𝟎𝟐.⠀ 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭

━━ MICAH

          A DROP OF SWEAT ROLLS DOWN MICAH'S TEMPLE. He's tempted to wipe it away, but his hands have clenched themselves so tightly into fists he isn't entirely sure they'll unfurl anytime soon. At the same time, his eyes carefully track the movements of the figure in front of him.

          Clarisse La Rue examines Cabin Seven with more concentration than Micah has seen on demigods in combat. Her brows furrow as she peels back the curtains with the tip of her pen, then frowns as she writes furiously on her clipboard.

          No one dares to ask what she's scribbling. The children of Apollo stand obediently at the foot of their beds, awaiting the verdict.

          Just a few minutes before, Clarisse marched in with as much authority as a naval officer and announced that she would be taking over cabin inspections for her head counselor, who was still injured from falling off a pegasus a few days prior.

          "Oh, come on," complained Michael Yew. He tried to look up at Clarisse with distaste, which always earned a snort of laughter from anyone watching since Clarisse was over a foot taller; Michael stood four feet six, with another two feet of attitude. "What happened to Alexis?"

          All it took was an arched eyebrow for a hush to fall over the cabin, and the children of Apollo whisper in pairs as the inspection continues.

          The daughter of Ares pulls a face as she uses the end of her pen to pick up an old pair of running shorts. Another slash on the clipboard. Micah glances at Michael at the corner of his eye and sees him hurriedly scoot his own dirty laundry under his bed with the toe of his shoe.

          Finally, Clarisse clicks her pen closed. "Two out of five," she announces.

          Everyone knows better than to argue — would rather take the score and hope one of the other cabins faired worse — but Michael glares at her. His pointy nose and scrunched-up features — either from looking down the shaft of his arrow or from scowling too much — makes him look even more like a miniature Scrooge. "Just because there's a few things laying around —"

          "A few things?" Clarisse kicks a pile of books beside her. They clatter noisily into a set of quivers that should be hanging on their respective hooks. "This place is a mess. You've really let yourselves go. . ."

          The first thought that comes to mind is that he's honestly impressed she's able to stare at the cabin long enough to judge if it's clean or not. When he had first laid eyes on what they said was his new home, Micah had almost laughed. No, really, where's my room?

          It wasn't just the lack of privacy — though he's heard it used to be a whole lot worse back when the infirmary was undergoing some kind of repairs and the Apollo cabin had to bear the brunt of the injured for the better part of two weeks. But Apollo is not one for modesty, so his cabin is anything but.

          At first glance, it's like any of the others; stone with windows, set apart by the large sun symbol on the roof. But when hit by sunlight — which is always — Cabin Seven appears as if it's made from solid gold. It's almost too much to look at it directly. Cheerful yellow blossoms courtesy of the Demeter cabin fill the windowsill, which only adds to the blinding effect. They sway in their pots without so much as a gust of wind and glow brighter than any flower Micah has ever seen, except maybe the ones outside the Demeter Cabin, which doesn't even warrant comparison when the latter can snap their fingers and cover the entirety of the Cabin Seven with sunflowers and daffodils within minutes.

          A surprisingly high-pitched voice snaps Micah out of his reverie. All this gold and yellow is far too hypnotic. "That is so unfair!"

          What was just a disagreement a few moments ago has no become an argument with more tension than an atom bomb. Michael stands on his tiptoes to better shout in Clarisse's face. Micah can see his brother's fingers twitching at his side, as if he's itching for an arrow. He doesn't want to know what he'd do with it if he had it, nor what Clarisse would do if he'd tried. Her hand reaches behind her back.

          Knife.

          "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Micah rushes between them, his hands up like he's keeping apart two pro-wrestlers who are about to deck it out in the ring. His siblings keep their hands on Michael. Not holding him back, but not exactly letting go either.

          "I'm just saying. . ." Clarisse's voice stays surprisingly calm, but her face betrays her. Her flared nostrils, balled fist, and clenched jaw all point to her desire to unstrap her weapon and skewer Michael until he apologies — or can't. "The ambrosia didn't work. You were the one in charge of the infirmary that day, and yesterday, and today. And you still haven't told me why my sister is lying in there with a broken arm that you should have healed four days ago!"

          Ah. So that's what this is about.

          This, he can handle.

          An afternoon training with the pegasi should have been like any other — a lot of hay, a lot of neighing, but overall one of the less dangerous activities that Camp Half-Blood had to offer. Except until a few days ago, when a pegasus unexpectedly threw off its rider and dashed into the forest, and hasn't been found since.

          The rider? Child of Ares, head counselor, Clarisse's sister — Alexis Natchios.

          Apparently, it hasn't even been that bad of a break; easy enough for a square of ambrosia to heal within the day. But here they are, four days later, Clarisse has pointed out, and her sister is nowhere near any better than she was the day her arm broke. Micah's own siblings (the more medically inclined ones) had tried everything — from their own magic to nectar, and even calling on the satyrs and their odd nature healing that left the entire infirmary smelling like pinecones and Gatorade.

          Now instead of leading monster assault techniques, Alexis is packing her things to head home early for spring break, her arm in a sling. Apparently she didn't see much point in staying if she couldn't fight.

          Micah thinks there's more to Camp than combat, but he supposes that flies over the head of a child of the war god.

          To their credit, his siblings had done everything they could to treat Alexis, but the blame for her lack of recovery shouldn't be on them. If anything, the ambrosia's at fault. So much for food of the gods if it loses its potency.

          "There must be something wrong with the ambrosia," Micah reasons. "What about nectar?"

          "They tried that already," Clarisse snaps. "It didn't work. Instead of wasting time throwing around things that should work, you start trying things that will. She fixes her gaze on Micah, and he resist the urge to take a step back. "Or maybe I shouldn't be inspecting cabins when I should be inspecting one of you. . ."

          "You've made your point, Clarisse," says Lee Fletcher quietly. His usual laid-back, sunny tone is tainted with something dull. "You gave us our score, okay? Go rate Aphrodite or something."

          "Aphrodite doesn't need special attention. . .Not like Apollo does." The daughter of Ares knits her brows in fake uncertainty. "I wonder what the punishment for dirty cabins is again? A week? I'm sure we can cha —"

          Micah scoffs aloud before he can help himself. "Oh, don't act like you don't know why, Clarisse. We're the ones cleaning up after your cabin keeps getting hurt." Though it's not the first time he's seen her up close, Clarisse's height is just as striking as the first time he did. But back then, she wasn't glaring at him like a warning. "It's not our fault the last shipment of ambrosia's bad. Maybe instead of taking it out on us, you guys should stop losing so much — you'd probably get beat up less, for starters."

          Clarisse lunges.

          But she isn't as fast as Micah's siblings, and together, she isn't as strong. At first, the two struggle to hold her back — she really is as tough as she looks. The whole time, the cabin is silent. Maybe things are different in Ares, but this seems to anger Clarisse even more.

          "Ask yourself, pest," she spits at Micah, her fists clenched. Quick as a flash, the two Apollo girls holding Clarisse back nudge her so roughly she loses her balance. Something about it — the words? the shove? — triggers something, because Clarisse stops resisting for a microsecond. So fast that if Micah hadn't been looking right at her would have missed it completely.

          Then it's gone.

          A wave of muttering washes over the demigods. From across the room, someone lets out a nervous laugh. "Hey, Clarisse, is that why your dad —"

          There's a CRACK!, and with it, Micah stumbles back. Red. There's so much red.

          What was a wave of hushed voices morphs into a tsunami of shouting, yelling, and shoving. Above the raised voices and insults, Micah hears screams. Screams so high-pitched he wants to cover his ears.

          But the screams aren't coming from his siblings or Clarisse.

          No, his brain somehow reasons. There's just one.

          And it's coming from you.

          He's seen blood up close before, of course. Being at Camp makes it almost impossible to be fearful of it, what with all their rigorous itinerary meant to prepare them for any quest sent their way. But Micah isn't a seasoned demigod — not hardened the way some of the others are, who have been sent into the real world and come back anew, for better or for worse.

          No, he is not used to the way his own blood gushes from his nose like a geyser.

          Why is it so red?

          "You. . ." Micah starts to say — everyone else is so loud, his wavering voice is drowned out. Bent over and clutching his nose, Micah stutters, "You punched me. . ." His mouth forms an 'o' as he stares in disbelief. "I didn't even say anything!"

          Clarisse shakes out her fist as his siblings crowd her — pushing, shouting. Her eyes are wide, locked on Micah, who is stunned at the sight of his own blood as the seed of disbelief takes root.

          Underneath the golden lighting of the cabin, Clarisse's expression flits between fury, resentment, and. . .regret? Her gaze flits away from Micah before returning again and again, taking in the scene she caused before her.

          Clarisse doesn't move for one. . .two. . .three beats. . .The room has frozen into a still of just the two of them, she standing straight despite the crowd jostling her; he, his face a leaky faucet of blood. But whatever impulse she wants to indulge in clearly doesn't win, because she seems to realize how outnumbered she is, surrounded by the children of Apollo, shoving and shouting for her to get out.

          A fourth heartbeat passes.

          Clarisse turns on her heel and races away, all the way down the path and out of sight, shouts of anger and indignation hurled at her back.

          Micah blinks slowly. Some rational part of him whispers to use his shirt to stem his bloody nose.

          "What just happened?"

          No one answers. Someone stuffs a wad of tissues into his free fist, and Micah instinctively switches tactics. Better, he supposes. More comfortable for sure.

          "Stay still," a gentle voice unlike his own urges. "Don't tilt your head up so much, or you'll choke on it."

          A blurry shape materializes at Micah's side and guides him to the nearest bunk. Micah grunts appreciatively — and partly in response to the advice. He turns his head to see who's come to his aide, and is rewarded with a sharp pain right behind his eyes, crackling like bolts of lightning.

          He groans.

          "I did say stop moving," the voice says, grimace clear.

          A pool of red has already formed on the handful of tissues Micah has pressed up against his nose.

          "Here." Another handful of Kleenex is exchanged for the old, bloody ones before Micah can weakly protest that he can do it himself. He winces again. Why did Apollo have to like the color yellow so much? Natural light would have been a pain to tolerate all on its own, but the aggressive gold palate is almost too bright to bear.

          Though it takes several moments, Micah is able to open his eyes without being blinded too badly. Michael Yew stands in front of him, biting his bottom lip. The blurry shape turns out to be Will Solace, who guides Micah's head back into a forward position.

          "Ow, ow, ow."

          Will's sunny face is the picture of composed calm. He's done this before, of course. As one of the best healers at Camp Half-Blood, Will is no stranger to blood or injury, not even those of his own siblings'. "You really pissed her off, huh?"

          Micah opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it, pressing his lips together in annoyance.

          "I was the one who made fun of her," says Lee miserably.

          Micah can't help but raise his head in surprise, wincing. "That was you?"

          The other boy has the decency to look down at his shoes, not meeting Micah's eyes. For the better, as he still isn't certain that Lee doesn't have two faces layered on top of one another.

          "I'm sorry. I didn't know she was going to go for you."

          "You should've," Will remarks with a tilt of his head. His back is turned, focused on Micah, as if he can tell that he's not seeing clearly. "Micah was closest; Kayla and Austin were holding Michael back. Are you seeing double?"

          For a second, Micah doesn't catch that the question is directed at him, despite his brother looking pointedly at him. Is he seeing double? That might explain the set of blond curly hair spinning in front of him.

          "No," he lies. He thinks he says it quickly enough, but either Micah is more concussed than he realizes or Will is just freaky good at telling when people are hallucinating.

          It's quiet for a moment, awkwardly so, and Micah thinks he's said the wrong thing. Will exchanges furtive glances with the other boys, then begins digging into something at his feet.

          A square of ambrosia suddenly appears between his eyes, although not as singular as he would have liked it to be. The hand that offers it to him is split into two as well. "Take it," Will says firmly. "A hit that hard, you probably have a concussion."

          Micah wrinkles his nose. "It's rotten."

          "Ambrosia can't rot," says Will automatically. He rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna give you something gross, Micah. It heals demigod wounds, and that includes concussions."

          "I know what it does." It's tempting, knowing that forcing down a few bites of the godly food will ease the pain in no time, but he'd rather brave the bloody nose than try ambrosia again. "It's fine, guys, seriously. It doesn't even hurt anymore. See?"

          He tries to rise, and is met with triple the protest as his brothers all dismiss his insistence (all very loudly) and force him back down onto the bed. Even this small movement is enough to send the room spinning again. Apparently he's not a great actor either.

          "Just eat it," Lee urges impatiently, biting the nail on his finger.

          Michael nods in agreement. "Ambrosia tastes good, man. Like your favorite food. Mine's lasagna, like my grandpa makes it. It's even kinda burnt, cause he never sets a timer and forgets to take it out."

          "Mine's that grill on Riverdale, you know, the one with the Saigon pho?"

          "Ohhh, I know that place, I haven't been there in forever!"

          "They added this hà nôi one last summer, it's so good cause they add the ginger and lemongrass —"

          "C'mon Micah, don't make me stuff it in your mouth."

          "I said no!"

          Though forceful, the petulance of his voice makes Micah want to cringe, like a child refusing vegetables at dinner. Is he really so childish? A single hit to the face and he's down for the count? No wonder he loses so often in combat training. May as well give up any hope of a quest now; in a few hour's time, news of his epic scrape will have circled around camp, made it back to Chiron. So much for proving himself.

          The intensity of Micah's voice stuns even him as his words reverberate through the cabin. Only then does he notice that it's empty — abandoned of everyone except for him and his brothers. When had they all left?

          Speaking of his brothers, all three are taken aback by his outburst. Michael takes a step back, and Lee holds up his hands in mock surrender. Even Will, who is still tending to his bloody nose, avoids Micah's eyes.

          Micah shifts, and again learns the hard way why he was warned against it. He mumbles a few choice curses under his breath as he stares at the ground.

          Micah glances at his brother. "What does it taste like for you?"

          "For me?"

          Micah nods.

          Will's eyebrows shoot upward, mirroring his surprised expression, like no one's ever asked him before. "Blueberry Pop-Tarts," he says finally. A small smile, then its collapse. His hollow tone returns, this time with a twinge of sadness when he says, "Haven't had them since I got to camp, though."

          Movement in the corner of Micah's eyes. The blond son of Apollo places the godly food on the nightstand and fiddles with his hands, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them now that the injury is taken care of. As if sensing Micah's eyes on him, Will turns his head to look at him. He fixes Micah an expectant look.

          Micah sighs.

          "It tastes bad for me," he admits. "I don't know why. Ever since I got here, ever time I eat ambrosia or drink nectar — it's disgusting. Sometimes I'd rather —"

          "— have a concussion?" finishes Michael, eyebrow raised.

          "Maybe," Micah huffs. "And you would too, if you had to eat something gross every time you scraped yourself or something. But it's not just lately — at first I thought it was one bad piece, but then I realized everyone tastes something good."

          "Ambrosia doesn't go bad," Will insists.

          "Neither does nectar," Lee points out.

          "I don't think it's. . .expired, per se. I mean it looks fine. But it doesn't taste like my favorite food, or anything good, for that matter. I don't know why."

          Will frowns, scratching his head. "Wait, what do you taste then? Your least favorite food?"

          Micah groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Does it matter?"

          "Um, yes," counters Michael. He's leaning on the ladder of the closest bunk, his arms crossed. His fingers fidget with the hem of his orange t-shirt, chest rising and falling more quickly than even Micah's. "If it tastes disgusting, what's it taste like?"

          "I bet it's an allergy or something."

          "Bananas, probably, you've seen the way he avoids the banana bread loaves at breakfast."

          "Really? I thought that was just because we kept finding feathers in them."

          Jesus. "It doesn't matter, okay? It's just sour and gross and nasty, and it doesn't even matter what it is because I'm definitely not eating it anyway." Micah misses being an only child. "Can we go now? I feel fine."

          With arms crossed and a calculating, mischievous expression, Michael looks like a shrunken version of John Watson. When his face splits into a grin, it somehow looks odd, like stitching tugged in the wrong direction. "Where have you said that before?"

          Lee snorts. "Micah? Probably about everything."

          They seriously aren't letting this go. "It's cheesecake, okay? Happy?"

          Silence.

          "Cheesecake? Seriously?"

          Lee laughs. "I thought you were gonna say anchovies, or something. Cheesecake's good!"

          Micah half huffs, half laughs. "To you, maybe. It's disgusting, like sour milk and vomit —"

          Will holds up a hand. We get it. But the smile he's trying to hide gives him away. "What does Chiron say?"

          "Maybe you actually really like cheesecake, but you haven't found the right one yet," offers Lee.

          "Not likely." Micah shifts uncomfortably — and not just because of his nose. "But, um. . .he doesn't know."

          "Dude."

          "Micah. . ."

          Will says what everyone is thinking. "Why not?"

          Yes, why not? Why not give the head of camp more rope to string him with? More reasons to write him off as a failure, a defective son of Apollo? Unlike many of his siblings, who are blessed with the sun god's ability to heal, Micah seems to have been cursed with his father's less-appealing power of taste-testing spoiled cooking.

          His lie comes easily. "It doesn't matter. He's got enough on his plate."

          The three boys exchange glances.

          "Look, I'll eat the damn ambrosia, okay?" Just the thought of tasting the dessert is enough to make Micah's stomach flip, but worth getting rid of his brothers' concerned faces. "Just. . .keep this to yourselves. Please."

          There's no need to clarify what he means. A flurry of nods and yes's meet his request, and Will hands him the ambrosia.

          Micah sighs, keeping a tight hand on the tissues still pressed to his nostrils. So much for an simple morning.

          As he fights down the acrid flavor of the ambrosia (trying not to gag), the rest of his siblings collectively unfreeze and begin shuffling their things with muted fervor, as though they've just remembered they're on a schedule and they've fallen behind. Micah supposes they have — the altercation and his subsequent time-out couldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes, but time is precious when you're learning to defend yourself against monsters that want to kill you.

          Either Micah isn't as concussed as Will thinks he is, or they're trying to avoid answering his first question. He had never told anyone, let alone Clarisse, his issues with ambrosia before. Why had his sisters nudged the daughter of Ares so roughly even she had momentarily gone quiet? An insult from Clarisse is nothing special. But pest — that's a new one.

          Micah isn't sure what to do with himself except helplessly stare at the muted activity around him and wait for his bloody nose to ease up. One by one, his brothers mumble sympathies and feel betters before grabbing their bags, weapons, and whatever odds and ends they'll need for the morning's first activity, until he's the only one left in the room. Even Will takes one final look at Micah's nose, and apparently deems it fine, because he too stands up from kneeling position, grabs a healing kit from one of the overflowing shelves, and leaves, muttering something about being late for the infirmary on his way out.

          Now silent apart from some faint rummaging, the cabin echoes with the lingering energy of a tense crowd that's just dispersed. The remnants of raised voices, in addition to his confusion, still hang in the air. Empty bunks surround him, each one a silent witness.

          A great exhale leaves Micah's chest. He rests his head in his hands — easier, now that he can feel the effects thrumming through his body. He was never quite sure with this camp, and it was as if the other campers weren't sure what to do with him either. There were times where he managed to fit in easily, where he could mirror the energy of the campfire sing-alongs or canoe races so naturally he never might have guessed he only met these people a few months ago. Yet there were others when he would rather be attacked by a snake then try and participate in any of the activities the rest of his siblings effortlessly breezed through.

          A single glance at any bow and arrow is enough of an embarrassing reminder that Micah's archery skills are borderline pitiful. The first time he'd picked up a bow, he'd nearly decapitated the half a dozen kids in the vicinity curious enough to see how good a shot he was. Needless to say, everyone scattered pretty quickly when he got it into his head every once in a while to try and see if he'd had some magical improvement.

          Micah's pity party may very well have lasted much longer if not for the crash a few bunks away from him. The sound bangs around in his skull like a pin machine, and the room echoes like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around, clashing against one another.

          "Sorry!" Lee's voice cuts through the clatter of belongings in the room like a butter knife — startling, but not threatening. At least not anymore. Micah's heart may no longer be jumping out of his chest, but he doesn't appreciate being left alone (to brood, no less) and spied on.

          Lee's head of curly black hair pops out from beneath a row of beds. "I wasn't stalking you, I promise," he says, reading Micah's mind. "But there's a ton of trick arrows under Kayla's bed, so I wanted to grab them when she wasn't looking. She's rigged up some really cool — oh, yeah. Uh — sorry. . ."

          Micah's not entirely sure what Lee is apologizing for until he follows his pitying gaze. The bow and arrow Micah should be carrying around as a new son of Apollo is one of the many items strewn on the floor of the cabin. He could have sworn he'd stuffed it in a compartment or closet somewhere, but just Micah's luck for his abandoned weapon to come back to haunt him.

          He makes a mental note to throw it in the bonfire.

          Micah's face remains impassive, though one glance at the aureate floor reveals he's not as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. He stares at the floor. A reflection of every emotion he'd ever felt about being a defective son of Apollo stares back at him, as clear and raw as if they'd been carved into a marble statue.

          Lee's gaze softens. Micah doesn't like it.

          Still clutching his nose (though the pain has started to dissipate), his shoulders sunken, Micah suddenly feels very small. Another exhale. Chest rising, falling. A broken record.

          Through a mumble of excuses, Micah begins to dig through his own belongings. An awkward daze where the noise from the camp seems to dim within the massive four walls of Cabin Seven. He doesn't spare Lee a glance, too annoyed, a maybe even a little afraid, of the sympathy he'll no doubt find. But it's difficult to immerse yourself into sulking when you're practically tackled from behind.

          Micah is thinking about all the ways he wants to turn and strangle his half-brother when he feels his massive bicep around his neck. "I know you have to sort through reports with Chiron, but Kayla's probably gonna come back here looking for her trick arrows, and it's probably best we don't leave any witnesses. Yeah?"

          ". .  .Yes? I think?"

          Lee claps him on the back with a grin, and Micah's knees almost buckle from the impact. The sharp pain in his nose has dulled to a faint throb. He straightens the best he can with the weight of his gorilla-of-a-brother bearing on his shoulders. "Where are we going?"

          "The strawberry fields," the older boy replies. "It's the end of the month, and I was supposed to head up there earlier to help them pick. . ."

          His lingering 'but' needs no finishing. The past week has seen an influx of injuries all across camp, and the Apollo cabin has been swamped trying to care for them all. From broken bones to sniffles and fevers, some kind of affliction has gripped Camp Half-Blood lately, though no one seems to know why. Hence, the messy cabin. And by extension, their tardiness.

          "You can help lug the crates," offers Lee.

          The corners of Micah's mouth seem to battle against an invisible weight as they tug upward — different than the very much physical mass of his half-brother's considerable figure. Each movement feels orchestrated by invisible threads, his limbs still and suspended like a marionette awaiting its final act.

          A small, selfish part of him wants Lee to notice his lack of enthusiasm, his reluctance to ease into cheerfulness so quickly after his fight with Clarisse, despite the concern his brother has shown by staying behind to check on him. To see past the thin veneer of his wobbly lie that Micah has only perfected over these last few months.

          "Sounds fun," he manages.

          The matching smile on his half-brother's face is somehow disappointing.

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( A/N. )

why did i think it was a good idea to have four povs?? now there's FOUR intro chapters to get through before anything remotely interesting happens 😭

yes yes i have once again delivered a chapter where next to nothing happens but they don't call me the queen of fillers for nothing (they don't call me that) so enjoy a micah chapter! bro is not going to spend all his chapters beat up i promise

also about clarisse: i know it seems like i'm beating up on clarisse and her entire personality is being a bully and fighting (which if you've read the books is tbh kinda accurate) but this also takes place before the lightning thief, so she hasn't had any of that sweet sweet character growth yet. just something to keep in mind!! she'll surely get a happy ending 😃 definitely nothing bad will happen 😃😃

fun fact: the inspection in the beginning was originally going to be done by annabeth, which was supposed to be a laugh bc she's like eleven right now lmao. the rest of the chapter was going to be micah and lee going down to the strawberry fields and finding out what's going on there, and meeting marisol outside her pov! but that all changed once i got the idea to have the skirmish since i'm not having annabeth punch anyone and there'd be no fighting back (she'd do it though)

it'll take a few more chapters to get things actually going BUT up next is marisol, and her povs should be at least a little interesting i hope?? then i'm thinking iggy, nia, marisol, and micah again but that might switch around a little bit depending how things go when i'm actually writing. normally chapters have more oomph and substance in them but some scenes are better suited for different pov's, hence the shorter chapters. the next chapter should come out soon (i hope) to compensate for this short one.

(word count: 4.7k)