dark with two flashlights and we listened to my brother through four inches of block. Boots on the kitchen floor, the garage door, the inside one, which sticks and you hear the stick, the shovel handle knocking the frame going through. Then the service door out to the yard and when that opened the wind came down the sleeve so loud that Reenie put her hands over her ears and then it cut off when the door shut behind him. After that it was faint. Digging. You could hear the scrape of it and you could hear him grunt at the end of a throw. He was working hard. The digging ran six or seven minutes. Then it stopped. Nothing stopped it. There's no sound of him stopping. No shovels set down, no door. It just isn't there anymore. One throw and then the next one doesn't come. Grady said is he done? I said probably because I wanted it to be that and I sat with the light off and my hand flat on the block by the sleeve like I was going to feel something through it. 10 minutes of that. Then the service door again. I heard it. I'd swear to it the same door, the wind for a second and then gone. Boots in the garage. Something metal sat down on the bench, unhurried and then cliff started talking. I couldn't. get the words to pipe through a wall, not a telephone. What I got was the shape of it. He'd say something, six or eight syllables, and stop. Then there'd be a gap. Then he'd say something else, shorter. Then a longer gap, and then him again, and on like that. He was answering somebody. My brother was up in my garage having a conversation. The only thing coming down that hole was his half of it. I went up the stairs and put my mouth to the seam of the door and called his name twice. The talking didn't stop, and it didn't change. He kept going with it, the way you do when somebody's in the room with you and the phone's ringing in another part of the house. I came back down. Rene was crying and Grady had gone completely quiet. I had my phone in my hand with no service on it, and I used it for the clock. He went up at 6.41. I sat down on the bottom stair at 7.19 and I counted. There wasn't anything else to do with my hands. I stood up and went for the door at 7.32. That's 51 minutes. Then three knocks on the kitchen door. No hurry in them. It's me, Cliff said. I got the bolt back and he came down. He had the shovel still in his hand, and he put the shovel across his knees and he looked at the far wall. There wasn't any snow on him. He'd been out in the yard in a white out close on an hour, and his coat was dry. Not damp. Dry across the shoulders, dry on the cap, and his boots were clean the way boots are when you've walked on a swept floor. His gloves were gone. Mabel would have, I'm sorry, Yedi would have known what to say to him. I've mixed those two up before. That was her mother's name, and she hated it. I asked him what happened out there. He said the pipe was clear. I asked him who he'd been talking to. He turned and looked at me then, and it was the first time all week I'd seen him do anything slow, and he said, "Which one of you came up?" I told him nobody came up. I told him we'd all floor been sat on that floor the whole time with the lights off, and that Reenie hadn't let go of my arm, and that he could ask her. He nodded. He looked at the wall again. He said, "Then nobody came up, and he set the shovel down against the stair, and he didn't say one more word about any of it, that day or after." I did the water that afternoon. It was the day for it. We pump it up out of the barrels into the tank by hand, and it takes about 40 strokes, and it doesn't take any thinking. Grady counted them out for me and lost the count somewhere in the thirties and started over. Reenie brought him a plate around noon, and he held it a long time without eating anything. She sat with him. She told him twice about the microwave clock. It had been lit at nine the night before, after we killed the generator, and there's nothing down there that stays lit with the generator off. It was true. I'd seen it, and I hadn't wanted to look at it. He didn't tell the bucket truck story. She asked him for it. She asked him by name. She called it "the ditch one," and my brother, who has told that story six times to me, and about four hundred times to everybody else, said he didn't feel like it. I was the only one drifting off, lying there on the top bunk with my eyes closed, listening to the forefoot drift, ragging against the house above us. Then it came. Three deliberate, heavy knocks on the cellar door at the top of the stairs. I sat upright in the dark. In a blizzard in Antonagon County, eight miles out of town with four feet of snow over the porch. There wasn't a living soul on this earth who should have been standing outside that door. Before I could reach my flashlight, the wood creaked upstairs, and the voice came down the stairwell. It's me. It was Cliff's voice, a dead match. I thumbed the flashlight on, and threw the beam straight across the room. Cliff was lying in the bottom bunk six feet away from me. He was flat on his back with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, frozen stiff. Across from him, Reenie let out a muffled, terrified whimper. "Nobody touched that door. I snapped into the dark. My voice cracking down the middle." Stay in your bunks. Cliff slowly turned his head into the flashlight beam, his jaw trembling and whispered, "Wade, that's not me." It knocked for a bit over two hours that first night, always three. Three, then a gap you could count to about fifteen in, then three more. Walt Stallings came first. "Wade, it's Walt," then later longer. "Wade, it's Walt Stallings, come to the door." He had Walt's flat wave putting the end of a sentence down like a box he was tired of carrying, and he had the little cough Walt does before he says anything at all. Then a woman. She said my whole name and then a string of numbers after it, and then she said it again. "I've never in my life heard a voice do that." Sometime in the small hours, there was an engine out in the yard. A way off. It ran a while, and then it quit, and there wasn't anything after it. Cliff was on the bottom stare through all of it, holding the shovel. Every time one of them started up, he'd say the same thing, and he'd say it before I'd got my mouth open. "That's not him." Grady sat up on the second night of it, that'd be the Wednesday, and he said, "What if it is, though?" I told him it wasn't. I told him the road had four feet on it, and there wasn't a man in that county could walk it, and that if Walt's stallings had got to my house at all, he'd have come round to the bulkhead where the door is. Not stood at a kitchen door, hollering, because Walt has been in my kitchen a hundred times, and he knows where my doors are. It was also easier to believe it wasn't Walt. Wednesday was the best day we had down there. I know how that sounds, sat next to the rest of it. The wind dropped off some that afternoon, and the house stopped working, and the noise went out of everything. We ran the generator four hours straight, the lights were on, and it was warm for the first time since Monday. Cliff didn't talk, but he ate, which he hadn't. Reenie got the binder out, and did an inventory of it, out loud, disc by disc, and made Grady write the numbers down. It took her an hour and a half. There was no purpose to it at all. Late on, we watched a movie with the sound almost off, all four of us on the floor with the bedding pulled down off the bunks, because the floor was where the heat was. Reenie fell asleep against Grady's arm about 20 minutes in, and he sat dead still for the rest of it, so as not to wake her, which isn't a thing I'd have predicted from him at 13. I don't have a better hour than that one. Not before, not since. I've had good days, and I mean something else. Thursday morning, the bottom stair was empty, his boots were gone. The shovel was standing right where he'd set it. The dead bolt at the top was thrown. I'd done it myself, and it's a thumb turn on the cellar side, which means it can only be thrown from where I was standing. The bulkhead was chained with my padlock through the chain, and the key for that padlock was on my belt. I moved the water barrels, I climbed the shelving, and put my hand along the top of the joists in the dark where a man couldn't fit, and I did it anyway. Reenie said my name twice, and then she didn't say anything else for most of that day. Grady stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hand on the shovel handle, and he said, he wouldn't have gone. He was right. My brother wouldn't have gone up those stairs without telling me. He'd have argued with me about it for 10 minutes first. He'd have won the argument. He'd have taken the pry bar, and he'd have said, give him 20 minutes the same as Tuesday. He'd have made a joke about my cooking on the way out. None of that happened. The bolt was thrown. I didn't sleep Thursday. At six, I made supper on the two burner, chilly, and the rice, and the last of his hot sauce. I put out four plates. I did it without thinking about it at all, and then I stood there looking at what I'd done, and I left it where it was. That's not the worst part of Thursday. Around nine with the generator down and the lights off, and the two kids in the bunks, I heard it come on in the garage. Not the generator. Him. I got up off the stair, and I put my ear flat against the block by the sleeve, and there it was. I went up Friday morning. I told them to stay on the floor by the water, and not to move off it for anything. If I wasn't back, they were to stay put and not come after me, either one of them. Grady said, 20 minutes. I took the shovel. I put my thumb on the deadbolt, and I stood there a while, and then I turned it, and I went up into my kitchen. The light was wrong before anything else was. It was full daylight in there. Not the blue you get through packed snow. I know that light. I've lived under it every February of my life. It comes into a room like water. This was yellow. The window over the sink was clear glass all the way across, and there was green behind it, and the green was moving. There were flies on the sill. Dozens of them, all dead, all dried out, the way you find them in a place that's been shut up through a hot spell. My coat was open, and I was sweating in it. I went through that house, calling my brother's name. Kitchen, front room, the stairs, both bedrooms, the bathroom, the closet in the hall where the water heater is. I called his name in every room in my own house, and then out the front door into the yard. The grass was past my knees. It was hot. There were cicadas going in the popl along the fence line that dry rattle they make, and there was one going somewhere close over on the left, and it stopped when I came out and started up again after. My truck was sat where I'd left it, with all four tires down on the rims and a bird's nest built into the mirror on the driver's side, packed in solid grass and mud, an old one with nothing living in it. The snow was gone. That's how I had it in my head standing there. Rounded the side in the garage, the generator was stone cold. There was a spider web across the pole handle and the fuel line, one web, going from the handle down to the leg of the stand. The exhaust pipe comes out three feet off the ground on that wall. There was grass grown up around it to the same height as everywhere else. Nothing had been dug there. Nothing had been dug anywhere, and I'd heard my brother throw snow for seven minutes. I stood in my driveway in a winter coat in the heat, and for about a minute I couldn't get hold of my own name. Then I did the thing I'd come up for. The office is off the kitchen. I turned to the computer on because I've got four cameras in that cellar, and whatever came down there, and took a cliff out of a locked room, went past a camera to do it. The box was running. It had been running the whole time. I pulled up the cellar cameras, and I put it on Tuesday morning, and I found 641 because I had that number. There's a man on the stairs at 641. He goes up. He's got the shovel into the pry bar, and he's wearing my coat because it's me. It's me on the stairs. He comes back down at 732 and sits on the bottom step with the shovel across his knees, and looks at the far wall, and he sits there for about 11 hours. And the room behind him is empty. The cameras cover the corners, the bunks in the top left, the shelving, the door at the top of the stairs. I went through it frame by frame looking for the edge of somebody. Wednesday, the four hours with the lights on. There's a man sat cross-legged on that floor, going through a zip-binder disc by disc and reading the numbers out loud, and putting them down on a pad himself in his own handwriting. Thursday, 6 o'clock, the two burner, four plates on the shelf. He puts them out. He puts them out on the Sunday too. I went right back to the start to Sunday night, the 9th of February, the first night, before any of it, before the generator, and the alarms, and the knocking. And he comes down those stairs with a lamp with no cord in his hand and a stuffed dog under his arm. He sets them on the bunk. He sets them out nice. And he says something to the room. There's no sound on that system. I never paid for the sound. And the shelves. I could see the shelves behind him in the wide camera, and I'd been telling myself we'd gone through more than I'd figured. We'd been careless or people eat. And on that screen, the shelves come down, one row at a time, across six months, while one man walks back and forth in front of them. Six months. The date was on it. If I believed what was on that glass, then everyone I love is gone. And there's nothing left of me but a ghost in an empty house. That is not possible. Absolutely not. I refuse to accept that. The PC, the drive, or the whole stupid setup had to be glitching out, corrupted files, dropped frames, something. It had to be, because if I let that screen be right for even one second, the only thing left for me to do was drop to that kitchen floor and let the silence take whatever was left of me. There was no way my own mind had broken like that. Impossible. I reached out and shut the computer off. In the kitchen, I put my hand on the light switch out of habit, going through a room, and the light came on over the table. The power was on. I turned it off again and I stood in the dark part of the kitchen for a while with my hand still up on the switch, and then I took it down. I got a couple of things first. Two cans of the peaches out of the pantry because there weren't any peaches down there and Rene had asked twice. Then I went down and threw the bolt behind me. Grady was on the stairs about four steps up. He said, "Well?" I said Cliff wasn't up there. Rene wanted to know what it was like. I told her it hadn't let up. Then I washed my hands and got the pan down off the hook because it was gone six and they hadn't eaten. We were just drifting off when the voice came down through the wood at the top of the stairs. Wade, open the door. We are all waiting for you. Don't listen to it. I whispered, pulling the blankets up around to their shoulders. Shh, eat your peaches. Your dad's never going to open that door. I switched the light off and let the room fade to black. Hey guys, Rex here. As always, I appreciate you spending the night with me. And before you go double checking your doors, a quick follow on Spotify or a like on YouTube goes a seriously long way for an independent creator like me. It keeps the coffee flowing and the bunker lights on. Until next time, sleep well.