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Jessica Lynn Sugg and Oscar Mario Rogriguez of Canton are engaged and planning a May 19 wedding. She is the daughter of Mark Sugg of Raleigh, N.C. and Lori Sugg of Brushton. He is the son of the late Oscar Rodriguez Alajuela of Costa Rica and Andrew and Elba Welty of Palm City, Fla. The future bride graduated from Franklin Academy in Malone in 2006 and received an associate's degree from North Country Community College in 2008. She works as a teacher at the Canton Day Care Center. The future groom graduated from Martin County High School in 2008 and received a bachelor's degree from St. Lawrence University in 2014. He works as assistant dean of admissions at Clarkson University.

'Cosmos' vs. 'Master Designer' Email Print Whatsapp Menu Whatsapp Google Reddit Digg Stumbleupon Linkedin "The cosmos is all that is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be." Those opening words from Carl Sagan's 1980s TV series, "The Cosmos" are a succinct statement of what's become the driving philosophy behind much of modern science and science education: materialism. The debate over Darwinian evolution, as heated as that gets, is only one part of a larger worldview conflict-one fought between those who look at the natural world and say, "This is designed," and those who look at it and conclude, "This happened by itself." The Bible makes it clear which side we Christians are on. The psalmist tells us "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims his handiwork" (Ps 19). The Apostle Paul tells us in Romans 1 that the creation reveals even the power and moral nature of God, leaving everyone who's ever looked up at the sky on a starry night "without excuse." The cosmos, Scripture tells us, isn't all that is. In fact, it shouts to everyone who has ears to listen that Someone greater and eternal exists. But the question is, Do we have ears to hear it? There's a scene in C. S. Lewis' "The Magician's Nephew," from "The Chronicles of Narnia" series, when after singing the world into existence, the Lion Aslan tries to speak with Uncle Andrew, the magician who first brings those from our world into Narnia. "He has made himself unable to hear my voice," says Aslan. "If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh Adam's sons, how cleverly you defend yourself against all that may do you good!" Well, our Creator still speaks through the cosmos, and the sons of Adam keep defending themselves against His voice. A new remake of Sagan's series debuted on Fox earlier this month, and its host, Neil deGrasse Tyson, is making no bones where his allegiance lies in this battle of worldviews. The first episode features the story of Giordano Bruno, a 16th century Dominican friar who was burned at the stake, according to Tyson for speculating the earth revolved around the sun. Now, I'm not for burning heretics at the stake, but the fact is that he was executed for preaching anti-trinitarian universalism and other heresies. In the latest episode, Tyson goes further, leveling direct shots at Intelligent Design and praising the power of "mindless evolution." The eye-which Darwin himself called one of the greatest problems for his theory-is no problem at all, according to Tyson. He claims natural selection could build it, step-by-step, despite staggering evidence to the contrary. But here's what really strikes me about the new "Cosmos" series: It's beautiful. And despite the show's trying to explain that beauty away as a product of "mindless evolution," the Creator's voice still breaks through. That's why DNA co-discoverer Francis Crick felt compelled to write, "Biologists must constantly keep in mind that what they see was not designed, but rather evolved." I don't envy Tyson and other materialists that task, especially after my interview with Steve Greisen. He's the producer of a new beautifully made documentary that will help you hear not only God's voice in nature, but the entire symphony. The film is called "The Master Designer: The Song," and it explores the biology and lives of six animals-and how they uniquely reveal foresight and intelligent design. The two insects alone will blow you away. For example, did you know that bees communicate through smells and give each other GPS coordinates by dancing?-or that crickets told the ancient Chinese when to plant, when to harvest and when cold weather was coming? And wait until you hear the cricket's song slowed down. Wow! This entire film reminded me not just how overwhelming the evidence for design is, but that the only right response to it is worship. Uncle Andrew can keep "Cosmos."

#pragma once #include <stdio.h> #include "StringConverter.h" #include <curl/curl.h> namespace ServerEye { class ConnectionManager { public: ConnectionManager(); ~ConnectionManager(); class CurlHandle { public: CurlHandle(); ~CurlHandle(); static curl_socket_t opensocketCallBack(void *clientp, curlsocktype purpose, struct curl_sockaddr *address); static int closesocketCallBack(void *clientp, curl_socket_t sock); void Init(); void Close(); CURL* m_CurlObj; curl_socket_t m_Socket; }; // Formatting URL static wstring urlParamEncode(const wstring& param); // Proxy stuff static void setProxy(const wstring& ip, const wstring& port, const wstring& user, const wstring& password); static void configureProxy(CurlHandle& curlHandle); static void InitHandle(CurlHandle& curlHandle); // HTTP Posts, Requests static int httpPost(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, const wstring& body, wstring& OutMsg); static int httpPost(const wstring& url, const wstring& body, wstring& OutMsg) { CurlHandle curl; return httpPost(curl, url, body, OutMsg); } static wstring httpPostStr(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, const wstring& body){ wstring OutMsg; httpPost(curl, url, body, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } static wstring httpPostStr(const wstring& url, const wstring& body){ wstring OutMsg; httpPost(url, body, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } static int httpPut(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, const wstring& body, wstring& OutMsg); static int httpPut(const wstring& url, const wstring& body, wstring& OutMsg) { CurlHandle curl; return httpPut(curl, url, body, OutMsg); } static wstring httpPutStr(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, const wstring& body){ wstring OutMsg; httpPut(curl, url, body, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } static wstring httpPutStr(const wstring& url, const wstring& body){ wstring OutMsg; httpPut(url, body, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } static int httpGetFile(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, const wstring& fileName); static int httpGetFile(const wstring& url, const wstring& fileName) { CurlHandle curl; return httpGetFile(curl, url, fileName); } static int httpGet(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url, wstring& OutMsg); static int httpGet(const wstring& url, wstring& OutMsg) { CurlHandle curl; return httpGet(curl, url, OutMsg); } static wstring httpGetStr(CurlHandle& curl, const wstring& url){ wstring OutMsg; httpGet(curl, url, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } static wstring httpGetStr(const wstring& url){ wstring OutMsg; httpGet(url, OutMsg); return OutMsg; } private: static wstring proxyIp; static wstring proxyPort; static wstring proxyUser; static wstring proxyPW; }; }

// DeleteResources removes resources from the system. func DeleteResources(clients client.Clients, namespace string, objects []*unstructured.Unstructured) { for _, object := range objects { DeleteResource(clients, namespace, object) } }

Classification of Gait Patterns in Patients with Neurodegenerative Disease Using Adaptive Neuro-Fuzzy Inference System A common feature that is typical of the patients with neurodegenerative (ND) disease is the impairment of motor function, which can interrupt the pathway from cerebrum to the muscle and thus cause movement disorders. For patients with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis disease (ALS), the impairment is caused by the loss of motor neurons. While for patients with Parkinson's disease (PD) and Huntington's disease (HD), it is related to the basal ganglia dysfunction. Previously studies have demonstrated the usage of gait analysis in characterizing the ND patients for the purpose of disease management. However, most studies focus on extracting characteristic features that can differentiate ND gait from normal gait. Few studies have demonstrated the feasibility of modelling the nonlinear gait dynamics in characterizing the ND gait. Therefore, in this study, a novel approach based on an adaptive neuro-fuzzy inference system (ANFIS) is presented for identification of the gait of patients with ND disease. The proposed ANFIS model combines neural network adaptive capabilities and the fuzzy logic qualitative approach. Gait dynamics such as stride intervals, stance intervals, and double support intervals were used as the input variables to the model. The particle swarm optimization (PSO) algorithm was utilized to learn the parameters of the ANFIS model. The performance of the system was evaluated in terms of sensitivity, specificity, and accuracy using the leave-one-out cross-validation method. The competitive classification results on a dataset of 13 ALS patients, 15 PD patients, 20 HD patients, and 16 healthy control subjects indicated the effectiveness of our approach in representing the gait characteristics of ND patients. Introduction Neurodegeneration is the progressive loss of structure or function of neurons, including death of neurons. Many neurodegenerative diseases, such as amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Parkinson's disease (PD), and Huntington's disease (HD), occur as a result of neurodegenerative processes. Such diseases are incurable, resulting in progressive degeneration and/or death of neuron cells and producing changes in altered neuromuscular control. Since flexion and extension motions of two lower limbs are regulated by the central nervous system, the gait of a patient with a neurodegenerative disorder would become abnormal due to deterioration of motor neurons. PD and HD are two neurodegenerative disorders of the basal ganglia, and the ability to maintain a steady walk with small stride-to-stride fluctuations is dramatically impaired. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), which is also referred to as Charcot's disease, is a progressive neuromuscular disease caused by the destruction of motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. is causes loss of nervous control of the voluntary muscles, resulting in the degeneration and atrophy of the muscles. At the early stage of ALS, weakness of lower motor neurons would affect the movement function and may lead to balanced impairment or altered gait rhythm. erefore, analysis of gait cadence may help us to produce automatic noninvasive detection of movement disorders caused by the degeneration of motor neurons. Several studies have analysed the impact of ND diseases on the gait dynamics of the subjects. Hausdorff et al. found that the ability to maintain a steady gait, with low stride-to-stride variability of gait cycle timing and its subphases, was diminished for both PD and HD, two typical disorders of basal ganglia. Furthermore, they found that gait speed was significantly lower in PD, but not in HD, and average gait cycle duration and the time spent in many subphases of the gait cycle were similar in control (CO) subjects, HD subjects, and PD subjects. In another similar study, Hausdorff et al. studied the magnitude of the stride-to-stride fluctuations and perturbations of the gait rhythm in subjects with ALS disease in comparison with healthy CO subjects and PD and HD patients. eir study revealed a longer stride interval for ALS patients than all the other three compared groups. ey also found that patients with ALS have less steady gait between successive stride intervals in comparison with control subjects, using the detrended fluctuation analysis technique. In order to facilitate automated identification of neurodegenerative diseases like PD, HD, and ALS for the clinical assistant purpose by using gait signals, different machine learning tools have also been applied in previous studies. Baratin et al. introduced a wavelet-based scheme for effective characterization of gait associated with ALS patients. ey extracted features such as entropy that reflects the regularity of gait and coherence between left and right limbs from the wavelet approximation part of the raw gait signal. en, the classification of ALS gaits and normal gaits was implemented with a linear discriminant analysis (LDA) classifier. Wu et al. quantified the gait variability in patients with PD by counting the signal turns. ey found that the signal turns in the stride interval time series presented a significant difference between the healthy control subjects and the PD patients. In another similar study by the same authors, the nonparametric Parzen window method was utilized to estimate the probability density functions (PDFs) of gait stride interval time series, and then by computing the mean of left foot stride interval time series and the modified Kullback-Leibler divergence of the PDFs between left foot and right foot as the two features, they realized the classification of gait in subjects with ALS and normal subjects by using the least squares support vector machines (LS-SVM). ese studies suggest that gait cadence exhibits complex and nonlinear behaviour in both patients with ND diseases and control (CO) subjects because of the nonlinear dynamics of the human system. However, due to the presence of neurological disorders, the ND patients' gait rhythm manifests significant differences than that of the healthy CO subjects, such as the magnitude of stride-tostride gait variability, gait speed, and the degree of asymmetry in gait rhythm. Previous evidence has shown that discrimination between normal and abnormal gait could be implemented by means of the statistical, nonlinear computational method. ANFIS harnesses the power of two paradigms, fuzzy logic and artificial neural networks, which have shown significant results in modelling nonlinear functions. In the ANFIS, the membership function parameters are learned from a dataset that describes the system behaviour under the constraints of a given error criterion. As far as we know, ANFIS has been successfully applied in biomedical engineering for different tasks such as classification and data analysis. In this study, a novel approach based on ANFIS is presented for the classification of gait cadence between the patients with ND disease and the healthy subjects. e ANFIS model combined with the particle swarm optimization (PSO) algorithm is used to learn the nonlinear gait dynamics by using five gait cadence signals as the input variables, and then the classification between patients with ALS disease and normal subjects is implemented with a simple distance-based classifier by using the outputs of the ANFIS model. is paper has been organized as follows: the description of the gait dataset and an overview of our proposed method are given in Section 2. e experimental results and some discussions are presented in Section 3. Finally, some conclusions are given in Section 4. Description of Dataset. e gait dataset used in this study was contributed by Hausdorff et al., and it has been used by several different studies to investigate the gait characteristics of the patients with neurodegenerative diseases. To measure the gait signals, force-sensitive switches were placed in the subject's shoe. e gait signals were sampled at 300 Hz via an onboard analog-to-digital converter (12 bit). e experimental protocol required that each subject should walk at their normal pace along a 77 m-long hallway for 5 min. According to the descriptions in, the first 20 s of the recorded data were excluded to eliminate the start-up effects and a median filter was applied to remove data points that had a standard deviation (SD) greater than 3 or were less than the median value. As we had introduced in our previous study, the gait dataset used in this study provides the following seven gait parameters: left and right stride interval (time from initial contact of one foot to the immediate subsequent contact), left and right stance interval (amount of time when one foot is on the ground), left and right swing interval (amount of time when one foot is in the air), and double support interval (time of bilateral foot contact). irteen ALS patients, fifteen PD patients, and twenty HD patients were recruited from the Neurology Outpatient Clinic at Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, MA, USA. Also, another sixteen healthy CO subjects were enrolled to conduct the comparative study. Each subject provided informed consent as approved by the Institutional Review Board of the Massachusetts General Hospital. ere was no significant difference between the weights and heights of the CO subjects and the ND patients. e ND patients were not using a wheelchair or assistive device for mobility and were free of other ailments that might affect lower extremity weakness. e presence or absence of symptoms that might affect the gait was determined by a qualified physician. e severity of ALS is represented by the time since the onset of the disease. e Hoehn and Yahr (H&Y) scale and the total functional capacity (TFC) are used to assess the degree of neurologic impairment in PD and HD patients, respectively. Basic information of all the subjects participated in this study has been listed in Table 1. Adaptive Neuro-Fuzzy Inference System (ANFIS) e ANFIS is a useful neural network method for the solution of function approximation problems. An ANFIS produces the mapping relation between the input and output data by using the hybrid learning method to determine the optimal distribution of membership functions. It combines artificial neural network (ANN) and fuzzy logic. Such a framework makes ANFIS modelling more systematic and less reliant on expert knowledge. To present the ANFIS architecture, for simplicity, two fuzzy if-then rules based on a first-order Sugeno model can be stated as where x and y are the inputs of ANFIS; A i and B i are the fuzzy sets; f i (x, y) is a first-order polynomial and represents the outputs of the first-order Sugeno fuzzy inference system; and p i, q i, and r i are the design parameters that are determined during the training process. e architecture of ANFIS is shown in Figure 1, and the node function in each layer is described below. Adaptive nodes, denoted by squares, represent the parameter sets that are adjustable in these nodes, whereas fixed nodes, denoted by circles, represent the parameter sets that are fixed in the system. In the first layer, all the nodes are adaptive nodes. e output can be specified as where A i (x) and B i − 2 (y) can adopt any fuzzy membership function. For instance, if the bell-shaped membership function is applied, A i (x) is given by where a i, b i, and c i are the parameters set governing the bellshaped functions accordingly. ese parameters are named as premise parameters. In the second layer, the nodes are fixed nodes marked by a circle. ey are labeled, indicating that they serve as multipliers. e output of this layer can be given as where the output i represents the firing strength of a rule. Every node in the third layer is also a fixed node marked by a circle and labeled N, with the node function of normalizing the firing strengths of the previous layer. e outputs of this layer can be represented as In the fourth layer, the nodes are adaptive nodes. e output is simply calculated as where f 1 and f 2 are the fuzzy if-then rules mentioned before and parameters p i, q i, and r i are also referred to as the consequent parameters. e single node in fifth layer is a fixed node. is node performs the summation of all the incoming signals. e overall output of ANFIS is given as 2.1.2. Learning Algorithm of ANFIS. e aim of the learning algorithm for this architecture is to tune all the modifiable parameters, including a i, b i, c i and p i, q i, r i, so as to match the ANFIS output with the training data. In this study, ANFIS employs particle swarm optimization (PSO) algorithm to adjust the parameters of the membership functions. e PSO techniques have the advantage of being less Computational and Mathematical Methods in Medicine computationally expensive for a given size of network topology. PSO is a swarm intelligence technique first introduced by Eberhart and Kennedy that imitates the social behaviour of groups of insects and animals such as swarms of bees, flocks of birds, and shoals of fish. Empirical evidence has been accumulated to show that the PSO algorithm is a useful tool for optimization, and it has been applied to many optimization problems in engineering. Suppose that the searching space is D-dimensional. A swarm of N particles are initialized in which each particle is assigned a random position in the D-dimensional hyperspace. Let x denotes a particle's position and v denotes the particle's flight velocity over a solution space. e best historical position of a particle is Pbest. e global best historical position among all particles in the swarm is Gbest. Velocity and position of a particle are updated by the following rules: where is the inertia weight; rand 1 () and rand 2 () are the uniformly distributed random numbers between 0 and 1; and c 1 and c 2 are the learning rates. In this work, constants c 1 and c 2 are both set at 2.0, which was suggested in. Also, as suggested in the same work, an inertia correction function called "inertia weight approach (IWA)" is applied. During the IWA, the inertia weight is modified according to the following equation: where max and min are the initial and final inertia weights, Itr max is the maximum number of iteration, and Itr is the current number of iteration. e particle's fitness is calculated by inputting its position into a designed objective function. In this study, the optimization function to be minimized is root mean square error (RMSE), defined by the following equation: where z(k) is the kth actual sample value, z M (k) is the target output of the ANFIS model for the input features of the kth sample, and N is the amount of training samples. Performance Evaluation. In the classification stage, for a test subject, a segment of gait dynamics is inputted to the ANFIS model, which will produce the same length of outputs. e average value of these outputs will be used to predict the final label of the test subject, which is determined according to the minimum distance of the average value to the label of either patients or healthy CO subjects. In our experiments, first each group of ND patients against the healthy CO subjects was evaluated, and then we evaluated all groups of neurodegenerative diseases against the healthy CO subjects. To validate the performance of the proposed method, the leave-one-out cross-validation (LOOCV) method over the entire dataset was done. During LOOCV, one subject was left out at a time and used for testing, and other remaining subjects were used as training data. e test performance of the ANFIS model was evaluated by the following statistical measures: specificity (S p ), sensitivity (S n ), and classification accuracy (C a ). where TP, TN, FP, and FN are true positives, true negatives, false positives, and false negatives, respectively. Results and Discussion In our experiments, the following five different gait parameters are chosen as the inputs to the ANFIS system: left and right stride interval, left and right stance interval, and double support interval. Also, as mentioned before, there are a few of walking turns that happened when the subjects reached the end of the hallway. In this study, only the longest time series segment between two adjacent walking turns is utilized. And every gait record in such segment is treated as an independent observation to be used as an input for training the ANFIS system. e statistics of each feature for different category of subjects is presented in Table 2. e final target outputs of ANFIS are designated as 0 and 4, indicating healthy CO subjects and ND patients, respectively. With five input variables and two membership functions each, the number of rules reaches 2 5 � 32. As an example, the mean square error curve of training the ANFIS model for classification between the ALS patients and the CO subjects is shown in Figure 2. e initial and final membership functions are shown in Figure 3. Based on the analysis of membership functions of each input feature, it was found that most of them have considerable impact on the final identification of ALS patient. e classification results between the ALS patients and the CO subjects are shown in Table 3. It can be observed that only one ALS patient and one CO subject were wrongly classified. us, the statistical measures of the classification performance evaluated by the LOOCV method are as follows: a specificity of 93.75%, a sensitivity of 92.31%, and an accuracy of 93.10%. e classification performances of PD patients vs. CO subjects and HD patients vs. CO subjects are listed in Tables 4 and 5, respectively. e accuracy for differentiating PD patients from CO subjects is 90.32%, with two PD patients and one CO subjects are wrongly classified. Similarly, in the experiments of diagnosing HD patients, 19 out of 20 HD patients and 15 out of 16 CO subjects are correctly recognized, leading to an accuracy of 94.44%. Finally, the results of all groups of neurodegenerative patients vs. CO subjects are reported in Table 6, where a specificity of Furthermore, another experiment is performed to explore the performance of the proposed method in discriminating ND patients with different severity levels. According to the dividing approach proposed in, the ND gait data available in this study are broadly categorized into two groups: mild lower extremity functional impairment and more advanced functional impairment. e severe group consists of 9 PD patients with the Hoehn and Yahr score greater than or equal to 3, 9 HD patients with their total functional capacity score less than or equal to 5, and 9 ALS patients with stride time greater than 1.2 s. e rest belongs to the group with mild impairment. Discrimination accuracies were calculated for classification between the CO group and the two ND groups. e classification results are shown in Table 7. e best performance (an accuracy of 100%) was obtained for the classification between the CO group and the severe ND group. e accuracy for classifying the CO subjects and the mild ND group is 86.49%. However, for the classification between the two ND groups, i.e., mild ND group vs. severe ND group, the statistical measures of the performance of a sensitivity of 85.19%, a specificity of 80.95%, and an accuracy of 83.33% were still very promising. Such a result indicated that the proposed classification model could be used as a potential technique for identifying ND patients with different levels of severity. e comparison of the classification performance between the proposed algorithm in this study and several state-of-the-art classification methods on the same dataset is tabulated in Table 8. It can be noted that our proposed ANFIS-based method obtained the most accurate classification results in most cases. For example, for the purpose of identifying the ALS patients' gaits from the normal gaits, Wu et al. extracted features like swing interval turns count and averaged stride interval. By using the least squares support vector machine (LS-SVM) as the classifier, they obtained an overall accuracy of 89.66%, which is a bit lower than an accuracy of 93.10% obtained in the present study. Zeng and Wang modelled the gait dynamics with the radial basis function (RBF) neural networks, and by using the model learned via deterministic learning, they reported a classification accuracy of 87.1% between PD patients and CO subjects, while our method presented an accuracy of 90.32%. ese competitive results indicate that the proposed approach can be effective for the classification of ND patients using gait dynamics. However, as a limitation of this study, current gait dataset available at Physionet is small at its size. erefore, for actual clinical purposes, such as gait monitoring of disease progression and evaluation of the response of therapy, more ND patients at different severities and age levels should be recruited into the database in the future studies. When more ND patients and matched CO subjects were enrolled into the study, the training of the ANFIS model could be more effective, and thus the proposed system would be more instructive for identifying the innate gait differences between ND patients and CO subjects. Conclusions In this study, a new classification scheme has been proposed for the purpose of classifying the gait of ND patients from normal gait. e presented ANFIS model combines neural network adaptive capabilities and the fuzzy logic qualitative approach, which provides an ideal tool for modelling the nonstationary human gait dynamics. Five gait cadence time series: left stride interval, right stride interval, left stance interval, right stance interval, and double support interval were used as the input variables of the ANFIS model. When evaluated with the LOOCV method, the classification accuracies of the ANFIS model for discriminating ND vs. CO, ALS vs. CO, PD vs. CO, and HD vs. CO groups were 90.63%, 93.10%, 90.22%, and 94.44%, respectively. By taking into consideration the misclassification rates, the proposed Data Availability e data used to support the findings of this study are available at PhysioNet website (http://www.physionet. org/physiobank/database/gaitndd/). Ethical Approval e authors would like to inform that no ethical approval was required since a deidentified public database was used in this study. Conflicts of Interest ere are no conflicts of interest regarding the publication of this paper.

Two years ago, few believed 'BusinessWeek' would ever be relevant again. We were wrong. Josh Tyrangiel has a preposterous mission: to convince readers that a weekly business magazine left for dead two years ago is now a must-read. That would be challenging enough in a good market. But in 2011, with print advertising still in crisis, there may not even be such a thing as a must-read magazine anymore. “Is any media brand with the word ‘week’ in it going to survive?” asks Larry Kramer, the founder of MarketWatch, a successful online news brand. The “week” in question is Bloomberg Businessweek, which Bloomberg LP bought in October 2009 for a dollar, when it was still just called BusinessWeek, and soon after handed to Tyrangiel, a young Turk (he’s now 39) at Time magazine. Arguably this editorship was the best job in journalism; it was also arguably the worst. Businessweek was now being funded by a company with a great deal of money and great ambitions; the publication was also losing $63 million a year. So far, the Bloomberg money has bought signs of life. Businessweek has bulked up to an average of 66 well-designed editorial pages that offer a level of global business coverage not found among other weeklies. Ad pages are up 21 percent year-on-year for January through July; the rate base will soon be raised from 900,000 to 980,000 (approaching Forbes’ 1,020,000); and subscriptions are up 12 percent. The magazine now loses, according to Adweek sources, between $20 million to $30 million annually. But Tyrangiel’s mission is not survival. His mission is “indispensability”—without question, his favorite word. “For a weekly magazine in this climate, the only bar that you have to clear is indispensability,” he told Monocle last year. “Indispensability is the hallmark of the product,” he told Charlie Rose in December. “Greatness is indispensable,” he told Adweek. Tyrangiel, however, refers to it as something out of The Jetsons, betraying the fact that he still feels a bit out of place. But for all the advantages, one is left with a persistent and uneasy sense of illusion. Why exactly is Bloomberg pouring its resources into a weekly magazine? You can’t trade on Businessweek’s information the way you can on the parent company’s stock in trade, the Bloomberg Terminal. It doesn’t offer subscribers insider information about the relevant goings-on in Washington, D.C., the way Bloomberg Government does. It rarely even offers breaking news like Bloomberg News. In the vast, bustling Bloomberg universe, which thrives on providing exclusive, up-to-the-minute information, a weekly magazine is an anomaly. So is it merely a vanity project for New York’s mayor, Michael Bloomberg, who, it’s believed, desperately wants his own version of The Economist? Is it simply a marketing effort for Bloomberg LP—a way of reaching an audience that hasn’t been on the company’s other platforms? Or is it just a way of leveraging the global staff Bloomberg already has? Many in the industry contend he has already achieved that on the design side. One of his first moves in 2009 was to hire creative director Richard Turley, former art director at the Guardian’s G2 section, one of the most innovative examples of print design. Turley redesigned the magazine based on Tyrangiel’s vision. As soon as Turley got to New York from London, Tyrangiel, who sits with his staff in the newsroom, put Turley’s desk directly across from his own in order to keep the editors and designers in an ongoing conversation. “He has a very good design sensibility and aesthetic, which is reflected in the magazine,” Stengel, managing editor at Time, says of Tyrangiel. No one would ever mistake Businessweek for its more staid rivals. For a recent profile of a rarely photographed Wall Street executive, Turley and Tyrangiel compensated for the lack of a photograph by leaving the title spread blank except for a few explanatory words in very small type. When, for an issue on cyber warfare, they decided to blow up a computer for the cover shot, they made sure the cover lines responded to the explosion, creating jumbled text. As a whole, the magazine succeeds in being both familiar enough to navigate and novel enough to arrest. According to a staffer, Tyrangiel is “obsessive” about furthering that mission. Tyrangiel has pushed to make Businessweek as comprehensive as possible. The front of the book—a five-part roundup of the week’s news in Global Economics, Companies & Industries, Politics & Policy, Technology, and Markets & Finance that’s probably the most traditional part of the magazine—has the same value proposition as The Economist. It offers a wide-ranging report of the week’s news—in this case, business news—from around the world, making it the layman’s weekend edition of the Bloomberg Terminal. The feature well is where the magazine’s editorial content gets away from tradition. If the front of the book is comparable to The Economist, the feature well is more like New York—and the writing strives for that sensibility. The talent Tyrangiel has brought in reflects that. To bolster the magazine’s technology coverage, he hired Brad Stone, then The New York Times’ top tech reporter, and later added two more tech reporters from the Times and The Economist, respectively. In July, he grabbed Joshua Green, who at the time was a senior editor at The Atlantic, to cover politics. Now, the magazine is looking toward a global market. In 2012, Businessweek will launch European and Asian editions—an important symbolic victory, since the magazine shuttered those same editions in 2005, under its previous ownership. Those editions will join local-language versions in Chinese, Thai, Indonesian, Turkish, Arabic, and Polish. Unsurprisingly, the Bloomberg management sings Tyrangiel’s praises. “Josh took an 80-year-old magazine, a significant part of the American media landscape, and in a really short period of time, updated it to make it a must-read in the increasingly digital world that we are part of,” says Matt Winkler, the editor-in-chief of Bloomberg News. But Businessweek is still not really a must-read for most people. Newsstand sales fell 27 percent in 2010 and 34 percent in the first half of 2011. Those figures aren’t key to its business strategy, but they’re not all that reassuring for the indispensability campaign either. That point is coming up. Tyrangiel has spent two years reinventing Businessweek, making it the most exciting business magazine out there. But he still needs to convince readers that it’s essential. Success takes not just reinvention, but time—and the time that Bloomberg can afford him may be its ultimate resource and gift.

Alternative Feedback Approaches for Improving Student Teachers' Classroom Instruction Freiberg and Waxman describe three approaches for providing feedback that have not been widely used but have great potential for improving the class room instruction of preservice teachers. The methods include: (a) feedback from pupils, (b) systematic feedback from classroom observation systems, and (c) self-analysis of classroom lessons. The authors argue that these feedback ap proaches, individually or collectively, provide student teachers, cooperating teachers, and university supervisors with excellent data for strengthening the preservice teaching experience.

package com.maxiee.heartbeat.common; import android.content.Context; import android.content.DialogInterface; import android.content.SharedPreferences; import android.support.v7.app.AlertDialog; import android.util.TypedValue; import com.maxiee.heartbeat.R; import com.maxiee.heartbeat.ui.common.BaseActivity; /** * Created by maxiee on 15/10/22. */ public class ThemeUtils { private static final String CURRENT_THEME = "current_theme"; private static final int[] THEME_TITLES_RES = new int[] { R.string.theme_heartbeat, R.string.theme_lemon, R.string.strawberry, R.string.starry, R.string.morning, R.string.grape, R.string.burberry }; private static final int[] THEME_ACTIVITY_RES = new int[] { R.style.AppTheme, R.style.AppTheme_lemon, R.style.AppTheme_strawberry, R.style.AppTheme_starry, R.style.AppTheme_morning, R.style.AppTheme_grape, R.style.AppTheme_burberry }; private static final int[] THEME_DIALOG_RES = new int[] { R.style.AppTheme_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_lemon_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_strawberry_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_starry_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_morning_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_grape_Dialog, R.style.AppTheme_burberry_Dialog }; public static void chooseThemeDialog(final Context context) { AlertDialog.Builder builder = new AlertDialog.Builder(context); builder.setTitle(context.getString(R.string.change_theme)); builder.setItems(getThemeTitles(context), new DialogInterface.OnClickListener() { @Override public void onClick(DialogInterface dialog, int which) { setCurrentActivityTheme(context, which); ((BaseActivity) context).recreate(); } }); builder.show(); } private static CharSequence[] getThemeTitles(Context context) { CharSequence[] titles = new String[THEME_TITLES_RES.length]; for (int i=0; i<THEME_TITLES_RES.length; i++) { titles[i] = context.getString(THEME_TITLES_RES[i]); } return titles; } public static int getCurrentActivityTheme(Context context) { SharedPreferences sp = getSharedPreference(context); int index = sp.getInt(CURRENT_THEME, 0); return THEME_ACTIVITY_RES[index]; } public static int getCurrentDialogTheme(Context context) { SharedPreferences sp = getSharedPreference(context); int index = sp.getInt(CURRENT_THEME, 0); return THEME_DIALOG_RES[index]; } private static void setCurrentActivityTheme(Context context, int index) { SharedPreferences.Editor editor = getSharedPreference(context).edit(); editor.putInt(CURRENT_THEME, index); editor.apply(); } private static SharedPreferences getSharedPreference(Context context) { return context.getSharedPreferences("hb", Context.MODE_PRIVATE); } public static int getAttributeColor(Context context, int resId) { TypedValue typedValue = new TypedValue(); context.getTheme().resolveAttribute(resId, typedValue, true); int color = 0x000000; if (typedValue.type >= TypedValue.TYPE_FIRST_COLOR_INT && typedValue.type <= TypedValue.TYPE_LAST_COLOR_INT) { // resId is a color color = typedValue.data; } else { // resId is not a color } return color; } }

import React from "react"; import { useQuery } from "react-query"; import { getTodos } from "api/getTodos"; import TaskCard from "components/taskCard"; const TaskList: React.FC = () => { const { isLoading, isError, error, data } = useQuery('todos', getTodos) if (isLoading) { return ( <div> Is Loading...</div> ) } if (isError) { return ( <div> Is Error... {error}</div> ) } return ( <section className="flex flex-col overflow-x-hidden overflow-y-auto h-taskList rounded"> {data?.todos.map((todo) => { return ( <TaskCard key={todo._id} title={todo.title} taskId={todo._id} status={todo.status} /> ) })} </section> ) } export default TaskList

A variational perspective on controllability We introduce and examine a variational approach to controllability problems based on the minimization of a suitable error functional that measures how far admissible functions are from being a solution of the underlying state law. This philosophy is based on imposing boundary, initial and desirable final conditions into the admissible class of functions, and focus on minimizing the departure of such admissible functions from being a solution of the state law. This strategy leads to considering a functional analytical framework which sometimes is a bit different from the standard one, but it permits to show that the unique continuation property is equivalent to exact controllability. Indeed, the unique continuation property can be interpreted as the fact that local minimizers of the error functional can only occur at zero error. The following two are the main ingredients in which this variational approach relies: the existence of minimizers for the error and the unique continuation property just stated. The main issue on the existence of minimizers is to overcome lack of coercivity in the classical sense. Two advantages of this approach are its natural extension to nonlinear situations, and its direct numerical implementation as a steepest descent procedure.

Published: May 15, 2015 at 02:41 p.m. Updated: May 15, 2015 at 04:17 p.m. The Cleveland Browns have the second of their two first-round picks under contract. After striking a deal with nose tackle Danny Shelton on Monday, the Browns agreed to terms with offensive lineman Cameron Erving, the team announced on Friday. The No. 19 overall pick of the 2015 NFL Draft was plucked up by the Browns as a versatile blocker who can play all three positions. He logged snaps at right tackle during Cleveland's recent rookie minicamp, but is widely seen as the long-term replacement for center Alex Mack, who isn't expected to stay with the Browns beyond next season. Cam Erving has been insistent: I'm an offensive lineman. Doesn't care about position. Sounds like he means it. "I have never seen someone look so natural over the ball," Florida State offensive line coach Rick Trickett told The Plain Dealer's Tom Reed. "I think he can be Pro Bowl center although I know that's not where Cleveland is going to play him right now. He can fire off the ball and hook a nose guard before the guy can get out of his stance." Erving developed in college by watching film of Browns All-Pro left tackle Joe Thomas. Now he inhabits the same room, hoping -- like Thomas -- to turn Cleveland's front five into a raging headache for opposing defensive lines.

After Sunday’s loss concluded a 3-4 homestand against the lowly Diamondbacks and Rockies, Nationals Manager Matt Williams insisted that his team won’t dwell on the past week. “Of course we want to get better,” Williams said. “Of course we want to win games. And what we do right now is jump on that plane with a good attitude and go get the Dodgers and see what we can do. What other choice do we have? Pretty much none. So we’ll go do that.” Nationals players recognize the importance of the 10-game road trip that begins Monday in Los Angeles, but they say it isn’t time to panic. Still, something has to change if the Nationals, who trail the Mets by 1.5 games in the National League East, are to win their third division title in three years. [Fancy Stats: Why the Nats are in deep, deep trouble] On Tuesday, Hugh Kaufman performed a rubber-chicken sacrifice at Nationals Park, a ritual that Kaufman has turned to before when the Nationals have been mired in prolonged slumps. The Nationals won Tuesday, but lost the next day. On Thursday, Max Scherzer brought the Nationals’ lineup card to home plate, a job normally reserved for one of the coaches. The Nationals won, so the superstitious Scherzer took the lineup card out again on Friday. The Nationals lost that night, so Scherzer was not on lineup card duty on Saturday. After Max Scherzer took the lineup card out yesterday and the Nats won, he's doing it again today. — James Wagner (@JamesWagnerWP) August 7, 2015 Maybe it’s time for Williams to step up, not in the sense that he makes in-game decisions becoming of the reigning National League manager of the year, but in the sense that he finally fulfills his promise to imitate Babe Ruth if the Nationals won 10 straight games last year. [#AskMatt campaign leads to interesting, unanswered questions] If you’re not familiar with the back story, Williams was well known among teammates during his playing days for impersonating other players and managers’ voices and swings. Before a game at San Francisco’s Candlestick Park in 1991, Williams tucked a pillow under his jersey and imitated Babe Ruth hitting a home run before waddling around the bases and tipping his cap to imaginary fans. While playing for the San Fransisco Giants, the new Washington Nationals' manager Matt Williams would do impersonations of Babe Ruth, including waddling around the bases and stuffing a pillow underneath his jersey. (MLB Advanced Media, L.P.) During an interview with F.P. Santangelo in May 2014, Williams said he’d revive his Ruth impression under one condition. “If we do 10 in a row, I will break it out,” he said. “It’s been a long time, but yeah, I would. Ten in a row, you got it.” The Nationals didn’t win more than five games in a row until mid-August. When their streak reached seven games, Williams was reminded of his promise and confirmed that it still stood. “Well I didn’t necessarily want to bring that up,” he said. “But it is. Yes, it is. It’s still available.” The Nationals won their 10th consecutive game on Aug. 21 on an Anthony Rendon walk-off single. After the game, Williams said he’d wait for the right time to do the impression. The middle of a pennant race was not it. “Timing is ultimately important,” Williams said. “I wouldn’t imagine that right now is a proper time. It’s probably not appropriate, but in some form or fashion, at some point, probably in the privacy of some stadium somewhere, we’ll bring it out again. I don’t know when that will be. I haven’t done it since the last time I did it, but a promise is a promise, so at some point, somewhere. I can’t tell you when that would be, but at some point.” “Some point” eventually turned to 2015. In February, Williams was asked about his outstanding promise at spring training. Via Chelsea Janes: Asked when he would do the deed, Williams put an elbow on his desk and looked serious. “You know, I’ve made this decision,” he began, his tone stronger and more sullen than at any point prior. Then: “I can’t even keep a straight face. I have no idea.” Williams explained his logic behind postponing the performance, and did so with such clarity that one could hardly find a point to argue: “You know, there’s some folks that speculate that it’s kind of like a fine wine, right? So if you open that bottle of fine wine, why would you try to age it any further, because it’s already ready to drink, right?” Williams posited. “So that being said, why would you try to top what’s already been done? So that’s one avenue of thinking. The other avenue is, people are asking, ‘When are you going to do it?’ I don’t have a clue. I’m just trying to get through spring, man. So we’ll see. We’ll just keep people hanging.” Five months later and two days shy of the one-year anniversary of the start of the Nationals’ 10-game streak, we’re still hanging. It would be ludicrous to suggest that the Nationals are struggling because Williams hasn’t intentionally looked like a fool by breaking out his Bambino impression this season. But in the wake of the report by CBS Sports’ Jon Heyman last week that the Nationals clubhouse is an “unhappy scene” and many players find Williams “not loose” and “never relaxed,” there’s no time like the present. Williams could wait until the Nationals get to San Francisco, where the impersonation was born and the 2014 season died (unless Washington loses its first two games to the Dodgers, in which case Williams should do the impression for reporters instead of answering postgame questions on Wednesday). At the very least, it would give fans something to laugh about.

Interrenal dysfunction in fish from contaminated sites: In vivo and in vitro assessment Cortisol, synthesized in the interrenal cells of teleost head kidney, has a major role in the physiologic response to physical and chemical stressors. Plasma levels of cortisol increase in physiologically competent fish acutely exposed to stressors such as cadmium or mercury. The effects of chronic low level exposures are less well understood. We have diagnosed an endocrine impairment characterized by a reduced capacity to elevate plasma cortisol levels in response to an acute standardized capture stress in yellow perch (Perca flavescens) and in northern pike (Esox lucius) sampled at sites contaminated by mixtures of pollutants (heavy metals, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, and polychlorinated biphenyls), by heavy metals, or by bleached kraft mill effluent. Our studies with fish, as well as with amphibians at contaminated sites, demonstrated that low level chronic exposures impair secretion of corticosteroids. We have developed new tests for assessment of the functional integrity of teleost and amphibian interrenal tissue by using an adrenocorticotropic hormone (ACTH) challenge, in vivo and in vitro. The reduced ability to respond to ACTH indicates that the normal neuroendocrine response to stressors may be disrupted and that the ability to cope with biotic and abiotic stressors in the environment may be significantly reduced in the impaired animals.

<reponame>HyperbolaStudio/account-client import hash from 'hash.js'; export function genSHA256(t:string):string{ return hash.sha256().update(t).digest('hex'); }

The impact of COVID-19 on mental health outcomes among hospital fever clinic attendants across Nepal: A cross-sectional study Background The COVID-19 pandemic has been creating a panic and distressing situations among the entire population globally including Nepal. No study has been conducted assessing the psychological impact of this pandemic on the general public in Nepal. The objective of this study is to assess the mental health status during COVID-19 outbreak and explore the potential influencing factors among the population attending the hospital fever clinics with COVID19 symptoms. Methods A cross-sectional survey was conducted between MayJune, 2020 with a sample of 645 participants aged 18 and above in 26 hospitals across Nepal. Telephone interviews were conducted using a semi-structured questionnaire along with a validated psychometric tool, the Depression, Anxiety and Stress (DASS-21) scale. The metrics and scores of symptoms and their severity were created and analyzed. Multivariate logistic regression was used to determine the association of potential covariates with outcome variables. Results The prevalence of anxiety, depression and stress were 14%, 7% and 5% respectively. In reference to Karnali, participants from Bagmati province reported higher level of anxiety (OR 3.44, 95% CI 1.319.06), while stress (OR 4.27, 95% CI 1.0918.32) and depressive symptoms (OR 3.11, 95% CI 1.059.23) observed higher among the participants in Province 1. Women were more at risk of anxiety (OR 3.41, 95% CI 1.836.36) than men. Similarly, people currently living in rented houses reported more stress (OR 2.97, 95% CI 1.058.43) and those living far from family reported higher rates of depressive symptoms (OR 3.44, 95% CI 1.0311.46). Conclusion The study identified increased prevalence of stress, anxiety and depressive symptoms during the initial stage of COVID-19 pandemic in Nepal. Considering the findings, there is urgent need to develop and implement appropriate community-based mental health programs targeting individuals who have had COVID-19 symptoms and who are prone to develop adverse mental health outcomes. Introduction The World Health Organization (WHO) reports that as of June 26, 2020 (08:07 GMT), worldwide Covid-19 has killed 492,085 with a total of 9,724,146 individuals confirmed infected, and the death toll is still rising. The scale and severity of the COVID-19 pandemic has threatened public health globally. The world has been reeling, even with high income countries in havoc as a result of the global spread of this potentially fatal disease. The WHO declared COVID-19, a Public Health Emergency on 30th January 2020 a month after the outbreak of the virus in Wuhan, China alerting the global community with particular concern to the high risk countries having poor health systems. Nepal in an example of a country that lacks adequate resources to tackle the COVID-19 outbreak. The government has not been able to assure the public that they are capable of handling the situation, and this has been created panic and distress throughout the entire population. Nepal detected the first case of corona virus infection on 23rd January 2020 and the second case two months later, on 23rd March 2020 that surged to 11,700 affecting all 77 districts across the country with a total 28 reported deaths from COVID-19 by the end of June 2020. The government strategy included a country-wide lockdown to prevent a widespread outbreak of the disease and this came into effect on 24th March 2020. This lockdown was partially lifted on 14th June 2020. In addition to the illness itself, the entire population particularly the middle and low-income groups are already seriously affected through COVID-19 related issues such as lost jobs, restricted mobility and loss of freedom due to the nationwide lockdown as well as the on-going fear of disease susceptibility. Moreover, the government's poor risk communication mechanisms and the strong influence of incorrect and misleading social media rumors has been creating further terror. All of these factors have negative mental health impacts on the public. Previous studies that assessed the psychosocial impact of epidemics or pandemics such as SARS and COVID-19 found high levels of mental distress including panic attacks, and psychotic symptoms among healthcare workers and the general public. Evidence also shows that in addition to the stress of high numbers of people getting sick or dying, epidemics and pandemics also cause vast economic losses which are associated with further high psychosocial risk. It should also be noted that the most vulnerable groups-people who are poor, women, children, the elderly, persons with disability and the homeless, are reported to suffer during these public health emergencies and have the greatest difficulty rebuilding their means of subsistence and social support networks after such catastrophes. The effects on mental health are usually more marked among populations living under precarious circumstances, who have limited resources, and limited access to social support and healthcare services. The recent studies conducted in different settings during the COVID-19 pandemics reported comparable findings, with the highest levels of distress among women, rural inhabitants, elderly populations, groups with lower levels of education, migrant workers and those having unstable incomes. Moreover, perceived disease susceptibility and perceived disease severity, social isolation, and spending longer time watching COVID-19 related news and social media are also found associated risk factors with increased level of mental distress. WHO reports that the burden of distress, depression and other mental health conditions such as suicide is on the rise globally. It further reports that long-lasting moderate or severe depression related to COVID-19 pandemic may become a serious public health concern. The burden of COVID-19 related mental disorders continues to grow with significant impacts on health and major social, human rights and economic consequences globally. Furthermore, mental health disorders, fear-related behaviors, stigmatization, and negative effect on access and quality of care during and in the aftermath of the epidemics are commonly reported. In summary, COVID-19 has the potential to create devastating social, economic and mental health crises which may have long-term impact, particularly in a country like Nepal. In light of this, it is urgent to understand the current level of anxiety and stress due to COVID-19 in Nepal and to recommend evidence based mental health intervention policies to cope with this efficiently. It is further urgent that evidence-driven strategies be developed to reduce adverse psychological impacts and psychiatric symptoms during and after COVID-19. This study is intended to contribute to this effort by identifying potential factors that affect the mental health status of fever clinics patients with the symptoms of COVID-19. We hypothesized that the prevalence and levels of depression and anxiety as indicated on the respective Depression, Anxiety, and Stress Scale (DASS) subscales may be elevated among the study population. Study design and population This study is a cross-sectional survey, conducted among the fever clinic attendants with symptoms of COVID-19 across various health care facilities in Nepal. The survey was conducted between May 17 to June 9, 2020 during the nationwide lock-down that started on 24 th March 2020. Participants' recruitment procedure The study covered all seven provinces across Nepal. A multi-stage sampling method was used for the selection and recruitment of participants. Twenty-six health facilities (hospitals and primary healthcare centres) from 23 districts were purposively selected ranging between 3-6 health facilities from each province covering both ecological zones, Hills and Terai. Hospitals or primary health care centres who had fever clinics and showed their interest to participate in the study were the key criteria for selecting health facilities. A sampling frame was developed collecting the names of those who attended hospital fever clinics between April 25 and May 16, 2020. Out of the total 1285 fever clinic attendants during the period, 687 met the study's eligibility criteria and included in the final list for interviews. Individuals aged 18 and above, who visited hospital suspecting or having COVID-19 symptoms were inclusion criteria set for the study. The refusal rate for interviews was 6%. Fig 1 presents the number of participants approached for interviews and inclusion exclusion criteria used the study. Survey instrument and data collection procedure A semi-structured questionnaire with socio-demographic information was used along with a 21-items depression, anxiety and stress scale (DASS-21)-a set of 3 self-reporting scales developed by Lovibond & Lovibond, 1995 to measure the emotional states of depression, anxiety and stress were administered by the trained interviewers. The tool's overall reliability coefficient (Cronbach's Alpha) estimated 0.90. While estimating separately, it was 0.71, 0.79 and 0.77 for Depression, Anxiety and Stress respectively. The tool has already been tested in Nepal, its psychometric properties validated and it was found to be simple, easy to administer, and simple to score. It has been used extensively in previous studies globally as well as in Nepal. Both the standardized questionnaire and DASS-21, were set up on tablet computers and mobile phones with KoBo Collect software, and administered in Nepali through telephone interviews by trained data collectors. The questionnaire was first developed in English, translated into Nepali by three bilingual Nepalese and field-tested for acceptability and comprehension among the population in which it was to be used. On average, administration of the questionnaire took 24 minutes. Ethical approval The researchers obtained ethical approval from the Nepal Health Research Council (NHRC)-ERB Protocol Registration No. 317/2020P. Before interviews, verbal informed consent was taken from all participants. Measures DASS-21 score was the outcome variable that ranged from 0-42. The participant's reaction to each statement was measured in a response category ranging from 0-3 to indicate "did not PLOS ONE The Impact of COVID-19 on mental health outcomes among hospital fever clinic attendants across Nepal apply to me at all" to "applied to me very much most of the time". Following the DASS-21 scoring instructions, the sum of the rated scores in each statement was multiplied by 2 to calculate the final score. The cut-off (threshold) scores for detecting stress, anxiety and depression were 15, 8 and 10 respectively. The severity levels categorised as normal, mild, moderate and severe, and their score ranged as stated in the table below (Table 1). Socio-demographic data were self-reported by the participants. The knowledge and perceived risk indicators were created by 27 and 6 questionnaire items respectively to derive scores. The questionnaire included the questions related to COVID-19 symptoms, the risk groups, mode of transmission and prevention for knowledge assessment, while the individual's belief about remaining safe from COVID-19, easy availability of healthcare services, and belief about government's ability to control and overcome the pandemic was asked for risk perception. All the questionnaire items were equally weighted, dichotomized, and a composite measure was created using the sum with the maximum scores of 27 and 6 respectively. Table 2 provides the variables and their definition used in the study. Statistical analysis The data collected in KoBo Collect software were downloaded into Excel Windows 10, cleaned and then transferred into SPSS (version 23.0 for Windows) for analysis. Descriptive statistics and associations between the outcome and potential covariates were examined using bivariate odds ratios (ORs) and 95% confidence intervals (CI). Due to the binary nature of the dependent variable, unconditional logistic regression was used. Any variable associated with the outcome variable with a p-value <0.2 in the bivariate analysis were further investigated for confounding by multivariate logistic regression model examining associations of potential covariates with outcome variables (stress, anxiety and depression). Characteristics of study participants Out of 687 participants interviewed, a total of 618 interviews with complete information were included in the analysis. Of these, the highest proportion of participants (17.8%) were from Karnali (Province 6) and the lowest from Province 5. The majority of study participants (79%) lived in urban area, while 63.6% in the hills. The average age of the participants was 35 years, with ages ranging from 18-85 (SD = 14.25). Over one-third (37%) were women, over half (55%) reported having secondary level education and 16% with higher education. Nearly 4 in 10 reported their occupation as laborers and 16.8% reported having foreign employment. The vast majority of participants (86.1%) reported their religious belief as Hindu, with 42.71% and 17.8% reporting their caste group as Brahmin/Chhetri and Dalits respectively. More than 93% of respondents reported having their own house, however, only 83% were living in their house at the time of survey. About 77% of participants were married and 93% were living together with their family at the time of survey (Table 4). Prevalence and severity measurement of stress, anxiety and depression A significant proportion of participants (14%) had symptoms of anxiety, while 7% and 5% reported depression and stress respectively. Over 5% had mild, 6% had moderate and just under 3% had severe levels of anxiety. Similarly, 3.4% had mild depression and 2.8% and 0.6% had the moderate and severe depressive symptoms. Under 3% had a mild level of stress and only 1.1% had moderate and another 1.3% had a severe level of stress (Table 3). Table 4 displays the result of the bi-variate logistic regression analysis. Among the participants across seven provinces, anxiety was found more prevalent in Bagmati (OR 3.79, 95% CI Table 2. Variables and their definitions used in the study. Stress, Anxiety and Depression Total algebraic sum of the rated scores by the respondents (between 0-42) Covariates Province Administrative division reported by the respondents as their permanent address. Ecological region The ecological (Hills or Terai) region of the respondent's habitation. Place of residence Respondent's place of residence-rural or urban at the time of survey. Age Completed age in years of respondent at the time of interview. Gender Self-reported sex identity of respondent-male or female) Caste and ethnicity Self-reported caste and ethnic group-Brahmin/Chhetri, Jana Jaati, Dalit, Madhesi, Muslims and others. Religion Self-reported religious belief of the respondent-Hinduism, Buddhism, Others. Factors associated with mental health outcome After control of confounders, only the province showed significant association with all outcome variables. The adjusted odds for both stress (OR 4.27, 95% CI 1.09-18.32), and depression (OR 3.11, 95% CI 1.05-9.23) were higher among participants in province 1 than in Karnali. However, Bagmati province had higher odds for anxiety (OR 3.44, 95% CI 1.31-9.06). Gender was associated to anxiety with higher odds among female (OR 3.41, 95% CI 1.83-6.36) than male. Also, the current living status (owned or rented house) was significantly associated with stress. The odds among those living in rented houses was higher than those living at own house (OR 2.97, 95% CI 1.05-8.43). Participants living far from their family reported more depressive symptoms than those living with their families (OR 3.44, 95% CI 1.03-11.46) ( Table 5). Discussion This study found 14% of the respondents with anxiety, 7% with depression and 5% with stress symptoms. Among them, moderate-severe level of anxiety was reported by 61%, and depression and stress by 50% and 48% respectively ( Table 3). The prevalence rates observed in the present study were not dramatically high compared to the recent studies conducted in other countries e.g. in China, and Italy at the time of pandemics, however we found the prevalence of anxiety and depression higher than the estimated national prevalence rate (3.6% for anxiety and 3.2% for depression) at Nepal reported by WHO in 2017. Our findings from this study were in line with the results of many other previous studies conducted in other countries. A study conducted during lockdown in India using the same tool (DASS-21) reported anxiety, depression and stress at 10%, 11% and 13% respectively. Moreover, a systematic review of COVID-19 and mental health literature conducted recently revealed the anxiety and depression prevalence between 16%-28% and stress at 8%. Another study in Italy showed very high prevalence of depression at 32% and stress at 27%. The possible explanation for this wide variations in the prevalence could be the differences in the study populations, situations or the use of inconsistent definitions and instruments in the studies. The result of the multivariate regression analysis showed that the participants in province 1 were more prone to develop an increased level of stress and depression, while participants in Bagmati province were found to be more likely to develop anxiety disorder compared to those in Karnali. There could be various explanations for this. A possible explanation may be that more knowledge and information on the spread of the virus and its potential risks was available to people in Bagmati and Province 1 since these two provinces have more access to mass media compared to Karnali. Moreover, at the time of this study, the virus in Nepal was still perceived as being imported from other countries, the scope of community transmission to the rural province like Karnali was lower and the public in those area may have had yet to realize the pandemic's scope in their territory. Another finding from this study was that more women than men have been found to have increased levels of anxiety during the outbreak of COVID-19. This finding is in line with previous studies conducted in China, India and Italy, which have consistently found increased psychological distress higher among females compared to males. The finding may also be linked to evidence in the international literature that women likely to be more vulnerable to experiencing stress and developing post-traumatic symptoms. The explanation for this could be that women tend to feel increased responsibility to not only keep themselves well but maintain the health and well-being of their families-including older relatives, children and grandchildren that may have created more stress. The other factors, such as people living at rented house and far from the families found more at risk to develop stress and depressive disorders. These people may also be poorer and at higher risk of immediate impact-with little savings or material goods they could sell if sick and unable to work, the impact of getting sick with COVID-19 could be immediate both for themselves and for members of their families. The previous studies have identified that the advanced age population, particularly those over 60 and comorbid with poor health were at most risk contracting the disease and also had a higher mortality to COVID-19. Corresponding to this, several studies conducted during this pandemic found the age and individual health condition highly linked to mental health outcome reflecting the increased psychological distress during the COVID-19. However, contrary to this, our study did not show any differences in increased level of stress, anxiety or depression between age groups. The possible reason for this could be the age cut-off value in this study at 55 years may have remained low to show this differences. Strength and limitation of the study To the best of our knowledge, this is the first population study to evaluate the mental health status among Nepalese people during the COVID-19 pandemic. This study is therefore, an important contribution to the literature as it provides preliminary data about the impact of COVID-19 on mental health in Nepal. The strength of this study is a fairly large sample (n = 618) recruited from 26 health facilities across the country representing main populations groups from different strata that included ecological region, urban rural residents and caste ethnicity. Moreover, the study had a high response rate (94%) that is considered good enough for telephone-based survey. Furthermore, the telephone interviews were taken by the well-trained and highly experienced interviewers under close supervision that ensured the quality of data collected. With all these strengths, the study had a number of limitations. We intended to have a representative sample covering all province and ecological clusters, however, the purposive selection of health facilities conducting fever clinics may have resulted selection bias. Likewise, the potential sampling biases may have occurred with under or over representation from the different cluster, social groups, and also with the criteria as exclusion of under 18 populations and individual with communication and long-standing medical problems. Furthermore, the study population were only those who visited the fever clinic and recorded in the hospital register. However, a complete database of the clinic attending patients was not created across hospitals. Thus participants were selected purposively rather than random sampling procedure. It should also be noted that face to face interview was not possible due to lockdown and participants were interviewed over the phone on this sensitive issue. The absence of visual cues on the phone might have compromised creating comfortable environment for interview, rapport and probing. Also, the possibility of social desirability bias could not be ignored since the data were self-reported and there was no means of (clinical) verification. Conclusion The result of this study shows an increased prevalence rate of mental health outcomes (stress, anxiety and depressive symptoms) among the study population. Interestingly however, the increased rates observed in the present study were not intensely high compared to the findings reported in previous studies conducted in the countries highly affected by COVID-19. This is noteworthy considering that this study was implemented in the initial phase of the pandemics in Nepal. Most importantly, the study identified the key factors contributing to adverse mental health outcome and the population groups who are potentially more vulnerable to the pandemics. However, it is difficult to draw any conclusions regarding its long-term effect due to the crosssectional nature of the current study. Further research is needed to track whether these groups show higher levels of psychosocial distress at later stages in pandemics. Longitudinal studies are recommended for understanding the trajectories of mental health among the population during and after the pandemic of COVID-19. Also, qualitative studies could be useful to understand how people cope with the pandemic and what psychosocial supports they have or feel they need in response to the pandemic. One key policy implication of the present study is that the government should provide psychological support to all those already affected and who are prone to develop mental health concerns, not just the symptoms but the actual health problems need to be addressed during the pandemic. The individuals who are suffering through mental distress, and prone to develop serious symptoms in later stages must be reached with medical and counseling support. More attention needs to be given to vulnerable groups such as women, people with preexisting illnesses and disabilities, farmers, and the migrant populations living away from their homes-far from their families and support networks.

EFTofPNG: A package for high precision computation with the Effective Field Theory of Post-Newtonian Gravity We present a new public package"EFTofPNG"for high precision computation in the effective field theory of post-Newtonian (PN) Gravity, including spins. We created this package in view of the timely need to publicly share automated computation tools, which integrate the various types of physics manifested in the expected increasing influx of gravitational wave (GW) data. Hence, we created a free and open source package, which is self-contained, modular, all-inclusive, and accessible to the classical Gravity community. The"EFTofPNG"Mathematica package also uses the power of the"xTensor"package, suited for complicate tensor computation, where our coding also strategically approaches the generic generation of Feynman contractions, which is universal to all perturbation theories in physics, by efficiently treating n-point functions as tensors of rank n. The package currently contains four independent units, which serve as subsidiaries to the main one. Its final unit serves as a pipeline chain for the obtainment of the final GW templates, and provides the full computation of all derivatives and gauge invariant physical observables of interest. The upcoming"EFTofPNG"package version 1.0 should cover the point mass sector, and all the spin sectors, up to the fourth PN order, and the two-loop level. We expect and strongly encourage public development of the package to improve its efficiency, and to extend it to further PN sectors, and observables useful for the waveform modeling. Introduction The recent direct detection of gravitational wave (GW) events GW150914 and GW151226 from binary black hole (BH) coalescence herald a new era of GW astronomy. With the Advanced Virgo detector in Europe to join the second observational run of the twin Advanced LIGO detectors in the US, and an improved signal sensitivity, even more upcoming detections are expected, including binaries that also consist of neutron stars (NS). Yet, in order to go beyond merely detecting more GW events, and truly enter an era of high precision Gravity, accurate theoretical waveforms are required. These waveforms should integrate the various physical phases, and the various corresponding physical approaches to model the continuous signal, which is identified with the matched filtering technique. The initial part of the waveform corresponds to the inspiral phase of the binaries' evolution, where the orbital velocity is non-relativistic, and can only be described analytically, via the post-Newtonian (PN) approximation of General Relativity (GR). Indeed, though numerical simulations can handle the merger and ringdown phases of the coalescence, the typical long time scale in the inspiral phase makes it unrealistic to tackle it numerically. In fact, high order PN corrections, in particular also ones, which take into account the spins of the compact objects, are required to be incorporated into the Effective-One-Body (EOB) modelling of the waveforms. This would allow to improve the analysis of the GW events, and hence gain more information on the intrinsic parameters of the compact objects. This additional information has implications for our knowledge of the astrophysics of such binaries, the physics of compact objects, and notably of the fundamental theory of Gravity. Actually, the remarkably high fourth PN (4PN) order correction at the point mass sector has been recently tackled and completed by various methods in multiple works. Simultaneously, a recent series of works, based on an effective field theory (EFT) approach for the binary inspiral, has accomplished similar PN accuracy for the more intricate spin sectors, which account for generic compact spinning objects in the binaries. This line of work includes all spin interactions linear and quadratic in spin up to the next-to-next-to-leading order (NNLO), and at the leading order (LO) cubic and quartic in spin, which were obtained via an EFT for spinning objects, formulated in (we note a line of work, also originating from the EFT approach in, that first tackled spinning objects for this sector in, and up to next-to-leading order (NLO) in ). In this paper we introduce a novel public package "EFTofPNG" for high precision computation in the EFT of PN Gravity, including spins. We created this package with the view of the close analogy between the impending progress in Gravity, and that which occurred in, e.g., Cosmology, where in the past few decades, there has been a tremendous improvement in the quality and quantity of observations and experiments. In Cosmology this has led to the imperative development of comprehensive public computation software, like CAMB, which has become regularly used by the whole of the community. Similarly to Cosmology, we need to share automated computation tools, which could then be assembled to even more inclusive public codes, that integrate the various types of physics manifested in the increasing influx of GW data, which will soon become public, e.g. through the LIGO Open Science Center. In the Gravity community there are already public codes, notably, e.g., the Einstein Toolkit for numerical relativity. Moreover, in the GW community there are the extensive Ligo's LALSuite, which is comprised of various GW data analysis components, such as LALSimulation with waveform models, including EOB and phenomenological models, and the detection pipelines GstLAL and PyCBC. The goal of our current code is to start filling in the gap in the analytic part of the waveform models, going from the "full theory" in the inspiral phase via a tower of EFTs to the PN observables that enter waveform models in LALSimulation, namely to complete the current GW codes, and to foster further collaboration in the community. The EFT approach is naturally tailored for high precision computation, but previous automatic PN computations in the EFT approach made use of patches of less relevant public codes, such as "FeynCalc" from particle physics. In addition, these automated computations were limited to the point mass sector, and most were not made public. Hence, our goal was to create a free and open source code, which is self-contained, modular, all-inclusive, and accessible to the Gravity, and particularly to the GW community. In fact, this package may benefit a broader community, as, e.g., our coding strategically approaches the generic generation of Feynman contractions and graphs, which is universal to all perturbation theories in physics, by efficiently treating n-point functions as tensors of rank n. This paper is organized as follows. In section 2 we start by reviewing the formulation of the Effective Field Theory of PN Gravity, including spinning objects. In section 3 we present an overview of the EFTofPNG package version 1.0, which currently contains four independent units, that serve as subsidiaries to its main one. We then proceed to go over the different units of the package. In section 3.1 we present the "Main" unit, where the complete evaluation of the Feynman diagrams of the desirable sectors is done. In section 3.2 we describe the "FeynRul" unit, which evaluates the Feynman rules, and should be run first to provide input to other units. Next, in section 3.3 we describe the "FeynGen" unit, which generates the required Feynman contractions and diagrams needed to be evaluated by the "Main" unit. In section 3.4 we present the "NLoop" unit, which independently produces all the required loop master integrals with their simplified forms to be output to the "Main" unit. Lastly, in section 4 we note the useful independent and final unit of the package, "GI observables", which using the output of the "Main" unit, provides derivatives and gauge invariant (GI) observables of interest, and serves as a pipeline chain for the obtainment of the final GW templates for the detectors. Finally, in section 5 we present our main conclusions. The EFT of PNG including spins The EFT of PN Gravity for extended objects, which we build on, has been introduced in. The basic idea is to make use of the natural hierarchy of scales, that exists in the binary inspiral problem, and thus tackle it by constructing a tower of EFTs for each of the scales. It holds that r s ∼ r v 2 ∼ v 3, where r s is the scale of the internal structure of the single compact component of the binary, r is the orbital separation scale, is the radiation wavelength scale, and v is the typical non-relativistic orbital velocity at the inspiral phase, i.e. v 1. We also have that r s ∼ m, where m is the mass of the isolated compact object, and is the only scale in the full theory. Yet we note that we consider in our work the generic case of spinning gravitating objects. While a spinning point particle is also characterized by its spin length, S 2, it holds that S m 2. For each EFT in the tower the field is decomposed to its Fourier modes, which can be assigned a definite power counting in terms of the small PN parameter, v. First, the EFT for an isolated compact object is constructed with an effective action of the generic following form: where an infinite tower of worldline operators, O i (), consistent with the symmetries of the theory, is introduced. Thus, all UV dependence shows up only in the Wilson coefficients, C i (r s ), in the point particle action, S pp. Here, represents the field modes far above the single object scale, and y, e A, are the particle worldline coordinate, and worldline tetrad degrees of freedom (DOFs), respectively. We discuss in detail the relevant symmetries and DOFs for the general case of spinning gravitating objects in. Next, for the EFT of the binary, which is then to be regarded as a single composite object, we first write the decomposition of the field modes as ≡ + H + h. Starting from the effective action of two compact objects, with a copy of the point particle action for each of them, the effective action of the composite object is then obtained by explicitly integrating out the field modes below the orbital scale, H, namely the effective action is defined by the following functional integral: considering its classical limit. Here y and e A on the left hand side are the worldline coordinate and tetrad, respectively, of the single composite particle. To obtain an EFT of radiation, the final EFT in the tower, one should proceed in general to also integrate out the radiation modes of the gravitational field, h. Yet, in the conservative sector, where no radiation modes are present, no further process is required after the field modes below the orbital scale have been integrated out. Hence, we emphasize that the final effective action in this sector, should be one without any remaining orbital scale field DOFs. This implies that all unphysical DOFs should also be eliminated from the action, in particular those associated with the rotational DOFs. For the point particle action in eq. (2.1) of a spinning object, we start from the form : where u is the coordinate velocity,, the angular velocity, S, the spin, conjugate to the angular velocity, and L SI stands for the nonminimal coupling part of the action, that consists only of the spin-induced multipoles. In we worked out both the minimal coupling and nonminimal coupling parts of the point particle action in order to obtain the effective action of a single spinning particle, i.e. the first EFT in the tower that we noted. First, we restore the gauge freedom of the rotational variables by performing a boostlike transformation in a covariant form on the worldline tetrad. This leads to a generic gauge for the tetrad, and the spin, which reads: where a new gauge DOF, w, is introduced as the timelike vector of the tetrad. All in all, this provides the 3 + 3 necessary gauge constraints to eliminate the redundant unphysical DOFs in the 4D antisymmetric angular velocity and spin tensors. For the minimal coupling term we then obtain: thus an extra term appears in the action, which contributes to finite size effects, yet carries no Wilson coefficients. As for the nonminimal coupling spin-induced part of the action, since as we argue it only depends on the spin, one only needs to transform to the generic spin variable with Moreover, the nonminimal coupling spin-induced part of the point particle action should be constrained. This is indeed accomplished using the symmetries of the theory, and the various considerations in the problem, as described in detail in. Hence, we find that the LO nonminimal couplings to all orders in spin are fixed as follows: where we have introduced new spin-induced Wilson coefficients, and the new operators consist of the electric and magnetic curvature tensors, E, and B, respectively, and the spin vector S, as their building blocks. In particular up to the 4PN order, the quadrupole, octupole, and hexadecapole couplings are required, which explicitly read: Since we work in an action approach the gauge of the rotational variables should be fixed at the level of the point particle action as was put forward in. In particular, in order to obtain the next EFT, the particle DOFs should be disentangled from the field DOFs, and this can only be obtained once the gauge for the rotational variables is fixed. Then the minimal coupling term from eq. (2.5) can be written as : where we have used the Ricci rotation coefficients, defined with the tetrad field, a, by ab ≡ b D a, and we switched to new rotational variables: ab flat ≡ Aa d A b d, the locally flat spacetime angular velocity tensor with the worldline Lorentz matrices, A a, and ab ≡ a b, the spin projected to the local frame. Before we integrate out the orbital scale we need to fix all the gauges. Before that, we apply the beneficial nonrelativistic space+time decomposition of the gravitational field, i.e. the non-relativistic gravitational (NRG) fields. The tetrad field gauge is then fixed to the time gauge of Schwinger, that corresponds to the NRG parametrization, and we fix the gauge of the rotational variables to that we dub "the canonical gauge". Finally, once the effective action of the binary object is obtained, the equations of motion (EOMs) of both the positions, and of the spins, are obtained directly via a proper variation of the action. In particular for the EOMs of spin an independent variation should be made with respect to the spin and to its conjugates, the Lorentz matrices, as explained in. Then a simple form for the EOMs of spin is obtained, which contains only physical DOFs. In addition, it is straightforward to obtain the Hamiltonians in the standard manner as in the non-spinning case. The main purpose of creating "EFTofPNG" as free and open source software is twofold: 1. On the one hand we want to make the EFT of PNG accessible in its most practical form to the classical Gravity community, who wish to understand the EFT of PNG better, and possibly build on it, and extend it; 2. On the other hand for those in the Gravity, and in particular the GW community, who only wish to use the outcome of implementing the EFT of PNG in order to further process its results into actual models of gravitational waveforms, we want to provide the complete pipeline, which contains the full computation of derivatives and gauge invariant observables of interest. The "EFTofPNG" package is written in Wolfram language of Mathematica, and requires in addition the "xTensor" package for abstract tensor algebra from the "xAct" bundle. The time is ripe for the community to have a self-contained package that applies Feynman calculus specifically in the novel context of classical Gravity. Rather than rely on patches of less efficient and suitable existing packages from the conventional context of particle physics, this package uses the power of the "xTensor" package, naturally suited for the complicate tensor computation required in Gravity, and which is familiar to the Gravity community. Moreover, our package strategically approaches the generic generation of Feynman contractions and graphs, which is universal to all perturbation theories, classical or quantum, in all fields of physics, by regarding n-point functions as tensors of rank n, as further explained in section 3.3 below. Hence our package also benefits in this broad respect from the full power of the "xTensor" package, which is worth disseminating also outside of the Gravity community. In figure 1 a schematic outline of the "EFTofPNG" package version 1.0 is shown. The package currently contains four independent units, which serve as subsidiary ones to the "Main" unit of the package. First, the "FeynRul" unit, which evaluates the Feynman rules, should be run in order to provide input both to the "FeynGen" unit, and directly to the "Main" unit. Next, the "FeynGen" unit should be run to generate the required Feynman contractions and diagrams needed to be evaluated by the "Main" unit. In parallel, the "NLoop" unit, which produces all the required loop master integrals, and their most simplified forms, should be run, to also provide direct input to the "Main" unit. Finally, after the complete evaluation of the Feynman diagrams is done by running the "Main" unit, its output is supplied to the independent "GI observables" unit, which provides derivatives and gauge invariant physical observables of interest, and serves as a pipeline chain for the obtainment of the final GW templates for the detectors. In the sections that follow we elaborate on each of the abovementioned units of the package. All of the units in the package use a generic d + 1 dimensional space-time setting, since all of the Feynman integrals are evaluated using dimensional regularization. The PN order parameter in the package is the standard inverse of c, the speed of light, denoted as "cInv" all through the package. It should also be noted that the PN power counting is the standard PN count, where the Newtonian interaction is assigned the (cInv) 0 coefficient in the various series expansions. A crucial aspect for the efficiency of the computation is that the NRG fields are applied all through the package. Whereas for a general field parametrization the N n LO, that is the (next-to) n -leading order, requires a computation at the n-loop level, the use of the NRG fields entails several simplifications, in particular that in the point mass sectors the N n LO requires only the 2 n/2 loop level, such that e.g., the 3PN order in the point mass sector, which is NNNLO≡N 3 LO in this sector, requires only a two-loop computation, rather than a three-loop one. In the spin sectors the N n LO still corresponds to a computation at the n-loop level, but fortunately in these sectors the N n LO is shifted to at least the (n + 1.5)PN order. The upcoming "EFTofPNG" package version 1.0 is expected to cover the point mass sector up to the 3PN order, and all the spin sectors up to the 4PN order, including the NNLO up to quadratic in the spins, and the LO cubic and quartic in the spins. The current preliminary version 0.99 is already released as a public repository in GitHub, and can be found in the URL: "https://github.com/miche-levi/pncbc-eftofpng". We expect and strongly encourage further public development of the package to improve its efficiency and run times, and to further extend it to higher PN and spin orders, to nonconservative sectors, and to further observables useful for the waveform modeling, for the benefit of the community. A file, which details the coding style conventions to be followed by future developers, is included in the public repository, in order to keep the package as accessible and readable as possible. The repository contains a README file, and the code itself contains specific documentation, and different examples of actual computations. Moreover, results of various runs are also provided in the repository for those who wish to only make use of some final outputs. For the complete details of the package please refer to the abovementioned public repository. Main: Evaluating the two-body effective action The "Main" unit of the "EFTofPNG" package is where the evaluation of the effective action of the binary eventually takes places. This unit consists of independent interfaces with the outputs of the "FeynRul" and "FeynGen" units, followed by a "FeynInteg" section, which performs all possible processing required for the evaluation of the Feynman diagrams, using also the output of the "NLoop" unit for the loop master integrals. The unit then ends with a "FeynComp" section, which carries out an automatic routine that evaluates altogether all the Feynman diagrams for the specified desirable sectors, while also demonstrating some singular evaluations of more complex diagrams by "manually" specifying the corresponding contractions. Let us then go through the sections of the "Main" unit in more detail. The unit starts with a general "Setup" section. Initial definitions are made within xTensor of a d-dimensional flat manifold, and the time coordinate as the worldline parameter. All worldline DOFs, e.g. the positions and spins, are defined as tensors on this flat manifold. Next, heads are defined to label the worldline and general spacetime points, as well as the time derivatives of these tensors. In addition, a manifold for constant tensors is defined for, e.g., the Wilson coefficients (these are not treated as dynamic DOFs in the context of this work). Finally, generic tools for the "Main" unit are set up, and order parameters for the PN count, and the spin, are defined in order to distinguish among the various PN, as well as the point mass and spin, sectors. The subsequent sections in "Main" are described below. FeynRul: Preparing the Feynman rules. At the next stage the "FeynRul" section complements and processes the Feynman rules obtained as an output of the independent "FeynRul" unit, presented in section 3.2 below. First, the NRG fields, and the Dirac delta of time, are defined on the general manifold. The Fourier vectors are defined on the manifold for constant tensors. Further heads are defined for the differentials of integrals, the general Dirac delta, and the propagators scalar. All the bulk and worldline vertices are then defined on a new "vertices" manifold as further explained in section 3.3 below. Next, the Feynman rules are imported from the output files of the "FeynRul" unit, to be followed by their processing. They are transformed to Fourier space, including momentum conservation in the bulk vertices. The time dependence of the latter is handled, such that it finally drops on the worldline vertices. The propagator and propagator time insertions are then defined, and the bulk and worldline vertices uniquely labeled. FeynGen: Processing the Feynman diagrams. The subsequent "FeynGen" section imports the Feynman diagrams generated in the independent "FeynGen" unit, presented in section 3.3 below. The various components of the imported diagrams are then converted to conform with the corresponding components as defined within the "Main" unit. FeynInteg: Handling the Feynman integration. The "FeynInteg" section constitutes the core of the "Main" unit. This section tells how to manipulate the Feynman integrals that should be evaluated. First, the time derivative, and how to handle it with partial integrations, are defined. All the integrals, and specifically also the time integrals, are handled using distinctive heads. Dirac deltas of momenta are integrated over with a simplification of the intermediate propagators. Multiple integrals are factorized, and the loop integrals are nested. Intermediate required transformations of integration variables are handled. Then, the loop master integrals, needed in order to actually evaluate the Feynman integrals, are imported from the output file of the independent "NLoop" unit, presented in section 3.4 below. Finally, an "IntegrateF" function is defined, where all the previous operations are applied, and the regularization limit in the dimension is taken. This function can be applied on individual specified contractions. In addition, an automatic integration function is defined, which operates on sums of given contractions. We demonstrate the use of both functions in the final evaluation of the two-body effective action, done in the "FeynComp" section that follows. FeynComp: Evaluating the Feynman diagrams. In the final "FeynComp" section the evaluation of various PN orders, point mass and spin sectors, is demonstrated. Feynman integration can be performed either collectively with the automatic integration function described above, or specifically for individual Feynman diagrams, where the contraction is "manually" specified. Indeed, the evaluation of a few irreducible two-loop diagrams is demonstrated there. Finally, the diagram contributions are summed to yield the corresponding interaction parts of the two-body effective action, and the total effective action is exported as the output of the "Main" unit. The overall run time of the "Main" unit applied to all sectors up to the two-loop level, and quadratic in the spins is currently of about five days. FeynRul: Deriving the Feynman rules The "FeynRul" unit of the package takes the first step from the theory presented in section 2. It actually evaluates the effective action of the single spinning particle, while fixing the necessary gauges, and derives the Feynman rules, that are later used to obtain the EFT of the binary including spins. In this unit we define space+time decomposed components of the metric, inverse metric, and mixed tetrads, over a flat background d-dimensional manifold, where d is the generic number of spatial dimensions. We gauge the worldline parameter to be the time coordinate, and we define the worldline DOFs as tensors on the flat manifold. For this reason we make our own d + 1 definitions of the Christoffel symbol and the Riemann curvature independent of xTensor, and use d + 1 objects, which are then embedded into the d-dimensional xTensor manifold. As we noted in section 3 we use the NRG fields, with the corresponding Schwinger time gauge for the tetrads. The bulk gravitational action is computed using the Einstein-Hilbert form, but other equivalent forms, e.g. the Gamma-Gamma form, differing by a total divergence, can be used. Indeed, we also demonstrate an addition of a total divergence in the code in order to conform with the specific form of previous results, which were presented in, e.g.,. The harmonic gauge is used for the gravitational field. Up to the PN orders currently evaluated, and using the NRG fields, we need up to quartic self-interaction in the bulk action, i.e. up to four-point functions. The propagators, and the quadratic time insertions, regarded as perturbative corrections to the propagators, are inserted separately. As described in section 2, in the spin part of the minimal coupling action there is an extra term, coming from rotational gauge freedom, and then the gauge is fixed to the canonical gauge. In the nonminimal coupling spin-induced action, which involves the Riemann dependent operators, we begin by considering the covariant spin, and the automatic evaluation becomes more time-consuming. The run time required for the bulk action, and for the mass and linear-in-spin parts of the point particle action is quite short (circa few minutes), but becomes longer with higher orders of the spin in the nonminimal coupling part (about ten to twenty minutes). Finally, the bulk vertices, and worldline vertices, are output in two separate files, which are used independently by the "FeynGen", and "Main", units of the package. The worldline mass operators are currently extracted up to the 3PN order. Yet, the Feynman rules derived from the bulk action, and worldline mass operators of the effective action, in eqs. (2.1), (2.3), can be currently obtained to any desirable PN order. Hence this unit is sufficient in order to compute higher PN order point mass sectors. The worldline spin operators are extracted up to the NNLO in the quadratic order in the spin, and up to the LO in the cubic and quartic order in the spin, which eventually contribute up to the 4PN order in the two-body interaction. FeynGen: Generating Feynman graphs "FeynGen" is the unit, which generates the graph topologies up to a certain power in G, Newton's d-dimensional gravitational constant, and the Feynman diagrams up to a certain PN order, in the EFT of PNG for the binary including spins. Our approach is to consider a "vertices" manifold with the propagator (or two-point function), as the metric, and the n-point functions (or vertices) as tensors of rank n. Hence, the Wick contractions are actually handled as metric contractions, such that the spacetime points (including worldline points) are indices on the related tangent bundle. The code uses basic combinatoric and graph features of Mathematica, together with the power of abstract tensor algebra that xTensor provides, to automatically create all possible graph contractions, including each of the related symmetry factors. For a G n topology one should consider in general up to n-graviton worldline vertices, and up to (n + 1)-point functions. The topologies are then filtered to satisfy the following requirements: 1. They should contain two worldlines; 2. They should be tree level graphs (worldlines are stripped); 3. They should not be UV renormalization topologies, i.e. such that renormalize the Wilson coefficients of the EFT, i.e. the mass, spin, or spin-induced multipole coefficients; 4. They should be connected graphs (again -worldlines stripped). The code generates the graphs corresponding to all possible contractions. The output of "FeynRul" is then imported, and the topological vertices and propagators are assigned with the specific NRG fields in the Feynman rules. In addition, up to n propagator time insertions are added separately, to the nPN order. All in all, this generates all the PN weighted contractions/graphs, and the diagrams can be projected to the various point mass and spin sectors according to their worldline vertices. An output of the contractions, and of their graphic visualization, is produced both for the topologies, and the PN diagrams. The run time of this unit is very short (of the order of minutes). NLoop: Producing loop master integrals The "NLoop" unit produces all the loop master integrals required for the "Main" unit to perform the Feynman integration. We recall that all the integrals are evaluated using dimensional regularization in a generic dimension d. The unit begins with the Fourier integrals required at the zero-loop level, continues with the one-loop integrals, and currently also includes performing all the integration by parts (IBP) reductions, required to disentangle the irreducible two-loop integrals. For the other simpler two-loop integrals the Fourier and one-loop integrals produced in this unit, together with the various integral manipulations carried out in the "FeynInteg" section of the "Main" unit are sufficient. As we noted in section 3, when using the NRG fields, the two-loop level suffices to handle the 3PN order in the point mass sector, and up to the NNLO, up to quadratic in the spins, that is up to the 4PN order with spins. For both the Fourier and the one-loop integrals, we start with the scalar master integrals, and derive iteratively the required tensor integrals up to rank 6. For the irreducible two-loop integrals, we make IBP reductions, and we further process and simplify the resulting two-loop integrals, using the lower order loop integrals, in order to avoid repeated evaluations each time an irreducible two-loop integral is encountered, when the diagrams are automatically evaluated in the "FeynComp" section of the "Main" unit. We produce the IBP reductions of the irreducible two-loop integrals from the scalar integral to the rank 6 tensor ones, where the tensor indices can belong to each of the two loop momenta, and the derived reductions are mirrored to cover all symmetric cases. The treatment of the irreducible two-loop integrals is currently substantially more time-consuming, compared to e.g. the quick "FeynRul" or "FeynGen" units. The overall run time of the "NLoop" unit is currently of the order of 6 hours. Yet this unit should only be run once, in order to generate the output file of loop master integrals exported to the "Main" unit, independent of which sectors and diagrams are eventually chosen to be evaluated. We expect to extend this unit to handle higher loop levels in the future. The gauge invariant observables pipeline Eventually, we get from the "Main" unit the two-body effective action, in particular the two-body interaction potential, obtained from the Feynman diagrams in the EFT of PNG of the binary including spins. From this point on there is no need to consider the EFT of PNG in the analysis any longer. This is since the corresponding Hamiltonians and physical EOMs are derived in a straightforward manner from the resulting effective actions that our EFT formulation provides, as described in. In the final "GI observables" unit we provide the pipeline to obtain possible derivatives and GI observables of interest. In addition to the physical EOMs and the Hamiltonians, which are essential for the EOB models of the gravitational waveforms, we also derive the conserved global integrals of motion, and the binding energies, as presented, e.g., in. We expect this unit in particular to be extended by the community, including the authors, to go as far as to include the GW waveform and flux. Conclusions In this paper we presented a novel public package "EFTofPNG", which we created for high precision computation in the EFT of PN Gravity, including spins. We created this package in view of the timely need to publicly share automated computation tools, which could then be assembled to even more comprehensive public codes, that integrate the various types of physics manifested in the expected increasing influx of GW data. In particular the inspiral phase of the binary, which consists in general spinning components, can only be described analytically via the PN theory of GR. Moreover, the EFT approach is naturally tailored for high precision computation. Hence, we aimed to make the EFT of PNG, including spins, accessible in its most practical form to the classical Gravity community. Our goal was then to create a free and open source package, which is self-contained, modular, all-inclusive, and accessible to the Gravity community. Indeed, the "EFTofPNG" package is written in Mathematica, and also uses the power of the "xTensor" package, naturally suited for the complicate tensor computation required in Gravity, and which is familiar to the Gravity community. Moreover, our coding strategically approaches the generic generation of Feynman contractions and graphs, which is universal to all perturbation theories in physics, by efficiently treating n-point functions as tensors of rank n, thus again benefiting from the power of "xTensor", while also being of potential use for a broader community of Physics. The package currently contains four independent units, which serve as subsidiaries to the main one: 1. The "FeynRul" unit, which evaluates the Feynman rules; 2. The "FeynGen" unit, that generates the required Feynman contractions and diagrams; 3. The "NLoop" unit, which produces all the required loop master integrals; 4. The "Main" unit, which performs the complete evaluation of the Feynman diagrams; 5. The final "GI observables" unit, which provides the full computation of derivatives and gauge invariant physical observables of interest, and serves as a pipeline chain for the obtainment of the final GW templates for the detectors. The upcoming "EFTofPNG" package version 1.0 should cover the point mass sector up to the 3PN order, and all the spin sectors up to the 4PN order, including the NNLO up to quadratic in the spins [19,20,, and the LO cubic and quartic in the spins, based on the formulation of EFT including spins in. The current preliminary version 0.99 is already released as a public repository in GitHub, and can be found in the URL: "https://github.com/miche-levi/pncbc-eftofpng". We expect and strongly encourage public development of the package to improve its efficiency, and to extend it to further PN sectors, and observables useful for the waveform modelling, as we enter the high precision Gravity era.

A land grid array (LGA) electrical connector according to the prior art is used to electrically connect a chip to a circuit board, and is applied extensively to high-frequency and high-speed transmission devices, and has superior electrical conduction properties. However, with the increasing of the chip's transmission rate, the number of pads set on the chip increases accordingly. Under a certain constraint on the chip's volume, it is unavoidable to reduce the area or the width of a single pad. Consequently, the LGA electrical connector according to the prior art cannot satisfy the requirements imposed by the development of the chip any longer. FIG. 1 shows a cross-sectional view and a partially enlarged view of an LGA electrical connector (a) according to the prior art while connecting to a chip. The LGA electrical connector (a) is electrically connected to a chip (b) having a plurality of pads (b1) and comprises a base (a1) and a plurality of terminals (a2) obliquely disposed in the base (a1). The base (a1) includes a first sidewall (a11), a second sidewall (a12) facing to the first sidewall (a11), and a receiving space (a13). While being used, the chip (b) is disposed in the receiving space (a13), and the pads (b1) contact the terminals (a2) correspondingly. In order to align precisely, the gaps between the chip (b) and the first sidewall (a11) and between the chip (b) and the second sidewall (a12) are small. While the chip (b) being pressed downward, the pads (b1) press the terminals (a2). The terminals (a2) move with respect to the pads while being pressed and thus scrape against the pads for removing grime thereon. Although the electrical connector described above has the benefit of removing grime by scraping between the terminals and the pads, it still has a drawback. Under a certain downward press on the chip, the horizontal displacement of the terminals with respect to the pads is fixed. Given the fixed horizontal displacement, if the area or width of the pads shrinks, the terminals will definitely go beyond the pads and cannot be controlled within the area of the pads. Consequently, the electrical connector cannot connect to the chip normally. Accordingly, it is necessary to design a novel electrical connector for solving the problem described above.

<reponame>latproc/clockwork_esp32 #ifndef __cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_h__ #define __cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_h__ #include "runtime.h" #define Value int struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_Vars; struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_Vars_backup; struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS { MachineBase machine; Value CYCLE_DELAY; // 2000 const char *HOST; // Mobook.local const char *INFO; // Clockwork host Value POLLING_DELAY; // 2000 Value VERSION; // 0.9 struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_Vars *vars; struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS_Vars_backup *backup; }; struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS *create_cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS(const char *name); void Init_cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS(struct cw_SYSTEMSETTINGS * , const char *name); #endif

David Richardson, an accountant in Miami, is set to become Florida's first out gay lawmaker, following tonight's decisive Democratic primary win. Florida Democrats Tuesday have voted to send the first out lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender person to the legislature in the state’s history. The candidate, David Richardson, is an accountant and small-business owner advising companies on accounting and finance issues relating to government contracts. His primary victory in a heavily-Democratic district in Miami effectively guarantees his victory in November, given that no Republican sought a spot on the ballot. Seventeen states currently have no out lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender lawmakers, according to the Gay & Lesbian Victory Fund, which has backed Richardson’s bid and works to help elect out LGBT candidates. "David's election sends a message to Tallahassee that LGBT Floridians will be heard. Finally, we will have an authentic LGBT voice in the state capitol who will be unafraid to speak up and speak out for fairness," said Victory Fund president Chuck Wolfe. Wolfe, a Florida native, previously served as a top aide to former Florida Gov. Lawton Chiles. In addition to Richardson’s win, Victory Fund vice president Denis Dison pointed to primary wins by candidates who have no general election opponents in New Mexico, Pennsylvania and Texas — three states with no out lawmakers currently — as progress for the organization's aims. Jacob Candelaria, who used to be the executive director of Equality New Mexico, won a primary for the state Senate there. Brian Sims won a primary in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for the state’s House there. Mary Gonzalez, who won her primary for the Texas House, has since come out as pansexual. Stephen Skinner, running in West Virginia, also has been endorsed by the Victory Fund, and Dison says the group could endorse in other state legislative races still this election cycle. In addition to Florida, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Texas and West Virginia, the other 12 states without out lawmakers currently are Alaska, Delaware, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Michigan, Mississippi, Nebraska, North Dakota, Tennessee and South Carolina.

Submitted on Tue, 02/10/2015 - 7:56pm On January 7, 2015, two days before the end of her 6 month probationary period, THRWU member S. was terminated from her job as a Senior Harm Reduction Worker at Syme Woolner Neighbourhood and Family Centre. S. was terminated immediately and without cause, which is reprehensible but legal in Ontario within a probationary period. During her 6 months-less-two-days at Syme Woolner, S. had advocated for better treatment of workers and against discrimination and disrespect of workers and service users. She was the third person to occupy her position in less than a year. Upon her termination, Syme Woolner Management gave S. an offer of severance in exchange for her silence. It erroneously informed her that “since you are still in your probationary period, you are not entitled to any notice of dismissal or pay in lieu thereof.” Syme Woolner offered two weeks of pay to S. if she contractually agreed to refrain from “directly or indirectly, either orally or in writing, make any comments of a negative or disparaging nature whatsoever about the Company, its employees, officers, directors, or associated companies.” She did not want to sign the document. Fortunately, S. is a member of the Toronto Harm Reduction Workers Union. With coordination with the Toronto IWW’s Solidarity Committee, THRWU moved forward with a plan to get S. what she was owed. Especially concerning to the union was the idea that S. would have to refrain from discussing conditions at Syme Woolner. On Tuesday January 20, 2015, S. and 25 members of the Solidarity Committee of the Toronto IWW, Toronto Harm Reduction Workers Union, and supporters, walked in to Syme Woolner and read a letter to Executive Director Mark Neysmith demanding that S. be paid the outstanding money she was owed for hours worked, as well as two weeks termination pay. The letter stipulated that Syme Woolner had until the end of the week to comply. S. and supporters filled the lobby of the Centre, but courteously and politely made space for the service users and workers going about their business, and explained that they were just there to support S. in delivering a grievance. After the crowd parted to allow a service user access to the centre, she remained in the lobby and asked “I should join in too?” After about 5 minutes, Syme Woolner manager Mark Neysmith appeared. Mark told the crowd that this was “a private matter.” However it was clear to all that this was no longer the case. Mark was given a copy of the letter and at first refused to allow S. to read it aloud. She began reading anyway. When she had finished, there was spontaneous applause, and S. and her supporters made their exit. Two days later, on Thursday, January 22, S. was paid for her outstanding hours and one week’s termination pay. The day after S. received her pay, she received a letter from Syme Woolner’s lawyers, claiming “Our client is extremely concerned by the actions of you and your friends […] Needless to say, Syme Woolner will take legal action if you engage in any activity, either directly or indirectly, that is defamatory of Syme Woolner or otherwise affects the Organization, its reputation, or its operations negatively.” Despite this, the lawyers reiterated the offer to buy S.’s silence saying, “Despite the manner in which you have conducted yourself since dismissal, and our client’s concerns regarding your conduct when you attended at their offices, the offer set out in the dismissal letter remains open for acceptance. If you would like to receive the additional week of pay, please execute the enclosed Release and return it to my attention.” S. has no intention of signing. Harm reduction workers make harm reduction work. The days of harm reduction workers getting pushed around by management with no recourse are over in Toronto. The Toronto Harm Reduction Workers Union will continue organizing to win better working conditions and worker’s power, both of which are essential to achieving harm reduction services that work.

/** * Adds an email to email. * * @param email the new email * @return the CreateAlertPolicyInputMechanisms builder */ public Builder addEmail(CreateAlertPolicyInputMechanismsEmailItem email) { com.ibm.cloud.sdk.core.util.Validator.notNull(email, "email cannot be null"); if (this.email == null) { this.email = new ArrayList<CreateAlertPolicyInputMechanismsEmailItem>(); } this.email.add(email); return this; }

/// <reference types="cypress" /> describe('simple', () => { beforeEach(() => { cy.visit('http://localhost:8080/simple') }) it('should match screenshot 1200x800', function () { cy.viewport(1200, 800) cy.wait(2000) cy.get('.vue-horizontal').matchImageSnapshot() }); it('should match screenshot 800x800', function () { cy.viewport(800, 800) cy.wait(2000) cy.get('.vue-horizontal').matchImageSnapshot() }); it('should match screenshot 600x600', function () { cy.viewport(600, 600) cy.wait(2000) cy.get('.vue-horizontal').matchImageSnapshot() }); it('should match document', function () { cy.viewport(1200, 800) cy.wait(2000) cy.document().matchImageSnapshot() }); it('should match document after next', function () { cy.viewport(1200, 800) cy.get('.v-hl-btn-next').click() cy.wait(3000) cy.document().matchImageSnapshot() }); })

#include <Arduino.h> #include "debug.h" void init_plugin_debug() { #if DEBUG_LEVEL > OFF Serial.begin(115200L); #endif }

Update from RCP Quality Improvement: QI, what do we need to learn? Quality improvement activities are now an established part of the training of postgraduate doctors in the UK, largely by being involved with or leading quality improvement projects. Learning activities should enable the development of professional capabilities that are outlined by the General Medical Council (GMC).1 However, the more detailed knowledge, skills and practice that need to be learned through this had not been clearly described. It is now widely accepted that quality improvement includes both technical and behavioural elements, and that learning these through practical experience as well as source materials is necessary. The Academy of Medical Royal Colleges (AoMRC) report Quality Improvement training for better outcomes published in 2016 started to outline knowledge, skills, values and behaviours that would be required within a quality improvement curriculum at different stages of medical careers and recommended that royal colleges should develop these further.2 Work over the last 2 years has continued, with the medical royal colleges quality improvement leads

A sequential cognitive and physical approach (SCOPA) for patellofemoral pain: a randomized controlled trial in adolescent patients Objective: To compare a sequential treatment algorithm considering psychosocial and physical impairments, with a conventional rehabilitation approach considering only physical impairments in adolescents with patellofemoral pain. Design: A randomized, single-blind, controlled study. Participants: Fifty-five adolescents (36 females; mean age 14.3±1.8years). Interventions: The sequential cognitive and physical approach (SCOPA) group (n=28) was treated based on sequential testing and treatment of activity-related fear, flexibility, kinematics, and strength. The comparator group (n=27) was treated with a non-sequential physical impairmentbased approach. Both groups received treatment two times a week for up to six weeks. Measurements: Function (Anterior Knee Pain Scale), pain (Numeric Pain Rating Scale), and Global Rating of Change were assessed at baseline, three weeks, and six weeks, with a six-month follow-up. Results: Both groups had similar function (73.7±9.6) and pain (6.0±2.3) at baseline. A third of individuals with patellofemoral pain demonstrated elevated activity-related fear at baseline. Patients randomized to the SCOPA group had clinically significant greater improvements at six weeks in function (SCOPA, 95.0±7.4 and comparator, 84.8±10.4; mean difference: 10.2, 95% CI: 5.3, 15.1) and pain (SCOPA, 0.9±1.9 and comparator, 2.7±2.1; mean difference: 1.7, 95% CI: 0.5, 2.9). No differences were noted in Global Rating of Change. No between-group differences were noted in any outcome at six-month follow-up. Conclusion: The sequential cognitive and physical approach resulted in greater improvements in short-term function and pain. By six months, both groups demonstrated similar clinically significant improvements in all outcomes.

The diaphragm as an anti-reflux barrier An infusion technique was used to measure pressures at the lower end of the oesophagus in normal patients and in those with hiatus hernia. These studies show a band of raised pressure at the lower end of the oesophagus in normal patients. This band was abnormally long in the majority of patients with hiatus hernia, but in others it resolved into two bands, particularly in patients with hiatus hernia and a short oesophagus. When the distance between these two bands was compared with the length of the oesophagogastric junction above the hiatus radiologically and at oesophagoscopy, a significant correlation was found. It, therefore, is postulated that one of these bands is produced by the inferior oesophageal sphincter and the other by the diaphragm, and thus it is demonstrated that the diaphragm must be included among the factors controlling reflux.

<reponame>Sophia-Okito/codewars-handbook import static java.util.stream.IntStream.of; interface ZywOo { static int sumOfDifferences(int[] arr) { var stat = of(arr).summaryStatistics(); return arr.length > 1 ? stat.getMax() - stat.getMin() : 0; } }

Healthrelated lifestyle in adults and children with primary immune thrombocytopenia (ITP) Primary immune thrombocytopenia (ITP) is an autoimmune disease characterized by a decreased peripheral blood platelet count in the absence of a demonstrable cause, leading to an increased susceptibility to bleeding events (Provan et al, 2010). To avoid such events, patients with primary ITP have historically been subject to considerable lifestyle restrictions. Investigation into the impact of these restrictions, of highly visible bleeding manifestations, and of patient concerns over the side effects of treatment has only recently begun (Guidry et al, 2009; Zehnder et al, 2010). Emerging research has, however, highlighted a considerable burden posed by the disease. For example, McMillan et al reported lower aggregate health-related quality of life (HRQoL) scores among 73 adults with primary ITP than in patients with hypertension, arthritis, or cancer. Such research has importantly been coupled with the development and validation of two ITPspecific HRQoL assessment instruments: the ITP-Patient Assessment Questionnaire (ITP-PAQ) and the Kids ITP Tools (KIT) (Klaassen et al, 2007; George et al, 2009). To complement ongoing research in HRQoL, the ITP Support Association conducted a questionnaire-based survey to identify health-related lifestyle concerns among adults and children with primary ITP in the United Kingdom. In collaboration with ITP specialists, a 43-question, closedfield questionnaire was developed, addressing bruising and bleeding frequency; disease management; social engagement; work and school performance; and recreational activities. Questionnaires were mailed to members of the ITP Support Association (N = 1767). Results from returned questionnaires were stratified by age and platelet count at last follow-up, which served as a surrogate marker for disease severity (mild: >50 10/l, moderate: 2049 10/l, and severe: <20 10/l). Differences between groups were evaluated using generalized CochraneMantel Haenszel tests and were restricted to fields completed by at least three-quarters of responders. In total, 790 (447%) completed surveys were received from 696 (881%) adults and 94 (119%) children with primary ITP. The female-to-male ratio was 22:1, with respondents reporting a 50-year median (range: 01540 years) duration of disease. Mild, moderate, and severe disease was noted in 572%, 175%, and 154% of patients. Bruising occurred always or often in 374% of adults and 568% of children, while bleeding of similar frequency was noted in 106% of all patients (Fig 1). Adults were twice as likely as children (894% vs. 453%; P < 0001) to have been prescribed an ITP-specific treatment. Children were more likely than adults to experience frustration over activity restrictions (233% vs. 95% respectively; P < 0001). However, the impact of primary ITP on healthcare, insurance coverage, and social engagement was

#ifndef __BOILER_H #define __STEPPER_H #include "stm32f10x_gpio.h" #include "stm32f10x_rcc.h" #define BOILER_GPIO GPIO_Pin_13 #define BOILER_ON Bit_SET #define BOILER_OFF Bit_RESET void initBoilerRCC(void); void initBoilerGPIO(void); void initBoiler(void); void changeBoilerState(uint8_t state); #endif

Intrauterine varicella: a report of two cases associated with hyper-A-immunoglobulinemia. Varicella during pregnancy may occasionally harm the fetus. This report described one case of congenital varicella syndrome and another of infantile herpes zoster after maternal varicella in the 16th and 29th week of pregnancy, respectively. A remarkable finding was that both mothers and infants had raised levels of serum IgA. This suggests that varicella is prone to lead to congenital disease in infants of pregnant women with an immunologic, perhaps genetically determined abnormality.

/** * Copyright (c) Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. * Licensed under the MIT License. See License.txt in the project root for * license information. * * Code generated by Microsoft (R) AutoRest Code Generator. * jkl */ package com.microsoft.azure.management.authorization.v2015_07_01.implementation; import com.microsoft.azure.arm.model.implementation.WrapperImpl; import com.microsoft.azure.management.authorization.v2015_07_01.RoleDefinitions; import rx.functions.Func1; import rx.Observable; import com.microsoft.azure.Page; import com.microsoft.azure.management.authorization.v2015_07_01.RoleDefinition; class RoleDefinitionsImpl extends WrapperImpl<RoleDefinitionsInner> implements RoleDefinitions { private final AuthorizationManager manager; RoleDefinitionsImpl(AuthorizationManager manager) { super(manager.inner().roleDefinitions()); this.manager = manager; } public AuthorizationManager manager() { return this.manager; } @Override public RoleDefinitionImpl define(String name) { return wrapModel(name); } private RoleDefinitionImpl wrapModel(RoleDefinitionInner inner) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(inner, manager()); } private RoleDefinitionImpl wrapModel(String name) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(name, this.manager()); } @Override public Observable<RoleDefinition> deleteAsync(String scope, String roleDefinitionId) { RoleDefinitionsInner client = this.inner(); return client.deleteAsync(scope, roleDefinitionId) .map(new Func1<RoleDefinitionInner, RoleDefinition>() { @Override public RoleDefinition call(RoleDefinitionInner inner) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(inner, manager()); } }); } @Override public Observable<RoleDefinition> getAsync(String scope, String roleDefinitionId) { RoleDefinitionsInner client = this.inner(); return client.getAsync(scope, roleDefinitionId) .map(new Func1<RoleDefinitionInner, RoleDefinition>() { @Override public RoleDefinition call(RoleDefinitionInner inner) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(inner, manager()); } }); } @Override public Observable<RoleDefinition> getByIdAsync(String roleDefinitionId) { RoleDefinitionsInner client = this.inner(); return client.getByIdAsync(roleDefinitionId) .map(new Func1<RoleDefinitionInner, RoleDefinition>() { @Override public RoleDefinition call(RoleDefinitionInner inner) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(inner, manager()); } }); } @Override public Observable<RoleDefinition> listAsync(final String scope) { RoleDefinitionsInner client = this.inner(); return client.listAsync(scope) .flatMapIterable(new Func1<Page<RoleDefinitionInner>, Iterable<RoleDefinitionInner>>() { @Override public Iterable<RoleDefinitionInner> call(Page<RoleDefinitionInner> page) { return page.items(); } }) .map(new Func1<RoleDefinitionInner, RoleDefinition>() { @Override public RoleDefinition call(RoleDefinitionInner inner) { return new RoleDefinitionImpl(inner, manager()); } }); } }

package com.flairsteck.workshop; import com.flairsteck.workshop.exception.DBDownException; import com.flairsteck.workshop.repository.CountryDao; import org.junit.Test; import org.junit.runner.RunWith; import org.springframework.beans.factory.annotation.Autowired; import org.springframework.boot.test.context.SpringBootTest; import org.springframework.boot.test.web.client.TestRestTemplate; import org.springframework.boot.web.server.LocalServerPort; import org.springframework.http.*; import org.springframework.test.context.junit4.SpringRunner; /** * * @author hanan.ayman */ @RunWith(SpringRunner.class) @SpringBootTest(classes = Application.class, webEnvironment = SpringBootTest.WebEnvironment.RANDOM_PORT) public class ApplicationTests { @Autowired private TestRestTemplate restTemplate; @LocalServerPort private int port; @Autowired CountryDao countryDao; private String getRootUrl() { return "http://localhost:" + port; } @Test public void context(){ } @Test public void testGetUserById() { // HttpHeaders headers = new HttpHeaders(); // HttpEntity<String> entity = new HttpEntity<String>(null, new HttpHeaders()); ResponseEntity<String> response = restTemplate.exchange(getRootUrl() + "/BHR", HttpMethod.GET, new HttpEntity<String>(null, new HttpHeaders()), String.class); junit.framework.Assert.assertEquals(response.getBody().toString(), HttpStatus.OK, response.getStatusCode()); } @Test public void testDBConnection() throws DBDownException { try { countryDao.getAllCountryInfoByCode("BHR"); } catch (Exception ex) { throw new DBDownException(ex.toString()); } } }

Enhancement by Metallic Tube Filling of the Mechanical Properties of Electromagnetic Wave Absorbent Polymethacrylimide Foam By the addition of a carbon-based electromagnetic absorbing agent during the foaming process, a novel electromagnetic absorbent polymethacrylimide (PMI) foam was obtained. The proposed foam exhibits excellent electromagnetic wave-absorbing properties, with absorptivity exceeding 85% at a large frequency range of 4.918 GHz. However, its poor mechanical properties would limit its application in load-carrying structures. In the present study, a novel enhancement approach is proposed by inserting metallic tubes into pre-perforated holes of PMI foam blocks. The mechanical properties of the tube-enhanced PMI foams were studied experimentally under compressive loading conditions. The elastic modulus, compressive strength, energy absorption per unit volume, and energy absorption per unit mass were increased by 127.9%, 133.8%, 54.2%, and 46.4%, respectively, by the metallic tube filling, and the density increased only by 5.3%. The failure mechanism of the foams was also explored. We found that the weaker interfaces between the foam and the electromagnetic absorbing agent induced crack initiation and subsequent collapses, which destroyed the structural integrity. The excellent mechanical and electromagnetic absorbing properties make the novel structure much more competitive in electromagnetic wave stealth applications, while acting simultaneously as load-carrying structures. Introduction Multi-functional designs of materials and structures, such as collaborative design of mechanical and electromagnetic (EM) wave absorption, which is critical in aircraft and aerospace applications, are more and more attractive and have been widely studied. Metamaterial absorber (MMA) is a kind of composite material, which usually consists of periodic artificial structures and dielectric substrates. By transforming the electromagnetic wave energy into other forms (e.g., as thermal energy), MMA can exhibit electromagnetic wave absorption. A frequency-selective surface (FSS) absorber consists of lossy resistive patches, and the performance of broadband absorbing can be easily obtained by reasonable design of the planar patterns. Three-dimensional structures were also developed for wide-band and wide-angle electromagnetic wave absorption, such as folded resistive patches and honeycombs. Such structures have excellent electromagnetic (EM) wave absorption Measurement of Electromagnetic Wave Absorbtion The electromagnetic wave absorption of the absorbent PMI foam was characterized by the measurement of reflection. As shown in Figure 2a, the measurement was carried out at the frequency of 2-18 GHz by using the free-space method in a microwave anechoic chamber at ambient temperature, through the test system based on an Agilent E8363B Network Analyzer. The electromagnetic wave reflection property of normal and absorbent PMI foams with the dimensions of 600 mm 600 mm 20 mm were measured. A metal plate with the same size of the specimen was employed as the back plate to avoid wave transmission. It is noted that the reflection from a metal plate used as a prototype should be firstly measured, for the sake of normalization. Compressive Tests The detailed parameters of normal and absorbent PMI foam specimens for compressive tests are listed in Table. 1. Quasi-static compression was carried out by an electronic universal testing machine (INSTRON-3382) at room temperature. The loading rate was fixed at 2 mm/min, with a nominal strain rate less than 10 −3 s −1. The compressive strain of at least 75% was achieved for each specimen to ensure complete deformation and energy absorption. Digital images of each specimen were acquired to capture the deformation modes and explore the failure mechanisms. No less than three specimens in each case were measured in the tests to acquire the averaged mechanical properties. Measurement of Electromagnetic Wave Absorbtion The electromagnetic wave absorption of the absorbent PMI foam was characterized by the measurement of reflection. As shown in Figure 2a, the measurement was carried out at the frequency of 2-18 GHz by using the free-space method in a microwave anechoic chamber at ambient temperature, through the test system based on an Agilent E8363B Network Analyzer. The electromagnetic wave reflection property of normal and absorbent PMI foams with the dimensions of 600 mm 600 mm 20 mm were measured. A metal plate with the same size of the specimen was employed as the back plate to avoid wave transmission. It is noted that the reflection from a metal plate used as a prototype should be firstly measured, for the sake of normalization. Compressive Tests The detailed parameters of normal and absorbent PMI foam specimens for compressive tests are listed in Table 1. Quasi-static compression was carried out by an electronic universal testing machine (INSTRON-3382) at room temperature. The loading rate was fixed at 2 mm/min, with a nominal strain rate less than 10 −3 s −1. The compressive strain of at least 75% was achieved for each specimen to ensure complete deformation and energy absorption. Digital images of each specimen were acquired to capture the deformation modes and explore the failure mechanisms. No less than three specimens in each case were measured in the tests to acquire the averaged mechanical properties. Electromagnetic Wave Absorbtion The electromagnetic wave absorptivity can be expressed as : where A represents the electromagnetic wave absorptivity, while Electromagnetic Wave Absorbtion The electromagnetic wave absorptivity can be expressed as : where A represents the electromagnetic wave absorptivity, while |S 11 | 2 and |S 21 | 2 represent the reflectivity and the transmissivity, respectively. Note that, in this calculation, S 11 and S 21 are linear values. Here, |S 21 | 2 is equal to 0, due to the employment of the metal backboard in the present measurement. Figure 2b shows the reflectivity of the vertical incident waves (S 11 ) at the frequency of 2-18 GHz. The average reflectivity of the absorbent PMI foam at the frequency of 4.9-18 GHz was less than −8 dB, which implies that the electromagnetic wave absorptivity A, calculated by Equation, can be larger than 85%. At the frequency of 5.2-7.3 GHz, 9.9-12.85 GHz, and 14.5-18 GHz, the reflectivity was even less than −10 dB, with the absorptivity larger than 90%. At the specific range of 6.25-6.55 GHz, the reflectivity decreased to less than −15 dB. In contrast, the electromagnetic waves were completely reflected by the normal PMI foam (see Figure 2b). This implies that the present absorbent PMI foam possessed good electromagnetic wave-absorbing properties. Figure 3a compares the compressive stress versus strain curves of normal and absorbent PMI foams. All specimens exhibited foam-like features, i.e., the three typical regions including linear, plateau, and densification regions. The absorbent PMI foam had similar density to the normal one, but the compressive strength peak (the first peak stress) and plateau strength were even less than half of those of the normal foam. It can be seen from Figure 4 that during the compressive process, cracks could be obviously observed in the absorbent PMI foam specimen, which caused subsequent collapses, while for the normal foam, only compaction occurred leading to densification. dB, which implies that the electromagnetic wave absorptivity A, calculated by Equation, can be larger than 85%. At the frequency of 5.2-7.3 GHz, 9.9-12.85 GHz, and 14.5-18 GHz, the reflectivity was even less than −10 dB, with the absorptivity larger than 90%. At the specific range of 6.25-6.55 GHz, the reflectivity decreased to less than −15 dB. In contrast, the electromagnetic waves were completely reflected by the normal PMI foam (see Figure 2b). This implies that the present absorbent PMI foam possessed good electromagnetic wave-absorbing properties. Figure 3a compares the compressive stress versus strain curves of normal and absorbent PMI foams. All specimens exhibited foam-like features, i.e., the three typical regions including linear, plateau, and densification regions. The absorbent PMI foam had similar density to the normal one, but the compressive strength peak (the first peak stress) and plateau strength were even less than half of those of the normal foam. It can be seen from Figure 4 that during the compressive process, cracks could be obviously observed in the absorbent PMI foam specimen, which caused subsequent collapses, while for the normal foam, only compaction occurred leading to densification. Enhancement of Compressive Strength (a) (b) dB, which implies that the electromagnetic wave absorptivity A, calculated by Equation, can be larger than 85%. At the frequency of 5.2-7.3 GHz, 9.9-12.85 GHz, and 14.5-18 GHz, the reflectivity was even less than −10 dB, with the absorptivity larger than 90%. At the specific range of 6.25-6.55 GHz, the reflectivity decreased to less than −15 dB. In contrast, the electromagnetic waves were completely reflected by the normal PMI foam (see Figure 2b). This implies that the present absorbent PMI foam possessed good electromagnetic wave-absorbing properties. Figure 3a compares the compressive stress versus strain curves of normal and absorbent PMI foams. All specimens exhibited foam-like features, i.e., the three typical regions including linear, plateau, and densification regions. The absorbent PMI foam had similar density to the normal one, but the compressive strength peak (the first peak stress) and plateau strength were even less than half of those of the normal foam. It can be seen from Figure 4 that during the compressive process, cracks could be obviously observed in the absorbent PMI foam specimen, which caused subsequent collapses, while for the normal foam, only compaction occurred leading to densification. Enhancement of Compressive Strength (a) (b) A metallic tube was employed as a filler to improve the poor compressive performance of the absorbent PMI foam. Figures 5a and 6a present the typical stress-versus-strain curves of the tube-enhanced normal and absorbent PMI foams, respectively. It is shown that filling of both aluminum and 304 stainless steel tubes led to significant enhancement of the compressive performances of both normal and absorbent PMI foams. The tube-enhanced PMI foams still underwent foam-like features but exhibited some obvious fluctuations in the plateau region. The jagged stress-versus-strain curves presented multiple peaks and valleys before densification. Each stress peak and valley were related to one folding (i.e., progressive buckling deformation ), which could be demonstrated through the buckling deformation mode layer by layer, as shown in Figure 7d. Moreover, internal filling of the PMI foam into 304 stainless steel tube (specimen 9) led to a significant increase of the compressive strength of the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam, while no obvious improvement could be seen in the case of the aluminum tube-enhanced foam (specimen 7). This may be attributed to the fact that the wall thickness of the 304 stainless steel tube (0.2 mm) was smaller than that of the aluminum tube (0.5 mm), and the buckling mode of the tube with the thinner wall could be more easily affected by the internal filling of foam. Therefore, the internal filling of foam changed the buckling mode of the 304 stainless steel tube and led to the increase of compressive strength. A metallic tube was employed as a filler to improve the poor compressive performance of the absorbent PMI foam. Figure 5a,6a present the typical stress-versus-strain curves of the tube-enhanced normal and absorbent PMI foams, respectively. It is shown that filling of both aluminum and 304 stainless steel tubes led to significant enhancement of the compressive performances of both normal and absorbent PMI foams. The tube-enhanced PMI foams still underwent foam-like features but exhibited some obvious fluctuations in the plateau region. The jagged stress-versus-strain curves presented multiple peaks and valleys before densification. Each stress peak and valley were related to one folding (i.e., progressive buckling deformation ), which could be demonstrated through the buckling deformation mode layer by layer, as shown in Figure 7d. Moreover, internal filling of the PMI foam into 304 stainless steel tube (specimen 9) led to a significant increase of the compressive strength of the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam, while no obvious improvement could be seen in the case of the aluminum tube-enhanced foam (specimen 7). This may be attributed to the fact that the wall thickness of the 304 stainless steel tube (0.2 mm) was smaller than that of the aluminum tube (0.5 mm), and the buckling mode of the tube with the thinner wall could be more easily affected by the internal filling of foam. Therefore, the internal filling of foam changed the buckling mode of the 304 stainless steel tube and led to the increase of compressive strength. absorbent PMI foam. Figure 5a,6a present the typical stress-versus-strain curves of the tube-enhanced normal and absorbent PMI foams, respectively. It is shown that filling of both aluminum and 304 stainless steel tubes led to significant enhancement of the compressive performances of both normal and absorbent PMI foams. The tube-enhanced PMI foams still underwent foam-like features but exhibited some obvious fluctuations in the plateau region. The jagged stress-versus-strain curves presented multiple peaks and valleys before densification. Each stress peak and valley were related to one folding (i.e., progressive buckling deformation ), which could be demonstrated through the buckling deformation mode layer by layer, as shown in Figure 7d. Moreover, internal filling of the PMI foam into 304 stainless steel tube (specimen 9) led to a significant increase of the compressive strength of the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam, while no obvious improvement could be seen in the case of the aluminum tube-enhanced foam (specimen 7). This may be attributed to the fact that the wall thickness of the 304 stainless steel tube (0.2 mm) was smaller than that of the aluminum tube (0.5 mm), and the buckling mode of the tube with the thinner wall could be more easily affected by the internal filling of foam. Therefore, the internal filling of foam changed the buckling mode of the 304 stainless steel tube and led to the increase of compressive strength. (a) (b) The averaged elastic modulus E and the compressive strength peak are summarized in Table 2. For the absorbent PMI foam, filling with the metallic tube only contributed a little to the increase of density (less than 5.3%) but increased the elastic modulus E of the normal PMI foam by 77.7% (specimen 3), and that of the absorbent PMI foam by 128% (specimen 9). Moreover, the peak compressive strength peak was increased by 18.3% (specimen 4) for the normal PMI foam, and surprisingly by 133.8% (specimen 9) for the absorbent PMI foam. The averaged elastic modulus E and the compressive strength peak are summarized in Table 2. For the absorbent PMI foam, filling with the metallic tube only contributed a little to the increase of density (less than 5.3%) but increased the elastic modulus E of the normal PMI foam by 77.7% (specimen 3), and that of the absorbent PMI foam by 128% (specimen 9). Moreover, the peak compressive strength peak was increased by 18.3% (specimen 4) for the normal PMI foam, and surprisingly by 133.8% (specimen 9) for the absorbent PMI foam. Enhancement of Energy Absorption The energy absorption capacity is commonly characterized by energy absorption per unit volume W v : The energy absorption per unit volume W v as a function of compressive strain of the PMI foam, tube-enhanced PMI foam, and tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam, is shown in Figure 3, Figure 5b, and Figure 6, respectively, and the calculated W v at = 0.5 are summarized in Table 2. As shown in Figure 3b, the absorbent PMI foams were not as effective as the normal ones in energy absorption, for the electromagnetic absorbing agent addition in PMI foam caused an increase of brittle features, which decreased the compressive strength. It was found that the tube filling influenced the energy absorption of both normal and absorbent PMI foams. In addition, the specific energy absorption (SEA) was another important parameter in weight-sensitive applications, which could be defined as averaged energy absorption per unit mass : The W m of the specimens are also shown in Table 2. For normal PMI foams (specimens 1-4), the energy absorption per unit volume W v and per unit mass W m by filling the metallic tube was increased by 18% (specimens 3 and 4) and 6.7% (specimen 4), respectively. A much more obvious enhancement was found for the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foams (specimens 5-9): W v and W m of tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foams were increased by 54.2% (specimen 9) and 46.4% (specimen 9), respectively. Figure 7 presents the specimen images of the normal PMI foam, tube enhanced, and foam-filled tube-enhanced PMI foams after compression. For all three kinds of specimens, the structural integrity could be well ensured. During the compressive process, the normal PMI foam underwent compaction and densification, showing ductile collapse. In contrast, the absorbent PMI foam exhibited brittle collapse, with cracking and delamination occurring due to the addition of the electromagnetic absorbing agent. As shown in Figure 8, the specimens were all damaged completely after compression (with compressive strain over 75%) and broken into small pieces of different sizes. In local fractography in Figure 8d, the interfaces between the foam and the absorbing agent of the absorbent PMI foam can be seen clearly. The poor interfaces with weak bonding strength were more prone to initiate a crack, leading to delamination and subsequent collapse of the specimen. Figure 8e,f show the fracture surfaces of the absorbent PMI foam with different magnifications. Failure Mechanism Adding the absorbing agent improved the electromagnetic wave absorption of the absorbent PMI foam. Meanwhile, the weaker interfaces between the foam and the absorbing agent also decreased its mechanical properties. Therefore, the present effective enhancement approach by metallic tube filling is of great significance for engineering applications. Comparison The specific compressive strength peak c Y (here, Y refers to the yielding strength of the metallic tubes) and energy absorption per unit mass m W (SEA) of the present tube-enhanced normal and absorbent PMI foams were compared with those of other competing metallic sandwich cores. As shown in Figure 9, the present tube-enhanced PMI foams were quite competitive especially in energy absorption. Compared with other metallic lattice cores, which have shown significant advantages in load-carrying applications, the present tube-enhanced PMI foam seemed more effective. By optimizing the design of the geometric parameters in the future, the present tubereinforced structure will be more competitive. Comparison The specific compressive strength peak / c Y (here, Y refers to the yielding strength of the metallic tubes) and energy absorption per unit mass W m (SEA) of the present tube-enhanced normal and absorbent PMI foams were compared with those of other competing metallic sandwich cores. As shown in Figure 9, the present tube-enhanced PMI foams were quite competitive especially in energy absorption. Compared with other metallic lattice cores, which have shown significant advantages in load-carrying applications, the present tube-enhanced PMI foam seemed more effective. By optimizing the design of the geometric parameters in the future, the present tube-reinforced structure will be more competitive. Conclusions In conclusion, a PMI foam was endowed with the property of electromagnetic wave absorption by adding an electromagnetic absorbing agent during the foaming process, to form a novel absorbent PMI foam. Metallic circular tubes, made of 6061 aluminum alloy and 304 stainless steel, were chosen as the fillers to enhance the mechanical performance of the normal and absorbent PMI foams. The properties of electromagnetic wave absorption, as well as compressive strength and energy absorption, were experimentally investigated. The main findings are summarized as follows: The absorbent PMI foam exhibited good electromagnetic wave absorption, with electromagnetic wave absorptivity larger than 85% at a large frequency range of 4.9-18 GHz. The absorptivity even exceeded 90% at a specific range of frequency. During the compressive process, the normal PMI foam underwent compaction and densification, showing ductile collapse. In contrast, the absorbent PMI foam exhibited brittle collapse, with cracking and delamination occurring due to the addition of the electromagnetic absorbing agent. A filling of metallic tubes increased the mechanical properties of both normal and absorbent PMI foams, and the enhancement was greater for the absorbent PMI foam. The elastic modulus E, compressive strength peak, and energy absorption per unit volume v W and per unit mass m W of the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam could be increased by 127.9%, 133.8%, 54.2%, and 46.4%, respectively, with the density increasing only by 5.3%. Filling with a 304 stainless steel tube was more effective than filling with an aluminum tube. With their outstanding performances in electromagnetic wave absorption, compressive strength, and energy absorption, the proposed tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam is quite competitive in applications such as simultaneous electromagnetic wave stealth, load carrying, and impact resistance. Acknowledgments: Special thanks should be given to Hunan Zihard Material Technology Co. Ltd for the supply of the PMI foams. Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest. Conclusions In conclusion, a PMI foam was endowed with the property of electromagnetic wave absorption by adding an electromagnetic absorbing agent during the foaming process, to form a novel absorbent PMI foam. Metallic circular tubes, made of 6061 aluminum alloy and 304 stainless steel, were chosen as the fillers to enhance the mechanical performance of the normal and absorbent PMI foams. The properties of electromagnetic wave absorption, as well as compressive strength and energy absorption, were experimentally investigated. The main findings are summarized as follows: The absorbent PMI foam exhibited good electromagnetic wave absorption, with electromagnetic wave absorptivity larger than 85% at a large frequency range of 4.9-18 GHz. The absorptivity even exceeded 90% at a specific range of frequency. During the compressive process, the normal PMI foam underwent compaction and densification, showing ductile collapse. In contrast, the absorbent PMI foam exhibited brittle collapse, with cracking and delamination occurring due to the addition of the electromagnetic absorbing agent. A filling of metallic tubes increased the mechanical properties of both normal and absorbent PMI foams, and the enhancement was greater for the absorbent PMI foam. The elastic modulus E, compressive strength peak, and energy absorption per unit volume W v and per unit mass W m of the tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam could be increased by 127.9%, 133.8%, 54.2%, and 46.4%, respectively, with the density increasing only by 5.3%. Filling with a 304 stainless steel tube was more effective than filling with an aluminum tube. With their outstanding performances in electromagnetic wave absorption, compressive strength, and energy absorption, the proposed tube-enhanced absorbent PMI foam is quite competitive in applications such as simultaneous electromagnetic wave stealth, load carrying, and impact resistance.

package controllers; import java.io.File; import java.util.Date; import java.util.HashMap; import java.util.Map; import models.ReportFactory; import models.Reporte; import models.User; import net.sf.jasperreports.engine.JRException; import net.sf.jasperreports.engine.JasperCompileManager; import net.sf.jasperreports.engine.JasperExportManager; import net.sf.jasperreports.engine.JasperFillManager; import play.db.DB; import play.mvc.Result; import play.mvc.Controller; public class ControllerReportes extends Controller{ static String REPORT_DEFINITION_PATH = "./app/reports/"; public static Result generarReportePDF(int criteriaReporte){ Reporte reporte = ReportFactory.getReport(criteriaReporte); try { String printFileName = reporte.generarReporteCompilado(); if (printFileName != null) { JasperExportManager.exportReportToPdfFile(printFileName, reporte.getFileName() + ".pdf"); return ok(new File(reporte.getFileName() + ".pdf")); } return null; } catch (JRException e) { e.printStackTrace(); return null; } } public static Result generarReporteParamPDF(int criteriaReporte, Long idRecorrido){ Reporte reporte = ReportFactory.getReportWithParams(criteriaReporte, idRecorrido); try { String printFileName = reporte.generarReporteCompilado(); if (printFileName != null) { JasperExportManager.exportReportToPdfFile(printFileName, reporte.getFileName() + ".pdf"); return ok(new File(reporte.getFileName() + ".pdf")); } return null; } catch (JRException e) { e.printStackTrace(); return null; } } }

Carer burden and psychological distress in youngonset dementia: An Australian perspective Abstract Objectives Carer burden in dementia is associated with poor outcomes, including early nursing home placement for people with dementia and psychological distress for their carers. Carers of people with youngonset dementia (YOD) are particularly vulnerable to carer burden. Yet they are often overlooked by clinicians as dementia services are generally designed for older people. We sought to estimate the rate of burden and psychological distress in carers of YOD at a statewide tertiary service based in Australia. Methods We conducted a crosssectional study examining 71 dyads from a Neuropsychiatry service. We collected patient demographic and clinical data including the Neuropsychiatry Unit Cognitive Assessment tool (NUCOG) and MiniMental State Examination (MMSE). Carer data, such as demographics and psychological distress, were obtained using Depression Anxiety Stress Scale 21 (DASS21). Carer burden was rated using the Zarit Burden Inventoryshort version (ZBI). Results Higher carer burden, measured using ZBI, was associated with longer duration of dementia and greater severity of overall cognitive impairment. Carers who felt burdened reported higher levels of stress, depression, and anxiety measured using DASS21. Multiple linear regression analysis found carer burden was independently predicted by duration of dementia, total cognition score and carers experiencing psychological stress. Discussion We found that patient variables of dementia duration and cognitive impairment and carer variable of carer stress to be associated with carer burden. Poor executive function was associated with carer stress. Early identification and management of carer burden and psychological distress is important for outcomes. Ideally, this should be provided by a specialist YOD service. | BACKGROUND Carers of people with dementia face high levels of carer burden, defined as the negative impact on the carers' physical, psychological, social and financial state. 1 Despite the negative consequences of carer burden including psychological distress, carers are often overlooked by clinicians, and have been labelled 'the invisible patient'. 2 Young-onset dementia (YOD) accounts for 5%-9% of all dementias. 3,4 As dementia is seen as a disease of the elderly with community-based services biased towards those older than 65 years old, carers of these younger people may feel less supported and are at higher risk of adverse effects. For example, it has been reported that carers of YOD were twice as likely to report feeling burdened and experience worse quality of life compared to carers of dementia of later onset. In response, the Australian YOD Special Interest Group 8 called for prioritisation of investments in YOD carer support research and funding. There has been a similar commitment in a consortia of 6 European countries. 9 Of the limited research about the prevalence of burden and psychological strain in carers of YOD, cross-sectional studies conducted at outpatient cognitive clinics in Singapore and England found 52.6% and 58.3% carers experiencing high burden respectively. 7,10 An Australian study based in New South Wales reported the mean Zarit Burden Interview score was 12.3 (cut-off for high burden being a score of 17 or greater) but did not comment on the prevalence. 5 With regards to psychological strain, another Australian study reported 58% of carers felt depressed. 11 There are several reasons why carers of YOD experience high burden. YOD occurs at a period when individuals and their carers are likely to be at their maximal earning capacity, have financial responsibilities and are caring for dependents. The diagnostic process can be protracted, 12,13 and by the time the disease is confirmed, families are likely to have gone through an extremely difficult period, involving confusion and uncertainty, 14 likely job loss, 15 and financial costs in engaging health care services and significant disruption to what had been 'normal' family practices. 16 After diagnosis, people with YOD and their families generally find there is very little dedicated support or resources available to help them understand, cope and deal with the disease and its various impacts on their lives. 8,17 Predictors of carer burden in YOD can be grouped into carer factors and patient characteristics. For carer factors, females, spouses and those who use an emotion-focused coping strategy or have neurotic traits tend to report higher levels of burden. Behavioural disturbance including aggression, apathy and disinhibition, often present in behaviour variant frontotemporal dementia, are associated with higher levels of burden on carers. 7,22 Duration of dementia has mixed results. 6,19,20 The degree of cognitive impairment in YOD was not shown to predict carer burden. 7, The consequences of carer burden is particularly devastating for people with YOD who may be forced prematurely into an aged care system that is ill-equipped for their specific needs. 25 All patients received comprehensive neuropsychiatric assessment including neuropsychiatry, neurology, neuropsychology, social work, speech pathology, occupational therapy, neuroimaging (structural and functional), and blood and cerebrospinal fluid biomarkers. Diagnoses were based on contemporaneous diagnostic criteria, such as Alzheimer's disease based on the National Institute of Aging-Alzheimer's Association Criteria, 28 vascular dementia (VD) based on NINDS-AIREN criteria, 29 and frontotemporal dementia based on the Rascovsky criteria. 30 | Participants, recruitment & ethics All primary, informal carers who looked after patients with YOD at Neuropsychiatry were identified as potential participants. YOD was defined as symptoms onset before the age of 65 years. Carers were defined as a spouse, relative or friend who identified as being primarily responsible for the care of the person with YOD. Participants were recruited by the treating clinician or the research assistant during their routine care at the Neuropsychiatry inpatient service or Neuropsychiatry YOD Clinic. Their participation was voluntary and did not affect the care provided at the service. Patients provided written consent unless there was a capacity issue in which case the carer consented on their behalf. Carers provided who provided written consent to participate in the study were asked to complete questionnaires related to their experience of caring for the person who was having an assessment at Neuropsychiatry. This study was approved by the Melbourne Health Research Ethics Committee (approval numbers 2016.038 and 2018.371). | Measures Demographic information about the patients and carers were obtained including their age, sex, and relationship. Other patient characteristics obtained included past psychiatric history, family history of dementia and whether the postcode they lived in was considered an urban or a rural area according to the. 31 Patient clinical information was also obtained including dementia type and duration of dementia symptoms. We collected information from carers, including whether they lived together. We used validated questionnaires to obtain patient cognition, carer burden and carer psychological distress listed below. | Patient cognition The Neuropsychiatry Unit Cognitive Assessment tool (NUCOG) is a reliable and valid measure of the five cognitive domains (attention, visuospatial, memory, executive function, and language). It has a total score of 100 with a higher score indicating better cognition. 32 | Carer burden We measured carer burden using the Zarit Burden Inventory-short version (ZBI). The ZBI-short version is a 12-item questionnaire measuring subjective burden. It has a total score of 48 points, with higher scores reflecting higher levels of stress. A score of 17 or more is indicative of high burden. 34 | Carer psychological distress The Depression Anxiety Stress Scale 21 (DASS-21) is a 21-item selfreport measure of depression, anxiety and stress. 35,36 Overall distress was evaluated by summing each of the three sub-scale scores. Total scores range from 0 to 63, with higher scores indicating a greater level of distress. Each of the sub-scale scores ranged from 0 to 21, with higher scores corresponding to increased levels of depression, anxiety and stress. The cut-off scores for the three subscales are nine, seven, 14, respectively. The total DASS-21 score is a measure of general distress. | Data analysis Statistical analysis was performed using Jamovi v1.6 37 and SPSS v24. 38 For all variables, variance homogeneity and Gaussianity were tested with the Shapiro-Wilk test. Continuous variables are given in Table 1 as mean values � SD. The primary statistical tests were twotailed, and an level of 0.05 was used. ZBI scores were correlated with patient and carer variables using Student t test, Spearman's correlation and Welch's test. Variables that were identified in the univariate analysis as being possibly associated with ZBI total score (where p < 0.10) were selected for the multiple linear regression model to find the set of variables that predicted ZBI total score. The model was checked for outliers, normality of residuals and collinearity. Backward elimination, based on Akaike information criterion was used to determine the final model. 39 (Table 1) 33 (48%) carers reported having high burden as measured by ZBI Carer stress was associated with NUCOG executive domain (r = −0.381, p = 0.014). We did not find any association between the other NUCOG and DASS domains. | Factors correlating with carer burden and psychological distress Multiple linear regression analysis (Table 2) found three variables to be independently associated with carer burden, which were duration of disease, total cognitive score (NUCOG and MMSE) and carer stress (R 2 = 0.505, adjusted R 2 = 0.467, p < 0.001). | Factors correlated with carer burden & mental health Longer duration of dementia symptoms was correlated with increased burden. This supports the 'wear and tear' hypothesis, where the longer a carer continues their role, the more likelihood of a -5 negative outcome. 19 People with YOD are physically healthier and have fewer medical comorbidities than those with older-onset dementia. 40 Thus, carers of YOD are likely under greater burden and distress trying to manage behavioural and psychological symptoms of dementia of a person that is still physically healthy, 43 which has been reported to be similar to that of carers of older-onset dementia who manage these symptoms. 44 Our study found that cognitive impairment correlated with carer burden, which is contrary to existing research. 7,20,22,23,24 Cognitive impairment is likely a measure of clinical progression of dementia, thus it seems logical that greater impairment would represent further progression, leading to more carer burden. In contrast to previous studies, demographic factors such as carer sex, 20 living regionally 45 and family history of dementia 7 were not associated with increased burden. Despite concerns that regional location may limit access to community based services, 45 Note: For cases where the calculated NUCOG total score was very low (ie < 20 including 0), we assigned their score as 20.0 after discussion with experts including the original NUCOG authors. This was to avoid over-estimating their cognitive impairment which may have affected the statistical analysis.

#include<bits/stdc++.h> using namespace std; // By <NAME> https://github.com/miaortizma // typedef long long ll; const int N = 1005; ll M[N][N]; ll dp[4][N][N]; int main() { ios_base::sync_with_stdio(0); cin.tie(NULL); int n, m; cin >> n >> m; for (int i = 0; i < n; ++i) { for (int j = 0; j < m; ++j) { cin >> M[i][j]; } } for (int i = 0; i < n - 1; ++i) { for (int j = 0; j < m - 1; ++j) { ll &v = dp[0][i][j]; v = M[i][j]; if (i - 1 >= 0) v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[0][i - 1][j]); if (j - 1 >= 0) v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[0][i][j - 1]); } } for (int i = n - 1; i >= 0; --i) { for (int j = m - 1; j >= 0; --j) { ll &v = dp[1][i][j]; v = M[i][j]; if (i + 1 < n) v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[1][i + 1][j]); if (j + 1 < m) v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[1][i][j + 1]); } } for (int i = n - 1; i >= 0; --i) { for (int j = 0; j < m; ++j) { ll &v = dp[2][i][j]; v = M[i][j]; if (i + 1 < n) { v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[2][i + 1][j]); } if (j + 1 < m) { v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[2][i][j + 1]); } } } for (int i = 0; i < n; ++i) { for (int j = m - 1; j >= 0; --j) { ll &v = dp[3][i][j]; v = M[i][j]; if (i - 1 >= 0) { v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[3][i - 1][j]); } if (j + 1 < m) { v = max(v, M[i][j] + dp[3][i][j + 1]); } } } ll ans = 0; for (int i = 0; i < n; ++i) { for (int j = 0; j < m; ++j) { ll a = max(i - 1 >= 0 ? dp[0][i - 1][j] : 0, j - 1 >= 0 ? dp[0][i][j - 1] : 0) + max(i + 1 < n ? dp[1][i + 1][j] : 0, j + 1 < m ? dp[1][i][j + 1] : 0); ll b = max(i + 1 < n ? dp[2][i + 1][j] : 0, j - 1 >= 0 ? dp[2][i][j - 1] : 0) + max(i - 1 >= 0 ? dp[3][i - 1][j] : 0, j + 1 < m ? dp[3][i][j + 1] : 0); ll tmp = max(i - 1 >= 0 ? dp[0][i - 1][j] : 0 + i + 1 < n ? dp[1][i + 1][j] : 0 + j - 1 >= 0 ? dp[2][i][j - 1] : 0 + j + 1 < m ? dp[3][i][j + 1] : 0, j - 1 >= 0 ? dp[0][i][j - 1] : 0 + j + 1 < m ? dp[1][i][j + 1] : 0 + i + 1 < n ? dp[2][i + 1][j] : 0 + i - 1 >= 0 ? dp[3][i - 1][j] : 0); cerr << i << " " << j << " " << tmp << " " << a + b <<" \n"; ans = max(ans, tmp); } } //cerr << dp[0][0][1] << " " << dp[1][2][1] << "@@@\n"; //cerr << dp[2][1][0] << " " << dp[3][1][2] << "@@@\n"; if (n >= 4) { cerr << "@@@@@@\n"; cerr << dp[3][2][0] << "\n"; cerr << dp[3][3][1] << "\n"; } cout << ans << "\n"; return 0; }

package com.sniecinska.bingwatcher.adapters; import android.content.Context; import android.os.Bundle; import android.support.v4.app.Fragment; import android.support.v4.app.FragmentManager; import android.support.v7.widget.CardView; import android.support.v7.widget.RecyclerView; import android.util.Log; import android.view.LayoutInflater; import android.view.View; import android.view.ViewGroup; import android.widget.ImageView; import android.widget.TextView; import com.sniecinska.bingwatcher.R; import com.sniecinska.bingwatcher.fragments.ShowDetailFragment; import com.sniecinska.bingwatcher.models.Episode; import com.sniecinska.bingwatcher.models.TvSeriesDetails; import com.squareup.picasso.Picasso; import java.util.List; import butterknife.BindView; import butterknife.ButterKnife; /** * Created by ewasniecinska on 02.08.2018. */ public class TrackedShowsListAdapter extends RecyclerView.Adapter<TrackedShowsListAdapter.RecipeHolder>{ private List<TvSeriesDetails> list; Fragment fragment; FragmentManager fragmentManager; Bundle bundle; Context context; public TrackedShowsListAdapter (Context context,FragmentManager fragmentManager, List<TvSeriesDetails> list) { this.context = context; this.list = list; this.fragmentManager = fragmentManager; } public static class RecipeHolder extends RecyclerView.ViewHolder { @BindView(R.id.title) TextView title; @BindView(R.id.card_view) CardView cardView; @BindView(R.id.poster) ImageView poster; @BindView(R.id.episode_number) TextView episodeNumber; @BindView(R.id.season_number) TextView seasonNumber; @BindView(R.id.next_episode_day) TextView nextEpisodeDay; @BindView(R.id.next_episode_date) TextView nextEpisodeDate; @BindView(R.id.next_episode_time) TextView nextEpisodeTime; @BindView(R.id.season_number_label) TextView seasonNumberLabel; @BindView(R.id.episode_number_label) TextView episodeNumberLabel; public RecipeHolder(View v) { super(v); ButterKnife.bind(this, v); } } @Override public TrackedShowsListAdapter.RecipeHolder onCreateViewHolder(ViewGroup parent, int viewType) { View view = LayoutInflater.from(parent.getContext()).inflate(R.layout.adapter_tracked_shows, parent, false); return new RecipeHolder(view); } @Override public void onBindViewHolder(RecipeHolder holder, final int position) { String title = list.get(position).getName(); RecipeHolder recipeHolder = holder; recipeHolder.title.setText(title); Picasso.get() .load(context.getString(R.string.poster_based_url) + list.get(position).getPosterPath()) .into(recipeHolder.poster); Log.d("TEST",context.getString(R.string.poster_based_url) + list.get(position).getPosterPath() ); if(list.get(position).getProductionStatus()){ Episode nextEpisode = list.get(position).getNextEpisode(); if(nextEpisode != null) { recipeHolder.seasonNumber.setText(Integer.toString(nextEpisode.getSeasonNumber())); recipeHolder.episodeNumber.setText(Integer.toString(nextEpisode.getEpisodeNumber())); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDay.setText(list.get(position).getNextEpisode().getAirDay()); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDate.setText(nextEpisode.getAirDateUsFormat()); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeTime.setText(list.get(position).getListOfNetworks().get(0).getName()); } else { recipeHolder.seasonNumberLabel.setText(R.string.NO_DATA_YET); recipeHolder.episodeNumber.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.episodeNumberLabel.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.seasonNumber.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDay.setText(""); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDate.setText(R.string.NO_DATE_YET); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeTime.setText(""); } } else { recipeHolder.seasonNumber.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.episodeNumber.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.episodeNumberLabel.setVisibility(View.GONE); recipeHolder.seasonNumberLabel.setText(R.string.NO_DATA); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDay.setText(""); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeDate.setText(""); recipeHolder.nextEpisodeTime.setText(""); } recipeHolder.cardView.setOnClickListener(new View.OnClickListener() { @Override public void onClick(View view) { fragment = null; fragment = new ShowDetailFragment(); bundle = new Bundle(); bundle.putParcelable(context.getString(R.string.SERIES_DETAILS), list.get(position)); fragment.setArguments(bundle); fragmentManager.beginTransaction() .addToBackStack(null) .replace(R.id.fragment_box, fragment).commit(); } }); } @Override public int getItemCount() { return list.size(); } }

**PRAISE FOR THE FAULT IN OUR STARS** "Acerbic comedy, sexy romance, and a lightly played, extended meditation on the big questions about life and death." — ** _Horn Book_ , starred review** "An achingly beautiful story about life and loss." — ** _School Library Journal_ , starred review** "A smartly crafted intellectual explosion of a romance.... Readers will swoon on nearly every page. Green's signature style shines: His carefully structured dialogue and razor-sharp characters brim with genuine intellect, humor and desire." — ** _Kirkus_ , starred review** "This is [Green's] best work yet." — ** _Publishers Weekly_ , starred review** "A bittersweet story of life, death and love in between." — ** _Deseret News_** "Green proves through his characters that lasting love requires the risk of losing it. This is not a morbid book. Hazel and Gus invite us to laugh and live life to the fullest for as long as we can." — ** _Shelf Awareness_** "Hilarious, joyous, outrageous and utterly sad." **—Scripps Howard News Service** "John Green is one of the best writers alive." — **E. Lockhart, National Book Award Finalist and Printz Honor–winning author of _The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks_ and _The Boyfriend List_** ALSO BY JOHN GREEN _Looking for Alaska_ ........................... _An Abundance of Katherines_ .......................................... _Paper Towns_ .................. _Will Grayson, Will Grayson_ WITH DAVID LEVITHAN **THE FAULT IN OUR STARS** **DUTTON BOOKS** | _An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc._ **DUTTON BOOKS** A MEMBER OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC. Published by the Penguin Group | Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. | Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) | Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England | Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) | Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) | Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India | Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) | Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa | Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2012 by John Green All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. CIP Data is available. Published in the United States by Dutton Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014 _www.penguin.com/teen_ Designed by Irene Vandervoort First Edition ISBN: 978-1-101-56918-4 TO ESTHER EARL As the tide washed in, the Dutch Tulip Man faced the ocean: "Conjoiner rejoinder poisoner concealer revelator. Look at it, rising up and rising down, taking everything with it." "What's that?" I asked. "Water," the Dutchman said. "Well, and time." —PETER VAN HOUTEN, _An Imperial Affliction_ # AUTHOR'S NOTE This is not so much an author's note as an author's reminder of what was printed in small type a few pages ago: This book is a work of fiction. I made it up. Neither novels nor their readers benefit from attempts to divine whether any facts hide inside a story. Such efforts attack the very idea that made-up stories can matter, which is sort of the foundational assumption of our species. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter. # Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Acknowledgments About the Author # **CHAPTER ONE** **L** ate in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death. Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. (Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.) But my mom believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group. This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying. The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been. I noticed this because Patrick, the Support Group Leader and only person over eighteen in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young cancer survivors, were sitting right in Christ's very sacred heart and whatever. So here's how it went in God's heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Patrick recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story—how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn't die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way toward a master's degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped lo those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spared what only the most generous soul would call his life. AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY! Then we introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Diagnosis. And how we're doing today. I'm Hazel, I'd say when they'd get to me. Sixteen. Thyroid originally but with an impressive and long-settled satellite colony in my lungs. And I'm doing okay. Once we got around the circle, Patrick always asked if anyone wanted to share. And then began the circle jerk of support: everyone talking about fighting and battling and winning and shrinking and scanning. To be fair to Patrick, he let us talk about dying, too. But most of them weren't dying. Most would live into adulthood, as Patrick had. (Which meant there was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with everybody wanting to beat not only cancer itself, but also the other people in the room. Like, I realize that this is irrational, but when they tell you that you have, say, a 20 percent chance of living five years, the math kicks in and you figure that's one in five...so you look around and think, as any healthy person would: I gotta outlast four of these bastards.) The only redeeming facet of Support Group was this kid named Isaac, a long-faced, skinny guy with straight blond hair swept over one eye. And his eyes were the problem. He had some fantastically improbable eye cancer. One eye had been cut out when he was a kid, and now he wore the kind of thick glasses that made his eyes (both the real one and the glass one) preternaturally huge, like his whole head was basically just this fake eye and this real eye staring at you. From what I could gather on the rare occasions when Isaac shared with the group, a recurrence had placed his remaining eye in mortal peril. Isaac and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs. Each time someone discussed anticancer diets or snorting ground-up shark fin or whatever, he'd glance over at me and sigh ever so slightly. I'd shake my head microscopically and exhale in response. ••• So Support Group blew, and after a few weeks, I grew to be rather kicking-and-screaming about the whole affair. In fact, on the Wednesday I made the acquaintance of Augustus Waters, I tried my level best to get out of Support Group while sitting on the couch with my mom in the third leg of a twelve-hour marathon of the previous season's _America's Next Top Model_ , which admittedly I had already seen, but still. Me: "I refuse to attend Support Group." Mom: "One of the symptoms of depression is disinterest in activities." Me: "Please just let me watch _America's Next Top Model_. It's an activity." Mom: "Television is a passivity." Me: "Ugh, Mom, please." Mom: "Hazel, you're a teenager. You're not a little kid anymore. You need to make friends, get out of the house, and live your life." Me: "If you want me to be a teenager, don't send me to Support Group. Buy me a fake ID so I can go to clubs, drink vodka, and take pot." Mom: "You don't _take_ pot, for starters." Me: "See, that's the kind of thing I'd know if you got me a fake ID." Mom: "You're going to Support Group." Me: "UGGGGGGGGGGGGG." Mom: "Hazel, you deserve a life." That shut me up, although I failed to see how attendance at Support Group met the definition of _life_. Still, I agreed to go—after negotiating the right to record the 1.5 episodes of _ANTM_ I'd be missing. I went to Support Group for the same reason that I'd once allowed nurses with a mere eighteen months of graduate education to poison me with exotically named chemicals: I wanted to make my parents happy. There is only one thing in this world shittier than biting it from cancer when you're sixteen, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer. ••• Mom pulled into the circular driveway behind the church at 4:56. I pretended to fiddle with my oxygen tank for a second just to kill time. "Do you want me to carry it in for you?" "No, it's fine," I said. The cylindrical green tank only weighed a few pounds, and I had this little steel cart to wheel it around behind me. It delivered two liters of oxygen to me each minute through a cannula, a transparent tube that split just beneath my neck, wrapped behind my ears, and then reunited in my nostrils. The contraption was necessary because my lungs sucked at being lungs. "I love you," she said as I got out. "You too, Mom. See you at six." "Make friends!" she said through the rolled-down window as I walked away. I didn't want to take the elevator because taking the elevator is a Last Days kind of activity at Support Group, so I took the stairs. I grabbed a cookie and poured some lemonade into a Dixie cup and then turned around. A boy was staring at me. I was quite sure I'd never seen him before. Long and leanly muscular, he dwarfed the molded plastic elementary school chair he was sitting in. Mahogany hair, straight and short. He looked my age, maybe a year older, and he sat with his tailbone against the edge of the chair, his posture aggressively poor, one hand half in a pocket of dark jeans. I looked away, suddenly conscious of my myriad insufficiencies. I was wearing old jeans, which had once been tight but now sagged in weird places, and a yellow T-shirt advertising a band I didn't even like anymore. Also my hair: I had this pageboy haircut, and I hadn't even bothered to, like, brush it. Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of treatment. I looked like a normally proportioned person with a balloon for a head. This was not even to mention the cankle situation. And yet—I cut a glance to him, and his eyes were still on me. It occurred to me why they call it eye _contact_. I walked into the circle and sat down next to Isaac, two seats away from the boy. I glanced again. He was still watching me. Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault. But a hot boy...well. I pulled out my phone and clicked it so it would display the time: 4:59. The circle filled in with the unlucky twelve-to-eighteens, and then Patrick started us out with the serenity prayer: _God, grant me the serenity to accept the thingsI cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference._ The guy was still staring at me. I felt rather blushy. Finally, I decided that the proper strategy was to stare back. Boys do not have a monopoly on the Staring Business, after all. So I looked him over as Patrick acknowledged for the thousandth time his ball-lessness etc., and soon it was a staring contest. After a while the boy smiled, and then finally his blue eyes glanced away. When he looked back at me, I flicked my eyebrows up to say, _I win_. He shrugged. Patrick continued and then finally it was time for the introductions. "Isaac, perhaps you'd like to go first today. I know you're facing a challenging time." "Yeah," Isaac said. "I'm Isaac. I'm seventeen. And it's looking like I have to get surgery in a couple weeks, after which I'll be blind. Not to complain or anything because I know a lot of us have it worse, but yeah, I mean, being blind does sort of suck. My girlfriend helps, though. And friends like Augustus." He nodded toward the boy, who now had a name. "So, yeah," Isaac continued. He was looking at his hands, which he'd folded into each other like the top of a tepee. "There's nothing you can do about it." "We're here for you, Isaac," Patrick said. "Let Isaac hear it, guys." And then we all, in a monotone, said, "We're here for you, Isaac." Michael was next. He was twelve. He had leukemia. He'd always had leukemia. He was okay. (Or so he said. He'd taken the elevator.) Lida was sixteen, and pretty enough to be the object of the hot boy's eye. She was a regular—in a long remission from appendiceal cancer, which I had not previously known existed. She said—as she had every other time I'd attended Support Group—that she felt _strong_ , which felt like bragging to me as the oxygen-drizzling nubs tickled my nostrils. There were five others before they got to him. He smiled a little when his turn came. His voice was low, smoky, and dead sexy. "My name is Augustus Waters," he said. "I'm seventeen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago, but I'm just here today at Isaac's request." "And how are you feeling?" asked Patrick. "Oh, I'm grand." Augustus Waters smiled with a corner of his mouth. "I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend." When it was my turn, I said, "My name is Hazel. I'm sixteen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I'm okay." The hour proceeded apace: Fights were recounted, battles won amid wars sure to be lost; hope was clung to; families were both celebrated and denounced; it was agreed that friends just didn't get it; tears were shed; comfort proffered. Neither Augustus Waters nor I spoke again until Patrick said, "Augustus, perhaps you'd like to share your fears with the group." "My fears?" "Yes." "I fear oblivion," he said without a moment's pause. "I fear it like the proverbial blind man who's afraid of the dark." "Too soon," Isaac said, cracking a smile. "Was that insensitive?" Augustus asked. "I can be pretty blind to other people's feelings." Isaac was laughing, but Patrick raised a chastening finger and said, "Augustus, please. Let's return to _you_ and _your_ struggles. You said you fear oblivion?" "I did," Augustus answered. Patrick seemed lost. "Would, uh, would anyone like to speak to that?" I hadn't been in proper school in three years. My parents were my two best friends. My third best friend was an author who did not know I existed. I was a fairly shy person—not the hand-raising type. And yet, just this once, I decided to speak. I half raised my hand and Patrick, his delight evident, immediately said, "Hazel!" I was, I'm sure he assumed, opening up. Becoming Part Of The Group. I looked over at Augustus Waters, who looked back at me. You could almost see through his eyes they were so blue. "There will come a time," I said, "when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this"—I gestured encompassingly—"will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that's what everyone else does." I'd learned this from my aforementioned third best friend, Peter Van Houten, the reclusive author of _An Imperial Affliction_ , the book that was as close a thing as I had to a Bible. Peter Van Houten was the only person I'd ever come across who seemed to (a) understand what it's like to be dying, and (b) not have died. After I finished, there was quite a long period of silence as I watched a smile spread all the way across Augustus's face—not the little crooked smile of the boy trying to be sexy while he stared at me, but his real smile, too big for his face. "Goddamn," Augustus said quietly. "Aren't you something else." Neither of us said anything for the rest of Support Group. At the end, we all had to hold hands, and Patrick led us in a prayer. "Lord Jesus Christ, we are gathered here in Your heart, _literally in Your heart_ , as cancer survivors. You and You alone know us as we know ourselves. Guide us to life and the Light through our times of trial. We pray for Isaac's eyes, for Michael's and Jamie's blood, for Augustus's bones, for Hazel's lungs, for James's throat. We pray that You might heal us and that we might feel Your love, and Your peace, which passes all understanding. And we remember in our hearts those whom we knew and loved who have gone home to you: Maria and Kade and Joseph and Haley and Abigail and Angelina and Taylor and Gabriel and..." It was a long list. The world contains a lot of dead people. And while Patrick droned on, reading the list from a sheet of paper because it was too long to memorize, I kept my eyes closed, trying to think prayerfully but mostly imagining the day when my name would find its way onto that list, all the way at the end when everyone had stopped listening. When Patrick was finished, we said this stupid mantra together—LIVING OUR BEST LIFE TODAY—and it was over. Augustus Waters pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to me. His gait was crooked like his smile. He towered over me, but he kept his distance so I wouldn't have to crane my neck to look him in the eye. "What's your name?" he asked. "Hazel." "No, your full name." "Um, Hazel Grace Lancaster." He was just about to say something else when Isaac walked up. "Hold on," Augustus said, raising a finger, and turned to Isaac. "That was actually worse than you made it out to be." "I told you it was bleak." "Why do you bother with it?" "I don't know. It kind of helps?" Augustus leaned in so he thought I couldn't hear. "She's a regular?" I couldn't hear Isaac's comment, but Augustus responded, "I'll say." He clasped Isaac by both shoulders and then took a half step away from him. "Tell Hazel about clinic." Isaac leaned a hand against the snack table and focused his huge eye on me. "Okay, so I went into clinic this morning, and I was telling my surgeon that I'd rather be deaf than blind. And he said, 'It doesn't work that way,' and I was, like, 'Yeah, I realize it doesn't work that way; I'm just saying I'd rather be deaf than blind if I had the choice, which I realize I don't have,' and he said, 'Well, the good news is that you won't be deaf,' and I was like, 'Thank you for explaining that my eye cancer isn't going to make me deaf. I feel so fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on me.'" "He sounds like a winner," I said. "I'm gonna try to get me some eye cancer just so I can make this guy's acquaintance." "Good luck with that. All right, I should go. Monica's waiting for me. I gotta look at her a lot while I can." "Counterinsurgence tomorrow?" Augustus asked. "Definitely." Isaac turned and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Augustus Waters turned to me. "Literally," he said. "Literally?" I asked. "We are literally in the heart of Jesus," he said. "I thought we were in a church basement, but we are literally in the heart of Jesus." "Someone should tell Jesus," I said. "I mean, it's gotta be dangerous, storing children with cancer in your heart." "I would tell Him myself," Augustus said, "but unfortunately I am literally stuck inside of His heart, so He won't be able to hear me." I laughed. He shook his head, just looking at me. "What?" I asked. "Nothing," he said. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Augustus half smiled. "Because you're beautiful. I enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided a while ago not to deny myself the simpler pleasures of existence." A brief awkward silence ensued. Augustus plowed through: "I mean, particularly given that, as you so deliciously pointed out, all of this will end in oblivion and everything." I kind of scoffed or sighed or exhaled in a way that was vaguely coughy and then said, "I'm not beau—" "You're like a millennial Natalie Portman. Like _V for Vendetta_ Natalie Portman." "Never seen it," I said. "Really?" he asked. "Pixie-haired gorgeous girl dislikes authority and can't help but fall for a boy she knows is trouble. It's your autobiography, so far as I can tell." His every syllable flirted. Honestly, he kind of turned me on. I didn't even know that guys _could_ turn me on—not, like, in real life. A younger girl walked past us. "How's it going, Alisa?" he asked. She smiled and mumbled, "Hi, Augustus." "Memorial people," he explained. Memorial was the big research hospital. "Where do you go?" "Children's," I said, my voice smaller than I expected it to be. He nodded. The conversation seemed over. "Well," I said, nodding vaguely toward the steps that led us out of the Literal Heart of Jesus. I tilted my cart onto its wheels and started walking. He limped beside me. "So, see you next time, maybe?" I asked. "You should see it," he said. " _V for Vendetta_ , I mean." "Okay," I said. "I'll look it up." "No. With me. At my house," he said. "Now." I stopped walking. "I hardly know you, Augustus Waters. You could be an ax murderer." He nodded. "True enough, Hazel Grace." He walked past me, his shoulders filling out his green knit polo shirt, his back straight, his steps lilting just slightly to the right as he walked steady and confident on what I had determined was a prosthetic leg. Osteosarcoma sometimes takes a limb to check you out. Then, if it likes you, it takes the rest. I followed him upstairs, losing ground as I made my way up slowly, stairs not being a field of expertise for my lungs. And then we were out of Jesus's heart and in the parking lot, the spring air just on the cold side of perfect, the late-afternoon light heavenly in its hurtfulness. Mom wasn't there yet, which was unusual, because Mom was almost always waiting for me. I glanced around and saw that a tall, curvy brunette girl had Isaac pinned against the stone wall of the church, kissing him rather aggressively. They were close enough to me that I could hear the weird noises of their mouths together, and I could hear him saying, "Always," and her saying, "Always," in return. Suddenly standing next to me, Augustus half whispered, "They're big believers in PDA." "What's with the 'always'?" The slurping sounds intensified. "Always is their thing. They'll _always_ love each other and whatever. I would conservatively estimate they have texted each other the word _always_ four million times in the last year." A couple more cars drove up, taking Michael and Alisa away. It was just Augustus and me now, watching Isaac and Monica, who proceeded apace as if they were not leaning against a place of worship. His hand reached for her boob over her shirt and pawed at it, his palm still while his fingers moved around. I wondered if that felt good. Didn't seem like it would, but I decided to forgive Isaac on the grounds that he was going blind. The senses must feast while there is yet hunger and whatever. "Imagine taking that last drive to the hospital," I said quietly. "The last time you'll ever drive a car." Without looking over at me, Augustus said, "You're killing my vibe here, Hazel Grace. I'm trying to observe young love in its many-splendored awkwardness." "I think he's hurting her boob," I said. "Yes, it's difficult to ascertain whether he is trying to arouse her or perform a breast exam." Then Augustus Waters reached into a pocket and pulled out, of all things, a pack of cigarettes. He flipped it open and put a cigarette between his lips. "Are you _serious_?" I asked. "You think that's cool? Oh, my God, you just ruined _the whole thing_." "Which whole thing?" he asked, turning to me. The cigarette dangled unlit from the unsmiling corner of his mouth. "The whole thing where a boy who is not unattractive or unintelligent or seemingly in any way unacceptable stares at me and points out incorrect uses of literality and compares me to actresses and asks me to watch a movie at his house. But of course there is always a _hamartia_ and yours is that oh, my God, even though you HAD FREAKING CANCER you give money to a company in exchange for the chance to acquire YET MORE CANCER. Oh, my God. Let me just assure you that not being able to breathe? SUCKS. Totally disappointing. _Totally_." "A _hamartia_?" he asked, the cigarette still in his mouth. It tightened his jaw. He had a hell of a jawline, unfortunately. "A fatal flaw," I explained, turning away from him. I stepped toward the curb, leaving Augustus Waters behind me, and then I heard a car start down the street. It was Mom. She'd been waiting for me to, like, make friends or whatever. I felt this weird mix of disappointment and anger welling up inside of me. I don't even know what the feeling was, really, just that there was a _lot_ of it, and I wanted to smack Augustus Waters and also replace my lungs with lungs that didn't suck at being lungs. I was standing with my Chuck Taylors on the very edge of the curb, the oxygen tank ball-and-chaining in the cart by my side, and right as my mom pulled up, I felt a hand grab mine. I yanked my hand free but turned back to him. "They don't kill you unless you light them," he said as Mom arrived at the curb. "And I've never lit one. It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing." "It's a metaphor," I said, dubious. Mom was just idling. "It's a metaphor," he said. "You choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances..." I said. "Oh, yes." He smiled. The big, goofy, real smile. "I'm a big believer in metaphor, Hazel Grace." I turned to the car. Tapped the window. It rolled down. "I'm going to a movie with Augustus Waters," I said. "Please record the next several episodes of the _ANTM_ marathon for me." # **CHAPTER TWO** **A** ugustus Waters drove horrifically. Whether stopping or starting, everything happened with a tremendous JOLT. I flew against the seat belt of his Toyota SUV each time he braked, and my neck snapped backward each time he hit the gas. I might have been nervous—what with sitting in the car of a strange boy on the way to his house, keenly aware that my crap lungs complicate efforts to fend off unwanted advances—but his driving was so astonishingly poor that I could think of nothing else. We'd gone perhaps a mile in jagged silence before Augustus said, "I failed the driving test three times." "You don't say." He laughed, nodding. "Well, I can't feel pressure in old Prosty, and I can't get the hang of driving left-footed. My doctors say most amputees can drive with no problem, but...yeah. Not me. Anyway, I go in for my fourth driving test, and it goes about like this is going." A half mile in front of us, a light turned red. Augustus slammed on the brakes, tossing me into the triangular embrace of the seat belt. "Sorry. I swear to God I am trying to be gentle. Right, so anyway, at the end of the test, I totally thought I'd failed again, but the instructor was like, 'Your driving is unpleasant, but it isn't technically unsafe.'" "I'm not sure I agree," I said. "I suspect Cancer Perk." Cancer Perks are the little things cancer kids get that regular kids don't: basketballs signed by sports heroes, free passes on late homework, unearned driver's licenses, etc. "Yeah," he said. The light turned green. I braced myself. Augustus slammed the gas. "You know they've got hand controls for people who can't use their legs," I pointed out. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe someday." He sighed in a way that made me wonder whether he was confident about the existence of _someday_. I knew osteosarcoma was highly curable, but still. There are a number of ways to establish someone's approximate survival expectations without actually _asking_. I used the classic: "So, are you in school?" Generally, your parents pull you out of school at some point if they expect you to bite it. "Yeah," he said. "I'm at North Central. A year behind, though: I'm a sophomore. You?" I considered lying. No one likes a corpse, after all. But in the end I told the truth. "No, my parents withdrew me three years ago." "Three _years_?" he asked, astonished. I told Augustus the broad outline of my miracle: diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer when I was thirteen. (I didn't tell him that the diagnosis came three months after I got my first period. Like: Congratulations! You're a woman. Now die.) It was, we were told, incurable. I had a surgery called _radical neck dissection_ , which is about as pleasant as it sounds. Then radiation. Then they tried some chemo for my lung tumors. The tumors shrank, then grew. By then, I was fourteen. My lungs started to fill up with water. I was looking pretty dead—my hands and feet ballooned; my skin cracked; my lips were perpetually blue. They've got this drug that makes you not feel so completely terrified about the fact that you can't breathe, and I had a lot of it flowing into me through a PICC line, and more than a dozen other drugs besides. But even so, there's a certain unpleasantness to drowning, particularly when it occurs over the course of several months. I finally ended up in the ICU with pneumonia, and my mom knelt by the side of my bed and said, "Are you ready, sweetie?" and I told her I was ready, and my dad just kept telling me he loved me in this voice that was not breaking so much as already broken, and I kept telling him that I loved him, too, and everyone was holding hands, and I couldn't catch my breath, and my lungs were acting desperate, gasping, pulling me out of the bed trying to find a position that could get them air, and I was embarrassed by their desperation, disgusted that they wouldn't just _let go_ , and I remember my mom telling me it was okay, that I was okay, that I would be okay, and my father was trying so hard not to sob that when he did, which was regularly, it was an earthquake. And I remember wanting not to be awake. Everyone figured I was finished, but my Cancer Doctor Maria managed to get some of the fluid out of my lungs, and shortly thereafter the antibiotics they'd given me for the pneumonia kicked in. I woke up and soon got into one of those experimental trials that are famous in the Republic of Cancervania for Not Working. The drug was Phalanxifor, this molecule designed to attach itself to cancer cells and slow their growth. It didn't work in about 70 percent of people. But it worked in me. The tumors shrank. And they stayed shrunk. Huzzah, Phalanxifor! In the past eighteen months, my mets have hardly grown, leaving me with lungs that suck at being lungs but could, conceivably, struggle along indefinitely with the assistance of drizzled oxygen and daily Phalanxifor. Admittedly, my Cancer Miracle had only resulted in a bit of purchased time. (I did not yet know the size of the bit.) But when telling Augustus Waters, I painted the rosiest possible picture, embellishing the miraculousness of the miracle. "So now you gotta go back to school," he said. "I actually _can't_ ," I explained, "because I already got my GED. So I'm taking classes at MCC," which was our community college. "A college girl," he said, nodding. "That explains the aura of sophistication." He smirked at me. I shoved his upper arm playfully. I could feel the muscle right beneath the skin, all tense and amazing. We made a wheels-screeching turn into a subdivision with eight-foot-high stucco walls. His house was the first one on the left. A two-story colonial. We jerked to a halt in his driveway. I followed him inside. A wooden plaque in the entryway was engraved in cursive with the words _Home Is Where the Heart Is_ , and the entire house turned out to be festooned in such observations. _Good Friends Are Hard to Find and Impossible to Forget_ read an illustration above the coatrack. _True Love Is Born from Hard Times_ promised a needlepointed pillow in their antique-furnished living room. Augustus saw me reading. "My parents call them Encouragements," he explained. "They're everywhere." ••• His mom and dad called him Gus. They were making enchiladas in the kitchen (a piece of stained glass by the sink read in bubbly letters _Family Is Forever_ ). His mom was putting chicken into tortillas, which his dad then rolled up and placed in a glass pan. They didn't seem too surprised by my arrival, which made sense: The fact that Augustus made me _feel_ special did not necessarily indicate that I _was_ special. Maybe he brought home a different girl every night to show her movies and feel her up. "This is Hazel Grace," he said, by way of introduction. "Just Hazel," I said. "How's it going, Hazel?" asked Gus's dad. He was tall—almost as tall as Gus—and skinny in a way that parentally aged people usually aren't. "Okay," I said. "How was Isaac's Support Group?" "It was incredible," Gus said. "You're such a Debbie Downer," his mom said. "Hazel, do you enjoy it?" I paused a second, trying to figure out if my response should be calibrated to please Augustus or his parents. "Most of the people are really nice," I finally said. "That's exactly what we found with families at Memorial when we were in the thick of it with Gus's treatment," his dad said. "Everybody was so kind. Strong, too. In the darkest days, the Lord puts the best people into your life." "Quick, give me a throw pillow and some thread because that needs to be an Encouragement," Augustus said, and his dad looked a little annoyed, but then Gus wrapped his long arm around his dad's neck and said, "I'm just kidding, Dad. I like the freaking Encouragements. I really do. I just can't admit it because I'm a teenager." His dad rolled his eyes. "You're joining us for dinner, I hope?" asked his mom. She was small and brunette and vaguely mousy. "I guess?" I said. "I have to be home by ten. Also I don't, um, eat meat?" "No problem. We'll vegetarianize some," she said. "Animals are just too cute?" Gus asked. "I want to minimize the number of deaths I am responsible for," I said. Gus opened his mouth to respond but then stopped himself. His mom filled the silence. "Well, I think that's wonderful." They talked to me for a bit about how the enchiladas were Famous Waters Enchiladas and Not to Be Missed and about how Gus's curfew was also ten, and how they were inherently distrustful of anyone who gave their kids curfews _other_ than ten, and was I in school—"she's a college student," Augustus interjected—and how the weather was truly and absolutely extraordinary for March, and how in spring all things are new, and they didn't even once ask me about the oxygen or my diagnosis, which was weird and wonderful, and then Augustus said, "Hazel and I are going to watch _V for Vendetta_ so she can see her filmic doppelgänger, mid-two thousands Natalie Portman." "The living room TV is yours for the watching," his dad said happily. "I think we're actually gonna watch it in the basement." His dad laughed. "Good try. Living room." "But I want to show Hazel Grace the basement," Augustus said. "Just Hazel," I said. "So show Just Hazel the basement," said his dad. "And then come upstairs and watch your movie in the living room." Augustus puffed out his cheeks, balanced on his leg, and twisted his hips, throwing the prosthetic forward. "Fine," he mumbled. I followed him down carpeted stairs to a huge basement bedroom. A shelf at my eye level reached all the way around the room, and it was stuffed solid with basketball memorabilia: dozens of trophies with gold plastic men mid–jump shot or dribbling or reaching for a layup toward an unseen basket. There were also lots of signed balls and sneakers. "I used to play basketball," he explained. "You must've been pretty good." "I wasn't bad, but all the shoes and balls are Cancer Perks." He walked toward the TV, where a huge pile of DVDs and video games were arranged into a vague pyramid shape. He bent at the waist and snatched up _V for Vendetta_. "I was, like, the prototypical white Hoosier kid," he said. "I was all about resurrecting the lost art of the midrange jumper, but then one day I was shooting free throws—just standing at the foul line at the North Central gym shooting from a rack of balls. All at once, I couldn't figure out why I was methodically tossing a spherical object through a toroidal object. It seemed like the stupidest thing I could possibly be doing. "I started thinking about little kids putting a cylindrical peg through a circular hole, and how they do it over and over again for months when they figure it out, and how basketball was basically just a slightly more aerobic version of that same exercise. Anyway, for the longest time, I just kept sinking free throws. I hit eighty in a row, my all-time best, but as I kept going, I felt more and more like a two-year-old. And then for some reason I started to think about hurdlers. Are you okay?" I'd taken a seat on the corner of his unmade bed. I wasn't trying to be suggestive or anything; I just got kind of tired when I had to stand a lot. I'd stood in the living room and then there had been the stairs, and then more standing, which was quite a lot of standing for me, and I didn't want to faint or anything. I was a bit of a Victorian Lady, fainting-wise. "I'm fine," I said. "Just listening. Hurdlers?" "Yeah, hurdlers. I don't know why. I started thinking about them running their hurdle races, and jumping over these totally arbitrary objects that had been set in their path. And I wondered if hurdlers ever thought, you know, _This would go faster if we just got rid of the hurdles_." "This was before your diagnosis?" I asked. "Right, well, there was that, too." He smiled with half his mouth. "The day of the existentially fraught free throws was coincidentally also my last day of dual leggedness. I had a weekend between when they scheduled the amputation and when it happened. My own little glimpse of what Isaac is going through." I nodded. I liked Augustus Waters. I really, really, really liked him. I liked the way his story ended with someone else. I liked his voice. I liked that he took _existentially fraught_ free throws. I liked that he was a tenured professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual appointment in the Department of Having a Voice That Made My Skin Feel More Like Skin. And I liked that he had two names. I've always liked people with two names, because you get to make up your mind what you call them: Gus or Augustus? Me, I was always just Hazel, univalent Hazel. "Do you have siblings?" I asked. "Huh?" he answered, seeming a little distracted. "You said that thing about watching kids play." "Oh, yeah, no. I have nephews, from my half sisters. But they're older. They're like—DAD, HOW OLD ARE JULIE AND MARTHA?" "Twenty-eight!" "They're like twenty-eight. They live in Chicago. They are both married to very fancy lawyer dudes. Or banker dudes. I can't remember. You have siblings?" I shook my head no. "So what's your story?" he asked, sitting down next to me at a safe distance. "I already told you my story. I was diagnosed when—" "No, not your cancer story. _Your_ story. Interests, hobbies, passions, weird fetishes, etcetera." "Um," I said. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who becomes their disease. I know so many people like that. It's disheartening. Like, cancer is in the growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you haven't let it succeed prematurely." It occurred to me that perhaps I had. I struggled with how to pitch myself to Augustus Waters, which enthusiasms to embrace, and in the silence that followed it occurred to me that I wasn't very interesting. "I am pretty unextraordinary." "I reject that out of hand. Think of something you like. The first thing that comes to mind." "Um. Reading?" "What do you read?" "Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to poetry. Whatever." "Do you write poetry, too?" "No. I don't write." "There!" Augustus almost shouted. "Hazel Grace, you are the only teenager in America who prefers reading poetry to writing it. This tells me so much. You read a lot of capital-G great books, don't you?" "I guess?" "What's your favorite?" "Um," I said. My favorite book, by a wide margin, was _An Imperial Affliction_ , but I didn't like to tell people about it. Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like _An Imperial Affliction_ , which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare and _yours_ that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal. It wasn't even that the book was so good or anything; it was just that the author, Peter Van Houten, seemed to understand me in weird and impossible ways. _An Imperial Affliction_ was _my_ book, in the way my body was my body and my thoughts were my thoughts. Even so, I told Augustus. "My favorite book is probably _An Imperial Affliction_ ," I said. "Does it feature zombies?" he asked. "No," I said. "Stormtroopers?" I shook my head. "It's not that kind of book." He smiled. "I am going to read this terrible book with the boring title that does not contain stormtroopers," he promised, and I immediately felt like I shouldn't have told him about it. Augustus spun around to a stack of books beneath his bedside table. He grabbed a paperback and a pen. As he scribbled an inscription onto the title page, he said, "All I ask in exchange is that you read this brilliant and haunting novelization of my favorite video game." He held up the book, which was called _The Price of Dawn_. I laughed and took it. Our hands kind of got muddled together in the book handoff, and then he was holding my hand. "Cold," he said, pressing a finger to my pale wrist. "Not cold so much as underoxygenated," I said. "I love it when you talk medical to me," he said. He stood, and pulled me up with him, and did not let go of my hand until we reached the stairs. ••• We watched the movie with several inches of couch between us. I did the totally middle-schooly thing wherein I put my hand on the couch about halfway between us to let him know that it was okay to hold it, but he didn't try. An hour into the movie, Augustus's parents came in and served us the enchiladas, which we ate on the couch, and they were pretty delicious. The movie was about this heroic guy in a mask who died heroically for Natalie Portman, who's pretty badass and very hot and does not have anything approaching my puffy steroid face. As the credits rolled, he said, "Pretty great, huh?" "Pretty great," I agreed, although it wasn't, really. It was kind of a boy movie. I don't know why boys expect us to like boy movies. We don't expect them to like girl movies. "I should get home. Class in the morning," I said. I sat on the couch for a while as Augustus searched for his keys. His mom sat down next to me and said, "I just love this one, don't you?" I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption _Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy?_ (This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Suffering, and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate.) "Yes," I said. "A lovely thought." I drove Augustus's car home with Augustus riding shotgun. He played me a couple songs he liked by a band called The Hectic Glow, and they were good songs, but because I didn't know them already, they weren't as good to me as they were to him. I kept glancing over at his leg, or the place where his leg had been, trying to imagine what the fake leg looked like. I didn't want to care about it, but I did a little. He probably cared about my oxygen. Illness repulses. I'd learned that a long time ago, and I suspected Augustus had, too. As I pulled up outside of my house, Augustus clicked the radio off. The air thickened. He was probably thinking about kissing me, and I was definitely thinking about kissing him. Wondering if I wanted to. I'd kissed boys, but it had been a while. Pre-Miracle. I put the car in park and looked over at him. He really was beautiful. I know boys aren't supposed to be, but he was. "Hazel Grace," he said, my name new and better in his voice. "It has been a real pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Ditto, Mr. Waters," I said. I felt shy looking at him. I could not match the intensity of his waterblue eyes. "May I see you again?" he asked. There was an endearing nervousness in his voice. I smiled. "Sure." "Tomorrow?" he asked. "Patience, grasshopper," I counseled. "You don't want to seem overeager." "Right, that's why I said tomorrow," he said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait _all night and much of tomorrow_." I rolled my eyes. "I'm _serious_ ," he said. "You don't even know me," I said. I grabbed the book from the center console. "How about I call you when I finish this?" "But you don't even have my phone number," he said. "I strongly suspect you wrote it in the book." He broke out into that goofy smile. "And you say we don't know each other." # **CHAPTER THREE** **I** stayed up pretty late that night reading _The Price of Dawn_. (Spoiler alert: The price of dawn is blood.) It wasn't _An Imperial Affliction_ , but the protagonist, Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem, was vaguely likable despite killing, by my count, no fewer than 118 individuals in 284 pages. So I got up late the next morning, a Thursday. Mom's policy was never to wake me up, because one of the job requirements of Professional Sick Person is sleeping a lot, so I was kind of confused at first when I jolted awake with her hands on my shoulders. "It's almost ten," she said. "Sleep fights cancer," I said. "I was up late reading." "It must be some book," she said as she knelt down next to the bed and unscrewed me from my large, rectangular oxygen concentrator, which I called Philip, because it just kind of looked like a Philip. Mom hooked me up to a portable tank and then reminded me I had class. "Did that boy give it to you?" she asked out of nowhere. "By _it_ , do you mean herpes?" "You are too much," Mom said. "The book, Hazel. I mean the book." "Yeah, he gave me the book." "I can tell you like him," she said, eyebrows raised, as if this observation required some uniquely maternal instinct. I shrugged. "I told you Support Group would be worth your while." "Did you just wait outside the entire time?" "Yes. I brought some paperwork. Anyway, time to face the day, young lady." "Mom. Sleep. Cancer. Fighting." "I know, love, but there is class to attend. Also, today is..." The glee in Mom's voice was evident. "Thursday?" "Did you seriously forget?" "Maybe?" "It's Thursday, March twenty-ninth!" she basically screamed, a demented smile plastered to her face. "You are really excited about knowing the date!" I yelled back. "HAZEL! IT'S YOUR THIRTY-THIRD HALF BIRTHDAY!" "Ohhhhhh," I said. My mom was really super into celebration maximization. IT'S ARBOR DAY! LET'S HUG TREES AND EAT CAKE! COLUMBUS BROUGHT SMALLPOX TO THE NATIVES; WE SHALL RECALL THE OCCASION WITH A PICNIC!, etc. "Well, Happy thirty-third Half Birthday to me," I said. "What do you want to do on your very special day?" "Come home from class and set the world record for number of episodes of _Top Chef_ watched consecutively?" Mom reached up to this shelf above my bed and grabbed Bluie, the blue stuffed bear I'd had since I was, like, one—back when it was socially acceptable to name one's friends after their hue. "You don't want to go to a movie with Kaitlyn or Matt or someone?" who were my friends. That was an idea. "Sure," I said. "I'll text Kaitlyn and see if she wants to go to the mall or something after school." Mom smiled, hugging the bear to her stomach. "Is it still cool to go to the mall?" she asked. "I take quite a lot of pride in not knowing what's cool," I answered. ••• I texted Kaitlyn, took a shower, got dressed, and then Mom drove me to school. My class was American Literature, a lecture about Frederick Douglass in a mostly empty auditorium, and it was incredibly difficult to stay awake. Forty minutes into the ninety-minute class, Kaitlyn texted back. Awesomesauce. Happy Half Birthday. Castleton at 3:32? Kaitlyn had the kind of packed social life that needs to be scheduled down to the minute. I responded: Sounds good. I'll be at the food court. Mom drove me directly from school to the bookstore attached to the mall, where I purchased both _Midnight Dawns_ and _Requiem for Mayhem_ , the first two sequels to _The Price of Dawn_ , and then I walked over to the huge food court and bought a Diet Coke. It was 3:21. I watched these kids playing in the pirate-ship indoor playground while I read. There was this tunnel that these two kids kept crawling through over and over and they never seemed to get tired, which made me think of Augustus Waters and the existentially fraught free throws. Mom was also in the food court, alone, sitting in a corner where she thought I couldn't see her, eating a cheesesteak sandwich and reading through some papers. Medical stuff, probably. The paperwork was endless. At 3:32 precisely, I noticed Kaitlyn striding confidently past the Wok House. She saw me the moment I raised my hand, flashed her very white and newly straightened teeth at me, and headed over. She wore a knee-length charcoal coat that fit perfectly and sunglasses that dominated her face. She pushed them up onto the top of her head as she leaned down to hug me. "Darling," she said, vaguely British. "How _are_ you?" People didn't find the accent odd or off-putting. Kaitlyn just happened to be an extremely sophisticated twenty-five-year-old British socialite stuck inside a sixteen-year-old body in Indianapolis. Everyone accepted it. "I'm good. How are you?" "I don't even know anymore. Is that diet?" I nodded and handed it to her. She sipped through the straw. "I do wish you were at school these days. Some of the boys have become downright _edible_." "Oh, yeah? Like who?" I asked. She proceeded to name five guys we'd attended elementary and middle school with, but I couldn't picture any of them. "I've been dating Derek Wellington for a bit," she said, "but I don't think it will last. He's such a _boy_. But enough about me. What is new in the Hazelverse?" "Nothing, really," I said. "Health is good?" "The same, I guess?" "Phalanxifor!" she enthused, smiling. "So you could just live forever, right?" "Probably not forever," I said. "But basically," she said. "What else is new?" I thought of telling her that I was seeing a boy, too, or at least that I'd watched a movie with one, just because I knew it would surprise and amaze her that anyone as disheveled and awkward and stunted as me could even briefly win the affections of a boy. But I didn't really have much to brag about, so I just shrugged. "What in heaven is _that_?" asked Kaitlyn, gesturing to the book. "Oh, it's sci-fi. I've gotten kinda into it. It's a series." "I am alarmed. Shall we shop?" ••• We went to this shoe store. As we were shopping, Kaitlyn kept picking out all these open-toed flats for me and saying, "These would look cute on _you_ ," which reminded me that Kaitlyn never wore open-toed shoes on account of how she hated her feet because she felt her second toes were too long, as if the second toe was a window into the soul or something. So when I pointed out a pair of sandals that would suit her skin tone, she was like, "Yeah, but..." the but being _but they will expose my hideous second toes to the public_ , and I said, "Kaitlyn, you're the only person I've ever known to have toe-specific dysmorphia," and she said, "What is that?" "You know, like when you look in the mirror and the thing you see is not the thing as it really is." "Oh. Oh," she said. "Do you like these?" She held up a pair of cute but unspectacular Mary Janes, and I nodded, and she found her size and tried them on, pacing up and down the aisle, watching her feet in the knee-high angled mirrors. Then she grabbed a pair of strappy hooker shoes and said, "Is it even possible to walk in these? I mean, I would just _die_ —" and then stopped short, looking at me as if to say _I'm sorry_ , as if it were a crime to mention death to the dying. "You should try them on," Kaitlyn continued, trying to paper over the awkwardness. "I'd sooner die," I assured her. I ended up just picking out some flip-flops so that I could have something to buy, and then I sat down on one of the benches opposite a bank of shoes and watched Kaitlyn snake her way through the aisles, shopping with the kind of intensity and focus that one usually associates with professional chess. I kind of wanted to take out _Midnight Dawns_ and read for a while, but I knew that'd be rude, so I just watched Kaitlyn. Occasionally she'd circle back to me clutching some closed-toe prey and say, "This?" and I would try to make an intelligent comment about the shoe, and then finally she bought three pairs and I bought my flip-flops and then as we exited she said, "Anthropologie?" "I should head home actually," I said. "I'm kinda tired." "Sure, of course," she said. "I have to see you more often, darling." She placed her hands on my shoulders, kissed me on both cheeks, and marched off, her narrow hips swishing. I didn't go home, though. I'd told Mom to pick me up at six, and while I figured she was either in the mall or in the parking lot, I still wanted the next two hours to myself. I liked my mom, but her perpetual nearness sometimes made me feel weirdly nervous. And I liked Kaitlyn, too. I really did. But three years removed from proper full-time schoolic exposure to my peers, I felt a certain unbridgeable distance between us. I think my school friends wanted to help me through my cancer, but they eventually found out that they couldn't. For one thing, there was no _through_. So I excused myself on the grounds of pain and fatigue, as I often had over the years when seeing Kaitlyn or any of my other friends. In truth, it always hurt. It always hurt not to breathe like a normal person, incessantly reminding your lungs to be lungs, forcing yourself to accept as unsolvable the clawing scraping inside-out ache of underoxygenation. So I wasn't lying, exactly. I was just choosing among truths. I found a bench surrounded by an Irish Gifts store, the Fountain Pen Emporium, and a baseball-cap outlet—a corner of the mall even Kaitlyn would never shop, and started reading _Midnight Dawns_. It featured a sentence-to-corpse ratio of nearly 1:1, and I tore through it without ever looking up. I liked Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem, even though he didn't have much in the way of a technical personality, but mostly I liked that his adventures _kept happening_. There were always more bad guys to kill and more good guys to save. New wars started even before the old ones were won. I hadn't read a real series like that since I was a kid, and it was exciting to live again in an infinite fiction. Twenty pages from the end of _Midnight Dawns_ , things started to look pretty bleak for Mayhem when he was shot seventeen times while attempting to rescue a (blond, American) hostage from the Enemy. But as a reader, I did not despair. The war effort would go on without him. There could—and would—be sequels starring his cohorts: Specialist Manny Loco and Private Jasper Jacks and the rest. I was just about to the end when this little girl with barretted braids appeared in front of me and said, "What's in your nose?" And I said, "Um, it's called a cannula. These tubes give me oxygen and help me breathe." Her mother swooped in and said, "Jackie," disapprovingly, but I said, "No no, it's okay," because it totally was, and then Jackie asked, "Would they help me breathe, too?" "I dunno. Let's try." I took it off and let Jackie stick the cannula in her nose and breathe. "Tickles," she said. "I know, right?" "I think I'm breathing better," she said. "Yeah?" "Yeah." "Well," I said, "I wish I could give you my cannula but I kind of really need the help." I already felt the loss. I focused on my breathing as Jackie handed the tubes back to me. I gave them a quick swipe with my T-shirt, laced the tubes behind my ears, and put the nubbins back in place. "Thanks for letting me try it," she said. "No problem." "Jackie," her mother said again, and this time I let her go. I returned to the book, where Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem was regretting that he had but one life to give for his country, but I kept thinking about that little kid, and how much I liked her. The other thing about Kaitlyn, I guess, was that it could never again feel natural to talk to her. Any attempts to feign normal social interactions were just depressing because it was so glaringly obvious that everyone I spoke to for the rest of my life would feel awkward and self-conscious around me, except maybe kids like Jackie who just didn't know any better. Anyway, I really did like being alone. I liked being alone with poor Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem, who—oh, come on, he's not going to _survive_ these seventeen bullet wounds, is he? (Spoiler alert: He lives.) # **CHAPTER FOUR** **I** went to bed a little early that night, changing into boy boxers and a T-shirt before crawling under the covers of my bed, which was queen size and pillow topped and one of my favorite places in the world. And then I started reading _An Imperial Affliction_ for the millionth time. _AIA_ is about this girl named Anna (who narrates the story) and her one-eyed mom, who is a professional gardener obsessed with tulips, and they have a normal lower-middle-class life in a little central California town until Anna gets this rare blood cancer. But it's not a _cancer book_ , because cancer books suck. Like, in cancer books, the cancer person starts a charity that raises money to fight cancer, right? And this commitment to charity reminds the cancer person of the essential goodness of humanity and makes him/her feel loved and encouraged because s/he will leave a cancer-curing legacy. But in _AIA_ , Anna decides that being a person with cancer who starts a cancer charity is a bit narcissistic, so she starts a charity called The Anna Foundation for People with Cancer Who Want to Cure Cholera. Also, Anna is honest about all of it in a way no one else really is: Throughout the book, she refers to herself as _the side effect_ , which is just totally correct. Cancer kids are essentially side effects of the relentless mutation that made the diversity of life on earth possible. So as the story goes on, she gets sicker, the treatments and disease racing to kill her, and her mom falls in love with this Dutch tulip trader Anna calls the Dutch Tulip Man. The Dutch Tulip Man has lots of money and very eccentric ideas about how to treat cancer, but Anna thinks this guy might be a con man and possibly not even Dutch, and then just as the possibly Dutch guy and her mom are about to get married and Anna is about to start this crazy new treatment regimen involving wheatgrass and low doses of arsenic, the book ends right in the middle of a I know it's a very _literary_ decision and everything and probably part of the reason I love the book so much, but there is something to recommend a story that _ends_. And if it can't end, then it should at least continue into perpetuity like the adventures of Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem's platoon. I understood the story ended because Anna died or got too sick to write and this midsentence thing was supposed to reflect how life really ends and whatever, but there were characters other than Anna in the story, and it seemed unfair that I would never find out what happened to them. I'd written, care of his publisher, a dozen letters to Peter Van Houten, each asking for some answers about what happens after the end of the story: whether the Dutch Tulip Man is a con man, whether Anna's mother ends up married to him, what happens to Anna's stupid hamster (which her mom hates), whether Anna's friends graduate from high school—all that stuff. But he'd never responded to any of my letters. _AIA_ was the only book Peter Van Houten had written, and all anyone seemed to know about him was that after the book came out he moved from the United States to the Netherlands and became kind of reclusive. I imagined that he was working on a sequel set in the Netherlands—maybe Anna's mom and the Dutch Tulip Man end up moving there and trying to start a new life. But it had been ten years since _An Imperial Affliction_ came out, and Van Houten hadn't published so much as a blog post. I couldn't wait forever. As I reread that night, I kept getting distracted imagining Augustus Waters reading the same words. I wondered if he'd like it, or if he'd dismiss it as pretentious. Then I remembered my promise to call him after reading _The Price of Dawn_ , so I found his number on its title page and texted him. Price of Dawn review: Too many bodies. Not enough adjectives. How's AIA? He replied a minute later: As I recall, you promised to CALL when you finished the book, not text. So I called. "Hazel Grace," he said upon picking up. "So have you read it?" "Well, I haven't finished it. It's six hundred fifty-one pages long and I've had twenty-four hours." "How far are you?" "Four fifty-three." "And?" "I will withhold judgment until I finish. However, I will say that I'm feeling a bit embarrassed to have given you _The Price of Dawn_." "Don't be. I'm already on _Requiem for Mayhem_." "A sparkling addition to the series. So, okay, is the tulip guy a crook? I'm getting a bad vibe from him." "No spoilers," I said. "If he is anything other than a total gentleman, I'm going to gouge his eyes out." "So you're into it." "Withholding judgment! When can I see you?" "Certainly not until you finish _An Imperial Affliction_." I enjoyed being coy. "Then I'd better hang up and start reading." "You'd better," I said, and the line clicked dead without another word. Flirting was new to me, but I liked it. ••• The next morning I had Twentieth-Century American Poetry at MCC. This old woman gave a lecture wherein she managed to talk for ninety minutes about Sylvia Plath without ever once quoting a single word of Sylvia Plath. When I got out of class, Mom was idling at the curb in front of the building. "Did you just wait here the entire time?" I asked as she hurried around to help me haul my cart and tank into the car. "No, I picked up the dry cleaning and went to the post office." "And then?" "I have a book to read," she said. "And _I'm_ the one who needs to get a life." I smiled, and she tried to smile back, but there was something flimsy in it. After a second, I said, "Wanna go to a movie?" "Sure. Anything you've been wanting to see?" "Let's just do the thing where we go and see whatever starts next." She closed the door for me and walked around to the driver's side. We drove over to the Castleton theater and watched a 3-D movie about talking gerbils. It was kind of funny, actually. ••• When I got out of the movie, I had four text messages from Augustus. Tell me my copy is missing the last twenty pages or something. Hazel Grace, tell me I have not reached the end of this book. OH MY GOD DO THEY GET MARRIED OR NOT OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS I guess Anna died and so it just ends? CRUEL. Call me when you can. Hope all's okay. So when I got home I went out into the backyard and sat down on this rusting latticed patio chair and called him. It was a cloudy day, typical Indiana: the kind of weather that boxes you in. Our little backyard was dominated by my childhood swing set, which was looking pretty waterlogged and pathetic. Augustus picked up on the third ring. "Hazel Grace," he said. "So welcome to the sweet torture of reading _An Imperial_ —" I stopped when I heard violent sobbing on the other end of the line. "Are you okay?" I asked. "I'm grand," Augustus answered. "I am, however, with Isaac, who seems to be decompensating." More wailing. Like the death cries of some injured animal. Gus turned his attention to Isaac. "Dude. Dude. Does Support Group Hazel make this better or worse? Isaac. Focus. On. Me." After a minute, Gus said to me, "Can you meet us at my house in, say, twenty minutes?" "Sure," I said, and hung up. ••• If you could drive in a straight line, it would only take like five minutes to get from my house to Augustus's house, but you can't drive in a straight line because Holliday Park is between us. Even though it was a geographic inconvenience, I really liked Holliday Park. When I was a little kid, I would wade in the White River with my dad and there was always this great moment when he would throw me up in the air, just toss me away from him, and I would reach out my arms as I flew and he would reach out his arms, and then we would both see that our arms were not going to touch and no one was going to catch me, and it would kind of scare the shit out of both of us in the best possible way, and then I would legs-flailingly hit the water and then come up for air uninjured and the current would bring me back to him as I said _again, Daddy, again_. I pulled into the driveway right next to an old black Toyota sedan I figured was Isaac's car. Carting the tank behind me, I walked up to the door. I knocked. Gus's dad answered. "Just Hazel," he said. "Nice to see you." "Augustus said I could come over?" "Yeah, he and Isaac are in the basement." At which point there was a wail from below. "That would be Isaac," Gus's dad said, and shook his head slowly. "Cindy had to go for a drive. The sound..." he said, drifting off. "Anyway, I guess you're wanted downstairs. Can I carry your, uh, tank?" he asked. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks, though, Mr. Waters." "Mark," he said. I was kind of scared to go down there. Listening to people howl in misery is not among my favorite pastimes. But I went. "Hazel Grace," Augustus said as he heard my footsteps. "Isaac, Hazel from Support Group is coming downstairs. Hazel, a gentle reminder: Isaac is in the midst of a psychotic episode." Augustus and Isaac were sitting on the floor in gaming chairs shaped like lazy _L_ s, staring up at a gargantuan television. The screen was split between Isaac's point of view on the left, and Augustus's on the right. They were soldiers fighting in a bombed-out modern city. I recognized the place from _The Price of Dawn_. As I approached, I saw nothing unusual: just two guys sitting in the lightwash of a huge television pretending to kill people. Only when I got parallel to them did I see Isaac's face. Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks in a continual flow, his face a taut mask of pain. He stared at the screen, not even glancing at me, and howled, all the while pounding away at his controller. "How are you, Hazel?" asked Augustus. "I'm okay," I said. "Isaac?" No response. Not even the slightest hint that he was aware of my existence. Just the tears flowing down his face onto his black T-shirt. Augustus glanced away from the screen ever so briefly. "You look nice," he said. I was wearing this just-past-the-knees dress I'd had forever. "Girls think they're only allowed to wear dresses on formal occasions, but I like a woman who says, you know, _I'm going over to see a boy who is having a nervous breakdown, a boy whose connection to the sense of sight itself is tenuous, and gosh dang it, I am going to wear a dress for him_." "And yet," I said, "Isaac won't so much as glance over at me. Too in love with Monica, I suppose," which resulted in a catastrophic sob. "Bit of a touchy subject," Augustus explained. "Isaac, I don't know about you, but I have the vague sense that we are being outflanked." And then back to me, "Isaac and Monica are no longer a going concern, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to cry and play Counterinsurgence 2: The Price of Dawn." "Fair enough," I said. "Isaac, I feel a growing concern about our position. If you agree, head over to that power station, and I'll cover you." Isaac ran toward a nondescript building while Augustus fired a machine gun wildly in a series of quick bursts, running behind him. "Anyway," Augustus said to me, "it doesn't hurt to _talk_ to him. If you have any sage words of feminine advice." "I actually think his response is probably appropriate," I said as a burst of gunfire from Isaac killed an enemy who'd peeked his head out from behind the burned-out husk of a pickup truck. Augustus nodded at the screen. "Pain demands to be felt," he said, which was a line from _An Imperial Affliction_. "You're sure there's no one behind us?" he asked Isaac. Moments later, tracer bullets started whizzing over their heads. "Oh, goddamn it, Isaac," Augustus said. "I don't mean to criticize you in your moment of great weakness, but you've allowed us to be outflanked, and now there's nothing between the terrorists and the school." Isaac's character took off running toward the fire, zigging and zagging down a narrow alleyway. "You could go over the bridge and circle back," I said, a tactic I knew about thanks to _The Price of Dawn_. Augustus sighed. "Sadly, the bridge is already under insurgent control due to questionable strategizing by my bereft cohort." "Me?" Isaac said, his voice breathy. "Me?! You're the one who suggested we hole up in the freaking power station." Gus turned away from the screen for a second and flashed his crooked smile at Isaac. "I knew you could talk, buddy," he said. "Now let's go save some fictional schoolchildren." Together, they ran down the alleyway, firing and hiding at the right moments, until they reached this one-story, single-room schoolhouse. They crouched behind a wall across the street and picked off the enemy one by one. "Why do they want to get into the school?" I asked. "They want the kids as hostages," Augustus answered. His shoulders rounded over his controller, slamming buttons, his forearms taut, veins visible. Isaac leaned toward the screen, the controller dancing in his thin-fingered hands. "Get it get it get it," Augustus said. The waves of terrorists continued, and they mowed down every one, their shooting astonishingly precise, as it had to be, lest they fire into the school. "Grenade! Grenade!" Augustus shouted as something arced across the screen, bounced in the doorway of the school, and then rolled against the door. Isaac dropped his controller in disappointment. "If the bastards can't take hostages, they just kill them and claim we did it." "Cover me!" Augustus said as he jumped out from behind the wall and raced toward the school. Isaac fumbled for his controller and then started firing while the bullets rained down on Augustus, who was shot once and then twice but still ran, Augustus shouting, _"YOU CAN'T KILL MAX MAYHEM!"_ and with a final flurry of button combinations, he dove onto the grenade, which detonated beneath him. His dismembered body exploded like a geyser and the screen went red. A throaty voice said, "MISSION FAILURE," but Augustus seemed to think otherwise as he smiled at his remnants on the screen. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and shoved it between his teeth. "Saved the kids," he said. "Temporarily," I pointed out. "All salvation is temporary," Augustus shot back. "I bought them a minute. Maybe that's the minute that buys them an hour, which is the hour that buys them a year. No one's gonna buy them forever, Hazel Grace, but my life bought them a minute. And that's not nothing." "Whoa, okay," I said. "We're just talking about pixels." He shrugged, as if he believed the game might be really real. Isaac was wailing again. Augustus snapped his head back to him. "Another go at the mission, corporal?" Isaac shook his head no. He leaned over Augustus to look at me and through tightly strung vocal cords said, "She didn't want to do it after." "She didn't want to dump a blind guy," I said. He nodded, the tears not like tears so much as a quiet metronome—steady, endless. "She said she couldn't handle it," he told me. "I'm about to lose my eyesight and _she_ can't handle it." I was thinking about the word _handle_ , and all the unholdable things that get handled. "I'm sorry," I said. He wiped his sopping face with a sleeve. Behind his glasses, Isaac's eyes seemed so big that everything else on his face kind of disappeared and it was just these disembodied floating eyes staring at me—one real, one glass. "It's unacceptable," he told me. "It's totally unacceptable." "Well, to be fair," I said, "I mean, she probably _can't_ handle it. Neither can you, but she doesn't _have_ to handle it. And you do." "I kept saying 'always' to her today, 'always always always,' and she just kept talking over me and not saying it back. It was like I was already gone, you know? 'Always' was a promise! How can you just break the promise?" "Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them," I said. Isaac shot me a look. "Right, of course. But you keep the promise anyway. That's what love _is_. Love is keeping the promise anyway. Don't you believe in true love?" I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. But I thought that if true love _did_ exist, that was a pretty good definition of it. "Well, I believe in true love," Isaac said. "And I love her. And she promised. She _promised me always_." He stood and took a step toward me. I pushed myself up, thinking he wanted a hug or something, but then he just spun around, like he couldn't remember why he'd stood up in the first place, and then Augustus and I both saw this rage settle into his face. "Isaac," Gus said. "What?" "You look a little...Pardon the double entendre, my friend, but there's something a little worrisome in your eyes." Suddenly Isaac started kicking the crap out of his gaming chair, which somersaulted back toward Gus's bed. "Here we go," said Augustus. Isaac chased after the chair and kicked it again. "Yes," Augustus said. "Get it. Kick the shit out of that chair!" Isaac kicked the chair again, until it bounced against Gus's bed, and then he grabbed one of the pillows and started slamming it against the wall between the bed and the trophy shelf above. Augustus looked over at me, cigarette still in his mouth, and half smiled. "I can't stop thinking about that book." "I know, right?" "He never said what happens to the other characters?" "No," I told him. Isaac was still throttling the wall with the pillow. "He moved to Amsterdam, which makes me think maybe he is writing a sequel featuring the Dutch Tulip Man, but he hasn't published anything. He's never interviewed. He doesn't seem to be online. I've written him a bunch of letters asking what happens to everyone, but he never responds. So...yeah." I stopped talking because Augustus didn't appear to be listening. Instead, he was squinting at Isaac. "Hold on," he mumbled to me. He walked over to Isaac and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Dude, pillows don't break. Try something that breaks." Isaac reached for a basketball trophy from the shelf above the bed and then held it over his head as if waiting for permission. "Yes," Augustus said. "Yes!" The trophy smashed against the floor, the plastic basketball player's arm splintering off, still grasping its ball. Isaac stomped on the trophy. "Yes!" Augustus said. "Get it!" And then back to me, "I've been looking for a way to tell my father that I actually sort of hate basketball, and I think we've found it." The trophies came down one after the other, and Isaac stomped on them and screamed while Augustus and I stood a few feet away, bearing witness to the madness. The poor, mangled bodies of plastic basketballers littered the carpeted ground: here, a ball palmed by a disembodied hand; there, two torsoless legs caught midjump. Isaac kept attacking the trophies, jumping on them with both feet, screaming, breathless, sweaty, until finally he collapsed on top of the jagged trophic remnants. Augustus stepped toward him and looked down. "Feel better?" he asked. "No," Isaac mumbled, his chest heaving. "That's the thing about pain," Augustus said, and then glanced back at me. "It demands to be felt." # **CHAPTER FIVE** **I** did not speak to Augustus again for about a week. I had called him on the Night of the Broken Trophies, so per tradition it was his turn to call. But he didn't. Now, it wasn't as if I held my phone in my sweaty hand all day, staring at it while wearing my Special Yellow Dress, patiently waiting for my gentleman caller to live up to his sobriquet. I went about my life: I met Kaitlyn and her (cute but frankly not Augustinian) boyfriend for coffee one afternoon; I ingested my recommended daily allowance of Phalanxifor; I attended classes three mornings that week at MCC; and every night, I sat down to dinner with my mom and dad. Sunday night, we had pizza with green peppers and broccoli. We were seated around our little circular table in the kitchen when my phone started singing, but I wasn't allowed to check it because we have a strict no-phones-during-dinner rule. So I ate a little while Mom and Dad talked about this earthquake that had just happened in Papua New Guinea. They met in the Peace Corps in Papua New Guinea, and so whenever anything happened there, even something terrible, it was like all of a sudden they were not large sedentary creatures, but the young and idealistic and self-sufficient and rugged people they had once been, and their rapture was such that they didn't even glance over at me as I ate faster than I'd ever eaten, transmitting items from my plate into my mouth with a speed and ferocity that left me quite out of breath, which of course made me worry that my lungs were again swimming in a rising pool of fluid. I banished the thought as best I could. I had a PET scan scheduled in a couple weeks. If something was wrong, I'd find out soon enough. Nothing to be gained by worrying between now and then. And yet still I worried. I liked being a person. I wanted to keep at it. Worry is yet another side effect of dying. Finally I finished and said, "Can I be excused?" and they hardly even paused from their conversation about the strengths and weaknesses of Guinean infrastructure. I grabbed my phone from my purse on the kitchen counter and checked my recent calls. _Augustus Waters._ I went out the back door into the twilight. I could see the swing set, and I thought about walking out there and swinging while I talked to him, but it seemed pretty far away given that _eating_ tired me. Instead, I lay down in the grass on the patio's edge, looked up at Orion, the only constellation I could recognize, and called him. "Hazel Grace," he said. "Hi," I said. "How are you?" "Grand," he said. "I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re _An Imperial Affliction_." (He said "in re." He really did. That boy.) "And?" I said. "I think it's, like. Reading it, I just kept feeling like, like." "Like?" I asked, teasing him. "Like it was a gift?" he said askingly. "Like you'd given me something important." "Oh," I said quietly. "That's cheesy," he said. "I'm sorry." "No," I said. "No. Don't apologize." "But it doesn't end." "Yeah," I said. "Torture. I totally _get it_ , like, I get that she died or whatever." "Right, I assume so," I said. "And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract." "I don't know," I said, feeling defensive of Peter Van Houten. "That's part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence. But I do—God, I do really want to know what happens to everyone else. That's what I asked him in my letters. But he, yeah, he never answers." "Right. You said he is a recluse?" "Correct." "Impossible to track down." "Correct." "Utterly unreachable," Augustus said. "Unfortunately so," I said. "'Dear Mr. Waters,'" he answered. "'I am writing to thank you for your electronic correspondence, received via Ms. Vliegenthart this sixth of April, from the United States of America, insofar as geography can be said to exist in our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity.'" "Augustus, what the hell?" "He has an assistant," Augustus said. "Lidewij Vliegenthart. I found her. I emailed her. She gave him the email. He responded via her email account." "Okay, okay. Keep reading." "'My response is being written with ink and paper in the glorious tradition of our ancestors and then transcribed by Ms. Vliegenthart into a series of 1s and 0s to travel through the insipid web which has lately ensnared our species, so I apologize for any errors or omissions that may result. "'Given the entertainment bacchanalia at the disposal of young men and women of your generation, I am grateful to anyone anywhere who sets aside the hours necessary to read my little book. But I am particularly indebted to you, sir, both for your kind words about _An Imperial Affliction_ and for taking the time to tell me that the book, and here I quote you directly, "meant a great deal" to you. "'This comment, however, leads me to wonder: What do you mean by _meant_? Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortably as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile— _there is a point to it all_. "'I fear there is not, my friend, and that you would receive scant encouragement from further encounters with my writing. But to answer your question: No, I have not written anything else, nor will I. I do not feel that continuing to share my thoughts with readers would benefit either them or me. Thank you again for your generous email. "'Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten, via Lidewij Vliegenthart.'" "Wow," I said. "Are you making this up?" "Hazel Grace, could I, with my meager intellectual capacities, make up a letter from Peter Van Houten featuring phrases like 'our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity'?" "You could not," I allowed. "Can I, can I have the email address?" "Of course," Augustus said, like it was not the best gift ever. ••• I spent the next two hours writing an email to Peter Van Houten. It seemed to get worse each time I rewrote it, but I couldn't stop myself. Dear Mr. Peter Van Houten (c/o Lidewij Vliegenthart), My name is Hazel Grace Lancaster. My friend Augustus Waters, who read _An Imperial Affliction_ at my recommendation, just received an email from you at this address. I hope you will not mind that Augustus shared that email with me. Mr. Van Houten, I understand from your email to Augustus that you are not planning to publish any more books. In a way, I am disappointed, but I'm also relieved: I never have to worry whether your next book will live up to the magnificent perfection of the original. As a three-year survivor of Stage IV cancer, I can tell you that you got everything right in _An Imperial Affliction_. Or at least you got _me_ right. Your book has a way of telling me what I'm feeling before I even feel it, and I've reread it dozens of times. I wonder, though, if you would mind answering a couple questions I have about what happens after the end of the novel. I understand the book ends because Anna dies or becomes too ill to continue writing it, but I would really like to know what happens to Anna's mom—whether she married the Dutch Tulip Man, whether she ever has another child, and whether she stays at 917 W. Temple, etc. Also, is the Dutch Tulip Man a fraud or does he really love them? What happens to Anna's friends—particularly Claire and Jake? Do they stay together? And lastly—I realize that this is the kind of deep and thoughtful question you always hoped your readers would ask—what becomes of Sisyphus the Hamster? These questions have haunted me for years—and I don't know how long I have left to get answers to them. I know these are not important literary questions and that your book is full of important literary questions, but I would just really like to know. And of course, if you ever do decide to write anything else, even if you don't want to publish it, I'd love to read it. Frankly, I'd read your grocery lists. Yours with great admiration, Hazel Grace Lancaster (age 16) After I sent it, I called Augustus back, and we stayed up late talking about _An Imperial Affliction_ , and I read him the Emily Dickinson poem that Van Houten had used for the title, and he said I had a good voice for reading and didn't pause too long for the line breaks, and then he told me that the sixth _Price of Dawn_ book, _The Blood Approves_ , begins with a quote from a poem. It took him a minute to find the book, but finally he read the quote to me. "'Say your life broke down. The last good kiss / You had was years ago.'" "Not bad," I said. "Bit pretentious. I believe Max Mayhem would refer to that as 'sissy shit.'" "Yes, with his teeth gritted, no doubt. God, Mayhem grits his teeth a lot in these books. He's definitely going to get TMJ, if he survives all this combat." And then after a second, Gus asked, "When was the last good kiss you had?" I thought about it. My kissing—all prediagnosis—had been uncomfortable and slobbery, and on some level it always felt like kids playing at being grown. But of course it had been a while. "Years ago," I said finally. "You?" "I had a few good kisses with my ex-girlfriend, Caroline Mathers." "Years ago?" "The last one was just less than a year ago." "What happened?" "During the kiss?" "No, with you and Caroline." "Oh," he said. And then after a second, "Caroline is no longer suffering from personhood." "Oh," I said. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry," I said. I'd known plenty of dead people, of course. But I'd never dated one. I couldn't even imagine it, really. "Not your fault, Hazel Grace. We're all just side effects, right?" "'Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness,'" I said, quoting _AIA_. "Okay," he said. "I gotta go to sleep. It's almost one." "Okay," I said. "Okay," he said. I giggled and said, "Okay." And then the line was quiet but not dead. I almost felt like he was there in my room with me, but in a way it was better, like I was not in my room and he was not in his, but instead we were together in some invisible and tenuous third space that could only be visited on the phone. "Okay," he said after forever. "Maybe _okay_ will be our _always_." "Okay," I said. It was Augustus who finally hung up. ••• Peter Van Houten replied to Augustus's email four hours after he sent it, but two days later, Van Houten still hadn't replied to me. Augustus assured me it was because my email was better and required a more thoughtful response, that Van Houten was busy writing answers to my questions, and that brilliant prose took time. But still I worried. On Wednesday during American Poetry for Dummies 101, I got a text from Augustus: Isaac out of surgery. It went well. He's officially NEC. NEC meant "no evidence of cancer." A second text came a few seconds later. I mean, he's blind. So that's unfortunate. That afternoon, Mom consented to loan me the car so I could drive down to Memorial to check in on Isaac. I found my way to his room on the fifth floor, knocking even though the door was open, and a woman's voice said, "Come in." It was a nurse who was doing something to the bandages on Isaac's eyes. "Hey, Isaac," I said. And he said, "Mon?" "Oh, no. Sorry. No, it's, um, Hazel. Um, Support Group Hazel? Night-of-the-broken-trophies Hazel?" "Oh," he said. "Yeah, people keep saying my other senses will improve to compensate, but CLEARLY NOT YET. Hi, Support Group Hazel. Come over here so I can examine your face with my hands and see deeper into your soul than a sighted person ever could." "He's kidding," the nurse said. "Yes," I said. "I realize." I took a few steps toward the bed. I pulled a chair up and sat down, took his hand. "Hey," I said. "Hey," he said back. Then nothing for a while. "How you feeling?" I asked. "Okay," he said. "I don't know." "You don't know what?" I asked. I looked at his hand because I didn't want to look at his face blindfolded by bandages. Isaac bit his nails, and I could see some blood on the corners of a couple of his cuticles. "She hasn't even visited," he said. "I mean, we were together fourteen months. Fourteen months is a long time. God, that hurts." Isaac let go of my hand to fumble for his pain pump, which you hit to give yourself a wave of narcotics. The nurse, having finished the bandage change, stepped back. "It's only been a day, Isaac," she said, vaguely condescending. "You've gotta give yourself time to heal. And fourteen months _isn't_ that long, not in the scheme of things. You're just getting started, buddy. You'll see." The nurse left. "Is she gone?" I nodded, then realized he couldn't see me nod. "Yeah," I said. "I'll _see_? Really? Did she seriously say that?" "Qualities of a Good Nurse: Go," I said. "1. Doesn't pun on your disability," Isaac said. "2. Gets blood on the first try," I said. "Seriously, that is huge. I mean is this my freaking arm or a dartboard? 3. No condescending voice." "How are you doing, sweetie?" I asked, cloying. "I'm going to stick you with a needle now. There might be a little ouchie." "Is my wittle fuffywump sickywicky?" he answered. And then after a second, "Most of them are good, actually. I just want the hell out of this place." "This place as in the hospital?" "That, too," he said. His mouth tightened. I could see the pain. "Honestly, I think a hell of a lot more about Monica than my eye. Is that crazy? That's crazy." "It's a little crazy," I allowed. "But I believe in true love, you know? I don't believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever, but everybody _should_ have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does." "Yeah," I said. "I just wish the whole thing hadn't happened sometimes. The whole cancer thing." His speech was slowing down. The medicine working. "I'm sorry," I said. "Gus was here earlier. He was here when I woke up. Took off school. He..." His head turned to the side a little. "It's better," he said quietly. "The pain?" I asked. He nodded a little. "Good," I said. And then, like the bitch I am: "You were saying something about Gus?" But he was gone. I went downstairs to the tiny windowless gift shop and asked the decrepit volunteer sitting on a stool behind a cash register what kind of flowers smell the strongest. "They all smell the same. They get sprayed with Super Scent," she said. "Really?" "Yeah, they just squirt 'em with it." I opened the cooler to her left and sniffed at a dozen roses, and then leaned over some carnations. Same smell, and lots of it. The carnations were cheaper, so I grabbed a dozen yellow ones. They cost fourteen dollars. I went back into the room; his mom was there, holding his hand. She was young and really pretty. "Are you a friend?" she asked, which struck me as one of those unintentionally broad and unanswerable questions. "Um, yeah," I said. "I'm from Support Group. These are for him." She took them and placed them in her lap. "Do you know Monica?" she asked. I shook my head no. "Well, he's sleeping," she said. "Yeah. I talked to him a little before, when they were doing the bandages or whatever." "I hated leaving him for that but I had to pick up Graham at school," she said. "He did okay," I told her. She nodded. "I should let him sleep." She nodded again. I left. ••• The next morning I woke up early and checked my email first thing. [email protected] had finally replied. Dear Ms. Lancaster, I fear your faith has been misplaced—but then, faith usually is. I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to write out such answers would constitute a sequel to _An Imperial Affliction,_ which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has replaced the brains of your generation. There is the telephone, but then you might record the conversation. Not that I don't trust you, of course, but I don't trust you. Alas, dear Hazel, I could never answer such questions except in person, and you are there, while I am here. That noted, I must confess that the unexpected receipt of your correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a wondrous thing to know that I made something useful to you—even if that book seems so distant from me that I feel it was written by a different man altogether. (The author of that novel was so thin, so frail, so comparatively optimistic!) Should you find yourself in Amsterdam, however, please do pay a visit at your leisure. I am usually home. I would even allow you a peek at my grocery lists. Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten c/o Lidewij Vliegenthart "WHAT?!" I shouted aloud. "WHAT IS THIS LIFE?" Mom ran in. "What's wrong?" _"Nothing,"_ I assured her. Still nervous, Mom knelt down to check on Philip to ensure he was condensing oxygen appropriately. I imagined sitting at a sun-drenched café with Peter Van Houten as he leaned across the table on his elbows, speaking in a soft voice so no one else would hear the truth of what happened to the characters I'd spent years thinking about. He'd said he couldn't tell me _except in person_ , and then _invited me to Amsterdam_. I explained this to Mom, and then said, "I have to go." "Hazel, I love you, and you know I'd do anything for you, but we don't—we don't have the money for international travel, and the expense of getting equipment over there—love, it's just not—" "Yeah," I said, cutting her off. I realized I'd been silly even to consider it. "Don't worry about it." But she looked worried. "It's really important to you, yeah?" she asked, sitting down, a hand on my calf. "It would be pretty amazing," I said, "to be the only person who knows what happens besides him." "That would be amazing," she said. "I'll talk to your father." "No, don't," I said. "Just, seriously, don't spend any money on it please. I'll think of something." It occurred to me that the reason my parents had no money was me. I'd sapped the family savings with Phalanxifor copays, and Mom couldn't work because she had taken on the full-time profession of Hovering Over Me. I didn't want to put them even further into debt. I told Mom I wanted to call Augustus to get her out of the room, because I couldn't handle her I-can't-make-my-daughter's-dreams-come-true sad face. Augustus Waters–style, I read him the letter in lieu of saying hello. "Wow," he said. "I know, right?" I said. "How am I going to get to Amsterdam?" "Do you have a Wish?" he asked, referring to this organization, The Genie Foundation, which is in the business of granting sick kids one wish. "No," I said. "I used my Wish pre-Miracle." "What'd you do?" I sighed loudly. "I was thirteen," I said. "Not Disney," he said. I said nothing. "You did not go to Disney World." I said nothing. "Hazel GRACE!" he shouted. "You _did not_ use your one dying Wish to go to Disney World with your parents." "Also Epcot Center," I mumbled. "Oh, my God," Augustus said. "I can't believe I have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes." "I was _thirteen_ ," I said again, although of course I was only thinking _crush crush crush crush crush_. I was flattered but changed the subject immediately. "Shouldn't you be in school or something?" "I'm playing hooky to hang out with Isaac, but he's sleeping, so I'm in the atrium doing geometry." "How's he doing?" I asked. "I can't tell if he's just not ready to confront the seriousness of his disability or if he really does care more about getting dumped by Monica, but he won't talk about anything else." "Yeah," I said. "How long's he gonna be in the hospital?" "Few days. Then he goes to this rehab or something for a while, but he gets to sleep at home, I think." "Sucks," I said. "I see his mom. I gotta go." "Okay," I said. "Okay," he answered. I could hear his crooked smile. ••• On Saturday, my parents and I went down to the farmers' market in Broad Ripple. It was sunny, a rarity for Indiana in April, and everyone at the farmers' market was wearing short sleeves even though the temperature didn't quite justify it. We Hoosiers are excessively optimistic about summer. Mom and I sat next to each other on a bench across from a goat-soap maker, a man in overalls who had to explain to every single person who walked by that yes, they were his goats, and no, goat soap does not smell like goats. My phone rang. "Who is it?" Mom asked before I could even check. "I don't know," I said. It was Gus, though. "Are you currently at your house?" he asked. "Um, no," I said. "That was a trick question. I knew the answer, because I am currently at your house." "Oh. Um. Well, we are on our way, I guess?" "Awesome. See you soon." ••• Augustus Waters was sitting on the front step as we pulled into the driveway. He was holding a bouquet of bright orange tulips just beginning to bloom, and wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey under his fleece, a wardrobe choice that seemed utterly out of character, although it did look quite good on him. He pushed himself up off the stoop, handed me the tulips, and asked, "Wanna go on a picnic?" I nodded, taking the flowers. My dad walked up behind me and shook Gus's hand. "Is that a Rik Smits jersey?" my dad asked. "Indeed it is." "God, I loved that guy," Dad said, and immediately they were engrossed in a basketball conversation I could not (and did not want to) join, so I took my tulips inside. "Do you want me to put those in a vase?" Mom asked as I walked in, a huge smile on her face. "No, it's okay," I told her. If we'd put them in a vase in the living room, they would have been everyone's flowers. I wanted them to be my flowers. I went to my room but didn't change. I brushed my hair and teeth and put on some lip gloss and the smallest possible dab of perfume. I kept looking at the flowers. They were _aggressively_ orange, almost too orange to be pretty. I didn't have a vase or anything, so I took my toothbrush out of my toothbrush holder and filled it halfway with water and left the flowers there in the bathroom. When I reentered my room, I could hear people talking, so I sat on the edge of my bed for a while and listened through my hollow bedroom door: Dad: "So you met Hazel at Support Group." Augustus: "Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you've got. I like your artwork." Mom: "Thank you, Augustus." Dad: "You're a survivor yourself, then?" Augustus: "I am. I didn't cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it, although it is an excellent weight-loss strategy. Legs are heavy!" Dad: "And how's your health now?" Augustus: "NEC for fourteen months." Mom: "That's wonderful. The treatment options these days—it really is remarkable." Augustus: "I know. I'm lucky." Dad: "You have to understand that Hazel is still sick, Augustus, and will be for the rest of her life. She'll want to keep up with you, but her lungs—" At which point I emerged, silencing him. "So where are you going?" asked Mom. Augustus stood up and leaned over to her, whispering the answer, and then held a finger to his lips. "Shh," he told her. "It's a secret." Mom smiled. "You've got your phone?" she asked me. I held it up as evidence, tilted my oxygen cart onto its front wheels, and started walking. Augustus hustled over, offering me his arm, which I took. My fingers wrapped around his biceps. Unfortunately, he insisted upon driving, so the surprise could be a surprise. As we shuddered toward our destination, I said, "You nearly charmed the pants off my mom." "Yeah, and your dad is a Smits fan, which helps. You think they liked me?" "Sure they did. Who cares, though? They're just parents." "They're _your_ parents," he said, glancing over at me. "Plus, I like being liked. Is that crazy?" "Well, you don't have to rush to hold doors open or smother me in compliments for me to like you." He slammed the brakes, and I flew forward hard enough that my breathing felt weird and tight. I thought of the PET scan. _Don't worry. Worry is useless._ I worried anyway. We burned rubber, roaring away from a stop sign before turning left onto the misnomered Grandview (there's a view of a golf course, I guess, but nothing _grand_ ). The only thing I could think of in this direction was the cemetery. Augustus reached into the center console, flipped open a full pack of cigarettes, and removed one. "Do you ever throw them away?" I asked him. "One of the many benefits of not smoking is that packs of cigarettes last _forever_ ," he answered. "I've had this one for almost a year. A few of them are broken near the filters, but I think this pack could easily get me to my eighteenth birthday." He held the filter between his fingers, then put it in his mouth. "So, okay," he said. "Okay. Name some things that you never see in Indianapolis." "Um. Skinny adults," I said. He laughed. "Good. Keep going." "Mmm, beaches. Family-owned restaurants. Topography." "All excellent examples of things we lack. Also, culture." "Yeah, we are a bit short on culture," I said, finally realizing where he was taking me. "Are we going to the museum?" "In a manner of speaking." "Oh, are we going to that park or whatever?" Gus looked a bit deflated. "Yes, we are going to that park or whatever," he said. "You've figured it out, haven't you?" "Um, figured what out?" "Nothing." ••• There was this park behind the museum where a bunch of artists had made big sculptures. I'd heard about it but had never visited. We drove past the museum and parked right next to this basketball court filled with huge blue and red steel arcs that imagined the path of a bouncing ball. We walked down what passes for a hill in Indianapolis to this clearing where kids were climbing all over this huge oversize skeleton sculpture. The bones were each about waist high, and the thighbone was longer than me. It looked like a child's drawing of a skeleton rising up out of the ground. My shoulder hurt. I worried the cancer had spread from my lungs. I imagined the tumor metastasizing into my own bones, boring holes into my skeleton, a slithering eel of insidious intent. _"Funky Bones,"_ Augustus said. "Created by Joep Van Lieshout." "Sounds Dutch." "He is," Gus said. "So is Rik Smits. So are tulips." Gus stopped in the middle of the clearing with the bones right in front of us and slipped his backpack off one shoulder, then the other. He unzipped it, producing an orange blanket, a pint of orange juice, and some sandwiches wrapped in plastic wrap with the crusts cut off. "What's with all the orange?" I asked, still not wanting to let myself imagine that all this would lead to Amsterdam. "National color of the Netherlands, of course. You remember William of Orange and everything?" "He wasn't on the GED test." I smiled, trying to contain my excitement. "Sandwich?" he asked. "Let me guess," I said. "Dutch cheese. And tomato. The tomatoes are from Mexico. Sorry." "You're always such a _disappointment_ , Augustus. Couldn't you have at least gotten orange tomatoes?" He laughed, and we ate our sandwiches in silence, watching the kids play on the sculpture. I couldn't very well _ask_ him about it, so I just sat there surrounded by Dutchness, feeling awkward and hopeful. In the distance, soaked in the unblemished sunlight so rare and precious in our hometown, a gaggle of kids made a skeleton into a playground, jumping back and forth among the prosthetic bones. "Two things I love about this sculpture," Augustus said. He was holding the unlit cigarette between his fingers, flicking at it as if to get rid of the ash. He placed it back in his mouth. "First, the bones are just far enough apart that if you're a kid, you _cannot resist the urge_ to jump between them. Like, you just _have_ to jump from rib cage to skull. Which means that, second, the sculpture essentially _forces children to play on bones_. The symbolic resonances are endless, Hazel Grace." "You do love symbols," I said, hoping to steer the conversation back toward the many symbols of the Netherlands at our picnic. "Right, about that. You are probably wondering why you are eating a bad cheese sandwich and drinking orange juice and why I am wearing the jersey of a Dutchman who played a sport I have come to loathe." "It has crossed my mind," I said. "Hazel Grace, like so many children before you—and I say this with great affection—you spent your Wish hastily, with little care for the consequences. The Grim Reaper was staring you in the face and the fear of dying with your Wish still in your proverbial pocket, ungranted, led you to rush toward the first Wish you could think of, and you, like so many others, chose the cold and artificial pleasures of the theme park." "I actually had a great time on that trip. I met Goofy and Minn—" "I am in the midst of a soliloquy! I wrote this out and memorized it and if you interrupt me I will completely screw it up," Augustus interrupted. "Please to be eating your sandwich and listening." (The sandwich was inedibly dry, but I smiled and took a bite anyway.) "Okay, where was I?" "The artificial pleasures." He returned the cigarette to its pack. "Right, the cold and artificial pleasures of the theme park. But let me submit that the real heroes of the Wish Factory are the young men and women who wait like Vladimir and Estragon wait for Godot and good Christian girls wait for marriage. These young heroes wait stoically and without complaint for their one true Wish to come along. Sure, it may never come along, but at least they can rest easily in the grave knowing that they've done their little part to preserve the integrity of the Wish as an idea. "But then again, maybe it _will_ come along: Maybe you'll realize that your one true Wish is to visit the brilliant Peter Van Houten in his Amsterdamian exile, and you will be glad indeed to have saved your Wish." Augustus stopped speaking long enough that I figured the soliloquy was over. "But I didn't save my Wish," I said. "Ah," he said. And then, after what felt like a practiced pause, he added, "But I saved mine." "Really?" I was surprised that Augustus was Wish-eligible, what with being still in school and a year into remission. You had to be pretty sick for the Genies to hook you up with a Wish. "I got it in exchange for the leg," he explained. There was all this light on his face; he had to squint to look at me, which made his nose crinkle adorably. "Now, I'm not going to _give_ you my Wish or anything. But I also have an interest in meeting Peter Van Houten, and it wouldn't make sense to meet him without the girl who introduced me to his book." "It definitely wouldn't," I said. "So I talked to the Genies, and they are in total agreement. They said Amsterdam is lovely in the beginning of May. They proposed leaving May third and returning May seventh." "Augustus, really?" He reached over and touched my cheek and for a moment I thought he might kiss me. My body tensed, and I think he saw it, because he pulled his hand away. "Augustus," I said. "Really. You don't have to do this." "Sure I do," he said. "I found my Wish." "God, you're the best," I told him. "I bet you say that to all the boys who finance your international travel," he answered. # **CHAPTER SIX** **M** om was folding my laundry while watching this TV show called _The View_ when I got home. I told her that the tulips and the Dutch artist and everything were all because Augustus was using his Wish to take me to Amsterdam. "That's too much," she said, shaking her head. "We can't accept that from a virtual stranger." "He's not a stranger. He's easily my second best friend." "Behind Kaitlyn?" "Behind you," I said. It was true, but I'd mostly said it because I wanted to go to Amsterdam. "I'll ask Dr. Maria," she said after a moment. ••• Dr. Maria said I couldn't go to Amsterdam without an adult intimately familiar with my case, which more or less meant either Mom or Dr. Maria herself. (My dad understood my cancer the way I did: in the vague and incomplete way people understand electrical circuits and ocean tides. But my mom knew more about differentiated thyroid carcinoma in adolescents than most oncologists.) "So you'll come," I said. "The Genies will pay for it. The Genies are loaded." "But your father," she said. "He would miss us. It wouldn't be fair to him, and he can't get time off work." "Are you kidding? You don't think Dad would enjoy a few days of watching TV shows that are not about aspiring models and ordering pizza every night, using paper towels as plates so he doesn't have to do the dishes?" Mom laughed. Finally, she started to get excited, typing tasks into her phone: She'd have to call Gus's parents and talk to the Genies about my medical needs and do they have a hotel yet and what are the best guidebooks and we should do our research if we only have three days, and so on. I kind of had a headache, so I downed a couple Advil and decided to take a nap. But I ended up just lying in bed and replaying the whole picnic with Augustus. I couldn't stop thinking about the little moment when I'd tensed up as he touched me. The gentle familiarity felt wrong, somehow. I thought maybe it was how orchestrated the whole thing had been: Augustus was amazing, but he'd overdone everything at the picnic, right down to the sandwiches that were metaphorically resonant but tasted terrible and the memorized soliloquy that prevented conversation. It all felt Romantic, but not romantic. But the truth is that I had never wanted him to kiss me, not in the way you are supposed to want these things. I mean, he was gorgeous. I was attracted to him. I thought about him _in that way_ , to borrow a phrase from the middle school vernacular. But the actual touch, the realized touch...it was all wrong. Then I found myself worrying I would _have_ to make out with him to get to Amsterdam, which is not the kind of thing you want to be thinking, because (a) It shouldn't've even been a _question_ whether I wanted to kiss him, and (b) Kissing someone so that you can get a free trip is perilously close to full-on hooking, and I have to confess that while I did not fancy myself a particularly good person, I never thought my first real sexual action would be prostitutional. But then again, he hadn't tried to kiss me; he'd only touched my face, which is not even _sexual_. It was not a move designed to elicit arousal, but it was certainly a designed move, because Augustus Waters was no improviser. So what had he been trying to convey? And why hadn't I wanted to accept it? At some point, I realized I was Kaitlyning the encounter, so I decided to text Kaitlyn and ask for some advice. She called immediately. "I have a boy problem," I said. "DELICIOUS," Kaitlyn responded. I told her all about it, complete with the awkward face touching, leaving out only Amsterdam and Augustus's name. "You're sure he's hot?" she asked when I was finished. "Pretty sure," I said. "Athletic?" "Yeah, he used to play basketball for North Central." "Wow. How'd you meet him?" "This hideous Support Group." "Huh," Kaitlyn said. "Out of curiosity, how many legs does this guy have?" "Like, 1.4," I said, smiling. Basketball players were famous in Indiana, and although Kaitlyn didn't go to North Central, her social connectivity was endless. "Augustus Waters," she said. "Um, maybe?" "Oh, my God. I've seen him at parties. The things I would do to that boy. I mean, not now that I know you're interested in him. But, oh, sweet holy Lord, I would ride that one-legged pony all the way around the corral." "Kaitlyn," I said. "Sorry. Do you think you'd have to be on top?" "Kaitlyn," I said. "What were we talking about. Right, you and Augustus Waters. Maybe...are you gay?" "I don't think so? I mean, I definitely like him." "Does he have ugly hands? Sometimes beautiful people have ugly hands." "No, he has kind of amazing hands." "Hmm," she said. "Hmm," I said. After a second, Kaitlyn said, "Remember Derek? He broke up with me last week because he'd decided there was something fundamentally incompatible about us deep down and that we'd only get hurt more if we played it out. He called it _preemptive dumping_. So maybe you have this premonition that there is something fundamentally incompatible and you're preempting the preemption." "Hmm," I said. "I'm just thinking out loud here." "Sorry about Derek." "Oh, I got over it, darling. It took me a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints and forty minutes to get over that boy." I laughed. "Well, thanks, Kaitlyn." "In the event you do hook up with him, I expect lascivious details." "But of course," I said, and then Kaitlyn made a kissy sound into the phone and I said, "Bye," and she hung up. ••• I realized while listening to Kaitlyn that I didn't have a premonition of hurting him. I had a postmonition. I pulled out my laptop and looked up Caroline Mathers. The physical similarities were striking: same steroidally round face, same nose, same approximate overall body shape. But her eyes were dark brown (mine are green) and her complexion was much darker—Italian or something. Thousands of people—literally thousands—had left condolence messages for her. It was an endless scroll of people who missed her, so many that it took me an hour of clicking to get past the _I'm sorry you're dead_ wall posts to the _I'm praying for you_ wall posts. She'd died a year ago of brain cancer. I was able to click through to some of her pictures. Augustus was in a bunch of the earlier ones: pointing with a thumbs-up to the jagged scar across her bald skull; arm in arm at Memorial Hospital's playground, with their backs facing the camera; kissing while Caroline held the camera out, so you could only see their noses and closed eyes. The most recent pictures were all of her before, when she was healthy, uploaded postmortem by friends: a beautiful girl, wide-hipped and curvy, with long, straight deadblack hair falling over her face. My healthy self looked very little like her healthy self. But our cancer selves might've been sisters. No wonder he'd stared at me the first time he saw me. I kept clicking back to this one wall post, written two months ago, nine months after she died, by one of her friends. _We all miss you so much. It just never ends. It feels like we were all wounded in your battle, Caroline. I miss you. I love you._ After a while, Mom and Dad announced it was time for dinner. I shut down the computer and got up, but I couldn't get the wall post out of my mind, and for some reason it made me nervous and unhungry. I kept thinking about my shoulder, which hurt, and also I still had the headache, but maybe only because I'd been thinking about a girl who'd died of brain cancer. I kept telling myself to compartmentalize, to be here now at the circular table (arguably too large in diameter for three people and definitely too large for two) with this soggy broccoli and a black-bean burger that all the ketchup in the world could not adequately moisten. I told myself that imagining a met in my brain or my shoulder would not affect the invisible reality going on inside of me, and that therefore all such thoughts were wasted moments in a life composed of a definitionally finite set of such moments. I even tried to tell myself to live my best life today. For the longest time I couldn't figure out why something a stranger had written on the Internet to a different (and deceased) stranger was bothering me so much and making me worry that there was something inside my brain—which really did hurt, although I knew from years of experience that pain is a blunt and nonspecific diagnostic instrument. Because there had not been an earthquake in Papua New Guinea that day, my parents were all hyperfocused on me, and so I could not hide this flash flood of anxiety. "Is everything all right?" asked Mom as I ate. "Uh-huh," I said. I took a bite of burger. Swallowed. Tried to say something that a normal person whose brain was not drowning in panic would say. "Is there broccoli in the burgers?" "A little," Dad said. "Pretty exciting that you might go to Amsterdam." "Yeah," I said. I tried not to think about the word _wounded_ , which of course is a way of thinking about it. "Hazel," Mom said. "Where are you right now?" "Just thinking, I guess," I said. "Twitterpated," my dad said, smiling. "I am not a bunny, and I am not in love with Gus Waters or anyone," I answered, way too defensively. _Wounded_. Like Caroline Mathers had been a bomb and when she blew up everyone around her was left with embedded shrapnel. Dad asked me if I was working on anything for school. "I've got some very advanced Algebra homework," I told him. "So advanced that I couldn't possibly explain it to a layperson." "And how's your friend Isaac?" "Blind," I said. "You're being very teenagery today," Mom said. She seemed annoyed about it. "Isn't this what you wanted, Mom? For me to be teenagery?" "Well, not necessarily _this_ kinda teenagery, but of course your father and I are excited to see you become a young woman, making friends, going on dates." "I'm not going on dates," I said. "I don't want to go on dates with anyone. It's a terrible idea and a huge waste of time and—" "Honey," my mom said. "What's wrong?" "I'm like. Like. I'm like a _grenade_ , Mom. I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties, okay?" My dad tilted his head a little to the side, like a scolded puppy. "I'm a grenade," I said again. "I just want to stay away from people and read books and think and be with you guys because there's nothing I can do about hurting you; you're too invested, so just please let me do that, okay? I'm not depressed. I don't need to get out more. And I can't be a regular teenager, because I'm a grenade." "Hazel," Dad said, and then choked up. He cried a lot, my dad. "I'm going to go to my room and read for a while, okay? I'm fine. I really am fine; I just want to go read for a while." I started out trying to read this novel I'd been assigned, but we lived in a tragically thin-walled home, so I could hear much of the whispered conversation that ensued. My dad saying, "It kills me," and my mom saying, "That's exactly what she _doesn't_ need to hear," and my dad saying, "I'm sorry but—" and my mom saying, "Are you not grateful?" And him saying, "God, of course I'm grateful." I kept trying to get into this story but I couldn't stop hearing them. So I turned on my computer to listen to some music, and with Augustus's favorite band, The Hectic Glow, as my sound track, I went back to Caroline Mathers's tribute pages, reading about how heroic her fight was, and how much she was missed, and how she was in a better place, and how she would live _forever_ in their memories, and how everyone who knew her—everyone—was laid low by her leaving. Maybe I was supposed to hate Caroline Mathers or something because she'd been with Augustus, but I didn't. I couldn't see her very clearly amid all the tributes, but there didn't seem to be much to hate—she seemed to be mostly a professional sick person, like me, which made me worry that when I died they'd have nothing to say about me except that I fought heroically, as if the only thing I'd ever done was Have Cancer. Anyway, eventually I started reading Caroline Mathers's little notes, which were mostly actually written by her parents, because I guess her brain cancer was of the variety that makes you not you before it makes you not alive. So it was all like, _Caroline continues to have behavioral problems. She's struggling a lot with anger and frustration over not being able to speak (we are frustrated about these things, too, of course, but we have more socially acceptable ways of dealing with our anger). Gus has taken to calling Caroline HULK SMASH, which resonates with the doctors. There's nothing easy about this for any of us, but you take your humor where you can get it. Hoping to go home on Thursday. We'll let you know..._ She didn't go home on Thursday, needless to say. ••• So of course I tensed up when he touched me. To be with him was to hurt him—inevitably. And that's what I'd felt as he reached for me: I'd felt as though I were committing an act of violence against him, because I was. I decided to text him. I wanted to avoid a whole conversation about it. Hi, so okay, I don't know if you'll understand this but I can't kiss you or anything. Not that you'd necessarily want to, but I can't. When I try to look at you like that, all I see is what I'm going to put you through. Maybe that doesn't make sense to you. Anyway, sorry. He responded a few minutes later. Okay. I wrote back. Okay. He responded: Oh, my God, stop flirting with me! I just said: Okay. My phone buzzed moments later. I was kidding, Hazel Grace. I understand. (But we both know that okay is a very flirty word. Okay is BURSTING with sensuality.) I was very tempted to respond _Okay_ again, but I pictured him at my funeral, and that helped me text properly. Sorry. ••• I tried to go to sleep with my headphones still on, but then after a while my mom and dad came in, and my mom grabbed Bluie from the shelf and hugged him to her stomach, and my dad sat down in my desk chair, and without crying he said, "You are not a grenade, not to us. Thinking about you dying makes us sad, Hazel, but you are not a grenade. You are amazing. You can't know, sweetie, because you've never had a baby become a brilliant young reader with a side interest in horrible television shows, but the joy you bring us is so much greater than the sadness we feel about your illness." "Okay," I said. "Really," my dad said. "I wouldn't bullshit you about this. If you were more trouble than you're worth, we'd just toss you out on the streets." "We're not sentimental people," Mom added, deadpan. "We'd leave you at an orphanage with a note pinned to your pajamas." I laughed. "You don't have to go to Support Group," Mom added. "You don't have to do anything. Except go to school." She handed me the bear. "I think Bluie can sleep on the shelf tonight," I said. "Let me remind you that I am more than thirty-three half years old." "Keep him tonight," she said. "Mom," I said. "He's _lonely_ ," she said. "Oh, my God, Mom," I said. But I took stupid Bluie and kind of cuddled with him as I fell asleep. I still had one arm draped over Bluie, in fact, when I awoke just after four in the morning with an apocalyptic pain fingering out from the unreachable center of my head. # **CHAPTER SEVEN** **I** screamed to wake up my parents, and they burst into the room, but there was nothing they could do to dim the supernovae exploding inside my brain, an endless chain of intracranial firecrackers that made me think that I was once and for all going, and I told myself—as I've told myself before—that the body shuts down when the pain gets too bad, that consciousness is temporary, that this will pass. But just like always, I didn't slip away. I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown. Dad drove, talking on the phone with the hospital, while I lay in the back with my head in Mom's lap. There was nothing to do: Screaming made it worse. All stimuli made it worse, actually. The only solution was to try to unmake the world, to make it black and silent and uninhabited again, to return to the moment before the Big Bang, in the beginning when there was the Word, and to live in that vacuous uncreated space alone with the Word. People talk about the courage of cancer patients, and I do not deny that courage. I had been poked and stabbed and poisoned for years, and still I trod on. But make no mistake: In that moment, I would have been very, very happy to die. ••• I woke up in the ICU. I could tell I was in the ICU because I didn't have my own room, and because there was so much beeping, and because I was alone: They don't let your family stay with you 24/7 in the ICU at Children's because it's an infection risk. There was wailing down the hall. Somebody's kid had died. I was alone. I hit the red call button. A nurse came in seconds later. "Hi," I said. "Hello, Hazel. I'm Alison, your nurse," she said. "Hi, Alison My Nurse," I said. Whereupon I started to feel pretty tired again. But I woke up a bit when my parents came in, crying and kissing my face repeatedly, and I reached up for them and tried to squeeze, but my everything hurt when I squeezed, and Mom and Dad told me that I did not have a brain tumor, but that my headache was caused by poor oxygenation, which was caused by my lungs swimming in fluid, a liter and a half (!!!!) of which had been successfully drained from my chest, which was why I might feel a slight discomfort in my side, where there was, _hey look at that_ , a tube that went from my chest into a plastic bladder half full of liquid that for all the world resembled my dad's favorite amber ale. Mom told me I was going to go home, that I really was, that I would just have to get this drained every now and again and get back on the BiPAP, this nighttime machine that forces air in and out of my crap lungs. But I'd had a total body PET scan on the first night in the hospital, they told me, and the news was good: no tumor growth. No new tumors. My shoulder pain had been lack-of-oxygen pain. Heart-working-too-hard pain. "Dr. Maria said this morning that she remains optimistic," Dad said. I liked Dr. Maria, and she didn't bullshit you, so that felt good to hear. "This is just a thing, Hazel," my mom said. "It's a thing we can live with." I nodded, and then Alison My Nurse kind of politely made them leave. She asked me if I wanted some ice chips, and I nodded, and then she sat at the bed with me and spooned them into my mouth. "So you've been gone a couple days," Alison said. "Hmm, what'd you miss...A celebrity did drugs. Politicians disagreed. A different celebrity wore a bikini that revealed a bodily imperfection. A team won a sporting event, but another team lost." I smiled. "You can't go disappearing on everybody like this, Hazel. You miss too much." "More?" I asked, nodding toward the white Styrofoam cup in her hand. "I shouldn't," she said, "but I'm a rebel." She gave me another plastic spoonful of crushed ice. I mumbled a thank-you. Praise God for good nurses. "Getting tired?" she asked. I nodded. "Sleep for a while," she said. "I'll try to run interference and give you a couple hours before somebody comes in to check vitals and the like." I said Thanks again. You say thanks a lot in a hospital. I tried to settle into the bed. "You're not gonna ask about your boyfriend?" she asked. "Don't have one," I told her. "Well, there's a kid who has hardly left the waiting room since you got here," she said. "He hasn't seen me like this, has he?" "No. Family only." I nodded and sank into an aqueous sleep. ••• It would take me six days to get home, six undays of staring at acoustic ceiling tile and watching television and sleeping and pain and wishing for time to pass. I did not see Augustus or anyone other than my parents. My hair looked like a bird's nest; my shuffling gait like a dementia patient's. I felt a little better each day, though: Each sleep ended to reveal a person who seemed a bit more like me. Sleep fights cancer, Regular Dr. Jim said for the thousandth time as he hovered over me one morning surrounded by a coterie of medical students. "Then I am a cancer-fighting machine," I told him. "That you are, Hazel. Keep resting, and hopefully we'll get you home soon." ••• On Tuesday, they told me I'd go home on Wednesday. On Wednesday, two minimally supervised medical students removed my chest tube, which felt like getting stabbed in reverse and generally didn't go very well, so they decided I'd have to stay until Thursday. I was beginning to think that I was the subject of some existentialist experiment in permanently delayed gratification when Dr. Maria showed up on Friday morning, sniffed around me for a minute, and told me I was good to go. So Mom opened her oversize purse to reveal that she'd had my Go Home Clothes with her all along. A nurse came in and took out my IV. I felt untethered even though I still had the oxygen tank to carry around with me. I went into the bathroom, took my first shower in a week, got dressed, and when I got out, I was so tired I had to lie down and get my breath. Mom asked, "Do you want to see Augustus?" "I guess," I said after a minute. I stood up and shuffled over to one of the molded plastic chairs against the wall, tucking my tank beneath the chair. It wore me out. Dad came back with Augustus a few minutes later. His hair was messy, sweeping down over his forehead. He lit up with a real Augustus Waters Goofy Smile when he saw me, and I couldn't help but smile back. He sat down in the blue faux-leather recliner next to my chair. He leaned in toward me, seemingly incapable of stifling the smile. Mom and Dad left us alone, which felt awkward. I worked hard to meet his eyes, even though they were the kind of pretty that's hard to look at. "I missed you," Augustus said. My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. "Thanks for not trying to see me when I looked like hell." "To be fair, you still look pretty bad." I laughed. "I missed you, too. I just don't want you to see...all this. I just want, like...It doesn't matter. You don't always get what you want." "Is that so?" he asked. "I'd always thought the world was a wish-granting factory." "Turns out that is not the case," I said. He was so beautiful. He reached for my hand but I shook my head. "No," I said quietly. "If we're gonna hang out, it has to be, like, not that." "Okay," he said. "Well, I have good news and bad news on the wish-granting front." "Okay?" I said. "The bad news is that we obviously can't go to Amsterdam until you're better. The Genies will, however, work their famous magic when you're well enough." "That's the good news?" "No, the good news is that while you were sleeping, Peter Van Houten shared a bit more of his brilliant brain with us." He reached for my hand again, but this time to slip into it a heavily folded sheet of stationery on the letterhead of _Peter Van Houten, Novelist Emeritus_. ••• I didn't read it until I got home, situated in my own huge and empty bed with no chance of medical interruption. It took me forever to decode Van Houten's sloped, scratchy script. Dear Mr. Waters, I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy. Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid _hamartia_ : hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves." Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars. While we're on the topic of old Will's insufficiencies, your writing about young Hazel reminds me of the Bard's Fifty-fifth sonnet, which of course begins, "Not marble, nor the gilded monuments / Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; / But you shall shine more bright in these contents / Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time." (Off topic, but: What a slut time is. She screws everybody.) It's a fine poem but a deceitful one: We do indeed remember Shakespeare's powerful rhyme, but what do we remember about the person it commemorates? Nothing. We're pretty sure he was male; everything else is guesswork. Shakespeare told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect. (Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem "Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments," which contains the heroic line "I shall say you will die and none will remember you.") I digress, but here's the rub: The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint. Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustn't impose your will upon another's decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully. She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazel's logic persuasive, but I have trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where I'm sitting, she's not the lunatic. Yours truly, Peter Van Houten ••• It was really written by him. I licked my finger and dabbed the paper and the ink bled a little, so I knew it was really real. "Mom," I said. I did not say it loudly, but I didn't have to. She was always waiting. She peeked her head around the door. "You okay, sweetie?" "Can we call Dr. Maria and ask if international travel would kill me?" # **CHAPTER EIGHT** **W** e had a big Cancer Team Meeting a couple days later. Every so often, a bunch of doctors and social workers and physical therapists and whoever else got together around a big table in a conference room and discussed my situation. (Not the Augustus Waters situation or the Amsterdam situation. The cancer situation.) Dr. Maria led the meeting. She hugged me when I got there. She was a hugger. I felt a little better, I guess. Sleeping with the BiPAP all night made my lungs feel almost normal, although, then again, I did not really remember lung normality. Everyone got there and made a big show of turning off their pagers and everything so it would be _all about me_ , and then Dr. Maria said, "So the great news is that Phalanxifor continues to control your tumor growth, but obviously we're still seeing serious problems with fluid accumulation. So the question is, how should we proceed?" And then she just looked at me, like she was waiting for an answer. "Um," I said, "I feel like I am not the most qualified person in the room to answer that question?" She smiled. "Right, I was waiting for Dr. Simons. Dr. Simons?" He was another cancer doctor of some kind. "Well, we know from other patients that most tumors eventually evolve a way to grow in spite of Phalanxifor, but if that were the case, we'd see tumor growth on the scans, which we don't see. So it's not that yet." _Yet_ , I thought. Dr. Simons tapped at the table with his forefinger. "The thought around here is that it's possible the Phalanxifor is worsening the edema, but we'd face far more serious problems if we discontinued its use." Dr. Maria added, "We don't really understand the long-term effects of Phalanxifor. Very few people have been on it as long as you have." "So we're gonna do nothing?" "We're going to stay the course," Dr. Maria said, "but we'll need to do more to keep that edema from building up." I felt kind of sick for some reason, like I was going to throw up. I hated Cancer Team Meetings in general, but I hated this one in particular. "Your cancer is not going away, Hazel. But we've seen people live with your level of tumor penetration for a long time." (I did not ask what constituted a long time. I'd made that mistake before.) "I know that coming out of the ICU, it doesn't feel this way, but this fluid is, at least for the time being, manageable." "Can't I just get like a lung transplant or something?" I asked. Dr. Maria's lips shrank into her mouth. "You would not be considered a strong candidate for a transplant, unfortunately," she said. I understood: No use wasting good lungs on a hopeless case. I nodded, trying not to look like that comment hurt me. My dad started crying a little. I didn't look over at him, but no one said anything for a long time, so his hiccuping cry was the only sound in the room. I hated hurting him. Most of the time, I could forget about it, but the inexorable truth is this: They might be glad to have me around, but I was the alpha and the omega of my parents' suffering. ••• Just before the Miracle, when I was in the ICU and it looked like I was going to die and Mom was telling me it was okay to let go, and I was trying to let go but my lungs kept searching for air, Mom sobbed something into Dad's chest that I wish I hadn't heard, and that I hope she never finds out that I did hear. She said, "I won't be a mom anymore." It gutted me pretty badly. I couldn't stop thinking about that during the whole Cancer Team Meeting. I couldn't get it out of my head, how she sounded when she said that, like she would never be okay again, which probably she wouldn't. ••• Anyway, eventually we decided to keep things the same only with more frequent fluid drainings. At the end, I asked if I could travel to Amsterdam, and Dr. Simons actually and literally laughed, but then Dr. Maria said, "Why not?" And Simons said, dubiously, "Why not?" And Dr. Maria said, "Yeah, I don't see why not. They've got oxygen on the planes, after all." Dr. Simons said, "Are they just going to gate-check a BiPAP?" And Maria said, "Yeah, or have one waiting for her." "Placing a patient—one of the most promising Phalanxifor survivors, no less—an eight-hour flight from the only physicians intimately familiar with her case? That's a recipe for disaster." Dr. Maria shrugged. "It would increase some risks," she acknowledged, but then turned to me and said, "But it's your life." ••• Except not really. On the car ride home, my parents agreed: I would not be going to Amsterdam unless and until there was medical agreement that it would be safe. ••• Augustus called that night after dinner. I was already in bed—after dinner had become my bedtime for the moment—propped up with a gajillion pillows and also Bluie, with my computer on my lap. I picked up, saying, "Bad news," and he said, "Shit, what?" "I can't go to Amsterdam. One of my doctors thinks it's a bad idea." He was quiet for a second. "God," he said. "I should've just paid for it myself. Should've just taken you straight from the _Funky Bones_ to Amsterdam." "But then I would've had a probably fatal episode of deoxygenation in Amsterdam, and my body would have been shipped home in the cargo hold of an airplane," I said. "Well, yeah," he said. "But before that, my grand romantic gesture would have totally gotten me laid." I laughed pretty hard, hard enough that I felt where the chest tube had been. "You laugh because it's true," he said. I laughed again. "It's true, isn't it!" "Probably not," I said, and then after a moment added, "although you never know." He moaned in misery. "I'm gonna die a virgin," he said. "You're a virgin?" I asked, surprised. "Hazel Grace," he said, "do you have a pen and a piece of paper?" I said I did. "Okay, please draw a circle." I did. "Now draw a smaller circle within that circle." I did. "The larger circle is virgins. The smaller circle is seventeen-year-old guys with one leg." I laughed again, and told him that having most of your social engagements occur at a children's hospital also did not encourage promiscuity, and then we talked about Peter Van Houten's amazingly brilliant comment about the sluttiness of time, and even though I was in bed and he was in his basement, it really felt like we were back in that uncreated third space, which was a place I really liked visiting with him. Then I got off the phone and my mom and dad came into my room, and even though it was really not big enough for all three of us, they lay on either side of the bed with me and we all watched _ANTM_ on the little TV in my room. This girl I didn't like, Selena, got kicked off, which made me really happy for some reason. Then Mom hooked me up to the BiPAP and tucked me in, and Dad kissed me on the forehead, the kiss all stubble, and then I closed my eyes. The BiPAP essentially took control of my breathing away from me, which was intensely annoying, but the great thing about it was that it made all this noise, rumbling with each inhalation and whirring as I exhaled. I kept thinking that it sounded like a dragon breathing in time with me, like I had this pet dragon who was cuddled up next to me and cared enough about me to time his breaths to mine. I was thinking about that as I sank into sleep. ••• I got up late the next morning. I watched TV in bed and checked my email and then after a while started crafting an email to Peter Van Houten about how I couldn't come to Amsterdam but I swore upon the life of my mother that I would never share any information about the characters with anyone, that I didn't even _want_ to share it, because I was a terribly selfish person, and could he please just tell me if the Dutch Tulip Man is for real and if Anna's mom marries him and also about Sisyphus the Hamster. But I didn't send it. It was too pathetic even for me. Around three, when I figured Augustus would be home from school, I went into the backyard and called him. As the phone rang, I sat down on the grass, which was all overgrown and dandeliony. That swing set was still back there, weeds growing out of the little ditch I'd created from kicking myself higher as a little kid. I remembered Dad bringing home the kit from Toys "R" Us and building it in the backyard with a neighbor. He'd insisted on swinging on it first to test it, and the thing damn near broke. The sky was gray and low and full of rain but not yet raining. I hung up when I got Augustus's voice mail and then put the phone down in the dirt beside me and kept looking at the swing set, thinking that I would give up all the sick days I had left for a few healthy ones. I tried to tell myself that it could be worse, that the world was not a wish-granting factory, that I was living with cancer not dying of it, that I mustn't let it kill me before it kills me, and then I just started muttering _stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid_ over and over again until the sound unhinged from its meaning. I was still saying it when he called back. "Hi," I said. "Hazel Grace," he said. "Hi," I said again. "Are you crying, Hazel Grace?" "Kind of?" "Why?" he asked. "'Cause I'm just—I want to go to Amsterdam, and I want him to tell me what happens after the book is over, and I just don't want my particular life, and also the sky is depressing me, and there is this old swing set out here that my dad made for me when I was a kid." "I must see this old swing set of tears immediately," he said. "I'll be over in twenty minutes." ••• I stayed in the backyard because Mom was always really smothery and concerned when I was crying, because I did not cry often, and I knew she'd want to _talk_ and discuss whether I shouldn't consider adjusting my medication, and the thought of that whole conversation made me want to throw up. It's not like I had some utterly poignant, well-lit memory of a healthy father pushing a healthy child and the child saying _higher higher higher_ or some other metaphorically resonant moment. The swing set was just sitting there, abandoned, the two little swings hanging still and sad from a grayed plank of wood, the outline of the seats like a kid's drawing of a smile. Behind me, I heard the sliding-glass door open. I turned around. It was Augustus, wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeve plaid button-down. I wiped my face with my sleeve and smiled. "Hi," I said. It took him a second to sit down on the ground next to me, and he grimaced as he landed rather ungracefully on his ass. "Hi," he said finally. I looked over at him. He was looking past me, into the backyard. "I see your point," he said as he put an arm around my shoulder. "That is one sad goddamned swing set." I nudged my head into his shoulder. "Thanks for offering to come over." "You realize that trying to keep your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you," he said. "I guess?" I said. "All efforts to save me from you will fail," he said. "Why? Why would you even like me? Haven't you put yourself through enough of this?" I asked, thinking of Caroline Mathers. Gus didn't answer. He just held on to me, his fingers strong against my left arm. "We gotta do something about this frigging swing set," he said. "I'm telling you, it's ninety percent of the problem." ••• Once I'd recovered, we went inside and sat down on the couch right next to each other, the laptop half on his (fake) knee and half on mine. "Hot," I said of the laptop's base. "Is it now?" He smiled. Gus loaded this giveaway site called Free No Catch and together we wrote an ad. "Headline?" he asked. "'Swing Set Needs Home,'" I said. "'Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home,'" he said. "'Lonely, Vaguely Pedophilic Swing Set Seeks the Butts of Children,'" I said. He laughed. "That's why." "What?" "That's why I like you. Do you realize how rare it is to come across a hot girl who creates an adjectival version of the word _pedophile_? You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are." I took a deep breath through my nose. There was never enough air in the world, but the shortage was particularly acute in that moment. We wrote the ad together, editing each other as we went. In the end, we settled upon this: Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home One swing set, well worn but structurally sound, seeks new home. Make memories with your kid or kids so that someday he or she or they will look into the backyard and feel the ache of sentimentality as desperately as I did this afternoon. It's all fragile and fleeting, dear reader, but with this swing set, your child(ren) will be introduced to the ups and downs of human life gently and safely, and may also learn the most important lesson of all: No matter how hard you kick, no matter how high you get, you can't go all the way around. Swing set currently resides near 83rd and Spring Mill. ••• After that, we turned on the TV for a little while, but we couldn't find anything to watch, so I grabbed _An Imperial Affliction_ off the bedside table and brought it back into the living room and Augustus Waters read to me while Mom, making lunch, listened in. _"'Mother's glass eye turned inward,'"_ Augustus began. As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once. ••• When I checked my email an hour later, I learned that we had plenty of swing-set suitors to choose from. In the end, we picked a guy named Daniel Alvarez who'd included a picture of his three kids playing video games with the subject line _I just want them to go outside_. I emailed him back and told him to pick it up at his leisure. Augustus asked if I wanted to go with him to Support Group, but I was really tired from my busy day of Having Cancer, so I passed. We were sitting there on the couch together, and he pushed himself up to go but then fell back down onto the couch and sneaked a kiss onto my cheek. "Augustus!" I said. "Friendly," he said. He pushed himself up again and really stood this time, then took two steps over to my mom and said, "Always a pleasure to see you," and my mom opened her arms to hug him, whereupon Augustus leaned in and kissed my mom on the cheek. He turned back to me. "See?" he asked. I went to bed right after dinner, the BiPAP drowning out the world beyond my room. I never saw the swing set again. ••• I slept for a long time, ten hours, possibly because of the slow recovery and possibly because sleep fights cancer and possibly because I was a teenager with no particular wake-up time. I wasn't strong enough yet to go back to classes at MCC. When I finally felt like getting up, I removed the BiPAP snout from my nose, put my oxygen nubbins in, turned them on, and then grabbed my laptop from beneath my bed, where I'd stashed it the night before. I had an email from Lidewij Vliegenthart. Dear Hazel, I have received word via the Genies that you will be visiting us with Augustus Waters and your mother beginning on 4th of May. Only a week away! Peter and I are delighted and cannot wait to make your acquaintance. Your hotel, the Filosoof, is just one street away from Peter's home. Perhaps we should give you one day for the jet lag, yes? So if convenient, we will meet you at Peter's home on the morning of 5th May at perhaps ten o'clock for a cup of coffee and for him to answer questions you have about his book. And then perhaps afterward we can tour a museum or the Anne Frank House? With all best wishes, Lidewij Vliegenthart Executive Assistant to Mr. Peter Van Houten, author of _An Imperial Affliction_ ••• "Mom," I said. She didn't answer. "MOM!" I shouted. Nothing. Again, louder, "MOM!" She ran in wearing a threadbare pink towel under her armpits, dripping, vaguely panicked. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. Sorry, I didn't know you were in the shower," I said. "Bath," she said. "I was just..." She closed her eyes. "Just trying to take a bath for five seconds. Sorry. What's going on?" "Can you call the Genies and tell them the trip is off? I just got an email from Peter Van Houten's assistant. She thinks we're coming." She pursed her lips and squinted past me. "What?" I asked. "I'm not supposed to tell you until your father gets home." _"What?"_ I asked again. "Trip's on," she said finally. "Dr. Maria called us last night and made a convincing case that you need to live your—" "MOM, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!" I shouted, and she came to the bed and let me hug her. I texted Augustus because I knew he was in school: Still free May three? :-) He texted back immediately. Everything's coming up Waters. ••• If I could just stay alive for a week, I'd know the unwritten secrets of Anna's mom and the Dutch Tulip Guy. I looked down my blouse at my chest. "Keep your shit together," I whispered to my lungs. # **CHAPTER NINE** **T** he day before we left for Amsterdam, I went back to Support Group for the first time since meeting Augustus. The cast had rotated a bit down there in the Literal Heart of Jesus. I arrived early, enough time for perennially strong appendiceal cancer survivor Lida to bring me up-to-date on everyone as I ate a grocery-store chocolate chip cookie while leaning against the dessert table. Twelve-year-old leukemic Michael had passed away. He'd fought hard, Lida told me, as if there were another way to fight. Everyone else was still around. Ken was NEC after radiation. Lucas had relapsed, and she said it with a sad smile and a little shrug, the way you might say an alcoholic had relapsed. A cute, chubby girl walked over to the table and said hi to Lida, then introduced herself to me as Susan. I didn't know what was wrong with her, but she had a scar extending from the side of her nose down her lip and across her cheek. She had put makeup over the scar, which only served to emphasize it. I was feeling a little out of breath from all the standing, so I said, "I'm gonna go sit," and then the elevator opened, revealing Isaac and his mom. He wore sunglasses and clung to his mom's arm with one hand, a cane in the other. "Support Group Hazel not Monica," I said when he got close enough, and he smiled and said, "Hey, Hazel. How's it going?" "Good. I've gotten _really hot_ since you went blind." "I bet," he said. His mom led him to a chair, kissed the top of his head, and shuffled back toward the elevator. He felt around beneath him and then sat. I sat down in the chair next to him. "So how's it going?" "Okay. Glad to be home, I guess. Gus told me you were in the ICU?" "Yeah," I said. "Sucks," he said. "I'm a lot better now," I said. "I'm going to Amsterdam tomorrow with Gus." "I know. I'm pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never. Talks. About. Anything. Else." I smiled. Patrick cleared his throat and said, "If we could all take a seat?" He caught my eye. "Hazel!" he said. "I'm so glad to see you!" Everyone sat and Patrick began his retelling of his ball-lessness, and I fell into the routine of Support Group: communicating through sighs with Isaac, feeling sorry for everyone in the room and also everyone outside of it, zoning out of the conversation to focus on my breathlessness and the aching. The world went on, as it does, without my full participation, and I only woke up from the reverie when someone said my name. It was Lida the Strong. Lida in remission. Blond, healthy, stout Lida, who swam on her high school swim team. Lida, missing only her appendix, saying my name, saying, "Hazel is such an inspiration to me; she really is. She just keeps fighting the battle, waking up every morning and going to war without complaint. She's so strong. She's so much stronger than I am. I just wish I had her strength." "Hazel?" Patrick asked. "How does that make you feel?" I shrugged and looked over at Lida. "I'll give you my strength if I can have your remission." I felt guilty as soon as I said it. "I don't think that's what Lida meant," Patrick said. "I think she..." But I'd stopped listening. After the prayers for the living and the endless litany of the dead (with Michael tacked on to the end), we held hands and said, "Living our best life today!" Lida immediately rushed up to me full of apology and explanation, and I said, "No, no, it's really fine," waving her off, and I said to Isaac, "Care to accompany me upstairs?" He took my arm, and I walked with him to the elevator, grateful to have an excuse to avoid the stairs. I'd almost made it all the way to the elevator when I saw his mom standing in a corner of the Literal Heart. "I'm here," she said to Isaac, and he switched from my arm to hers before asking, "You want to come over?" "Sure," I said. I felt bad for him. Even though I hated the sympathy people felt toward me, I couldn't help but feel it toward him. ••• Isaac lived in a small ranch house in Meridian Hills next to this fancy private school. We sat down in the living room while his mom went off to the kitchen to make dinner, and then he asked if I wanted to play a game. "Sure," I said. So he asked for the remote. I gave it to him, and he turned on the TV and then a computer attached to it. The TV screen stayed black, but after a few seconds a deep voice spoke from it. "Deception," the voice said. "One player or two?" "Two," Isaac said. "Pause." He turned to me. "I play this game with Gus all the time, but it's infuriating because he is a completely suicidal video-game player. He's, like, way too aggressive about saving civilians and whatnot." "Yeah," I said, remembering the night of the broken trophies. "Unpause," Isaac said. "Player one, identify yourself." "This is player one's sexy sexy voice," Isaac said. "Player two, identify yourself." "I would be player two, I guess," I said. _Staff Sergeant Max Mayhem and Private Jasper Jacks awake in a dark, empty room approximately twelve feet square._ Isaac pointed toward the TV, like I should talk to it or something. "Um," I said. "Is there a light switch?" _No._ "Is there a door?" _Private Jacks locates the door. It is locked._ Isaac jumped in. "There's a key above the door frame." _Yes, there is._ "Mayhem opens the door." _The darkness is still complete._ "Take out knife," Isaac said. "Take out knife," I added. A kid—Isaac's brother, I assume—darted out from the kitchen. He was maybe ten, wiry and overenergetic, and he kind of skipped across the living room before shouting in a really good imitation of Isaac's voice, "KILL MYSELF." _Sergeant Mayhem places his knife to his neck. Are you sure you—_ "No," Isaac said. "Pause. Graham, don't make me kick your ass." Graham laughed giddily and skipped off down a hallway. As Mayhem and Jacks, Isaac and I felt our way forward in the cavern until we bumped into a guy whom we stabbed after getting him to tell us that we were in a Ukrainian prison cave, more than a mile beneath the ground. As we continued, sound effects—a raging underground river, voices speaking in Ukrainian and accented English—led you through the cave, but there was nothing to see in this game. After playing for an hour, we began to hear the cries of a desperate prisoner, pleading, "God, help me. God, help me." "Pause," Isaac said. "This is when Gus always insists on finding the prisoner, even though that keeps you from winning the game, and the only way to _actually free_ the prisoner is to win the game." "Yeah, he takes video games too seriously," I said. "He's a bit too enamored with metaphor." "Do you like him?" Isaac asked. "Of course I like him. He's great." "But you don't want to hook up with him?" I shrugged. "It's complicated." "I know what you're trying to do. You don't want to give him something he can't handle. You don't want him to Monica you," he said. "Kinda," I said. But it wasn't that. The truth was, I didn't want to Isaac him. "To be fair to Monica," I said, "what you did to her wasn't very nice either." "What'd _I_ do to her?" he asked, defensive. "You know, going blind and everything." "But that's not my fault," Isaac said. "I'm not saying it was your _fault_. I'm saying it wasn't _nice_." # **CHAPTER TEN** **W** e could only take one suitcase. I couldn't carry one, and Mom insisted that she couldn't carry two, so we had to jockey for space in this black suitcase my parents had gotten as a wedding present a million years ago, a suitcase that was supposed to spend its life in exotic locales but ended up mostly going back and forth to Dayton, where Morris Property, Inc., had a satellite office that Dad often visited. I argued with Mom that I should have slightly more than half of the suitcase, since without me and my cancer, we'd never be going to Amsterdam in the first place. Mom countered that since she was twice as large as me and therefore required more physical fabric to preserve her modesty, she deserved at least two-thirds of the suitcase. In the end, we both lost. So it goes. Our flight didn't leave until noon, but Mom woke me up at five thirty, turning on the light and shouting, "AMSTERDAM!" She ran around all morning making sure we had international plug adapters and quadruple-checking that we had the right number of oxygen tanks to get there and that they were all full, etc., while I just rolled out of bed, put on my Travel to Amsterdam Outfit (jeans, a pink tank top, and a black cardigan in case the plane was cold). The car was packed by six fifteen, whereupon Mom insisted that we eat breakfast with Dad, although I had a moral opposition to eating before dawn on the grounds that I was not a nineteenth-century Russian peasant fortifying myself for a day in the fields. But anyway, I tried to stomach down some eggs while Mom and Dad enjoyed these homemade versions of Egg McMuffins they liked. "Why are breakfast foods breakfast foods?" I asked them. "Like, why don't we have curry for breakfast?" "Hazel, eat." "But _why_?" I asked. "I mean, seriously: How did scrambled eggs get stuck with breakfast exclusivity? You can put bacon on a sandwich without anyone freaking out. But the moment your sandwich has an egg, boom, it's a _breakfast_ sandwich." Dad answered with his mouth full. "When you come back, we'll have breakfast for dinner. Deal?" "I don't want to have 'breakfast for dinner,'" I answered, crossing knife and fork over my mostly full plate. "I want to have scrambled eggs for dinner without this ridiculous construction that a scrambled egg–inclusive meal is _breakfast_ even when it occurs at dinnertime." "You've gotta pick your battles in this world, Hazel," my mom said. "But if this is the issue you want to champion, we will stand behind you." "Quite a bit behind you," my dad added, and Mom laughed. Anyway, I knew it was stupid, but I felt kind of _bad_ for scrambled eggs. After they finished eating, Dad did the dishes and walked us to the car. Of course, he started crying, and he kissed my cheek with his wet stubbly face. He pressed his nose against my cheekbone and whispered, "I love you. I'm so proud of you." ( _For what,_ I wondered.) "Thanks, Dad." "I'll see you in a few days, okay, sweetie? I love you so much." "I love you, too, Dad." I smiled. "And it's only three days." As we backed out of the driveway, I kept waving at him. He was waving back, and crying. It occurred to me that he was probably thinking he might never see me again, which he probably thought every single morning of his entire weekday life as he left for work, which probably sucked. Mom and I drove over to Augustus's house, and when we got there, she wanted me to stay in the car to rest, but I went to the door with her anyway. As we approached the house, I could hear someone crying inside. I didn't think it was Gus at first, because it didn't sound anything like the low rumble of his speaking, but then I heard a voice that was definitely a twisted version of his say, "BECAUSE IT IS MY LIFE, MOM. IT BELONGS TO ME." And quickly my mom put her arm around my shoulders and spun me back toward the car, walking quickly, and I was like, "Mom, what's wrong?" And she said, "We can't eavesdrop, Hazel." We got back into the car and I texted Augustus that we were outside whenever he was ready. We stared at the house for a while. The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing is happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of architecture. "Well," Mom said after a while, "we are pretty early, I guess." "Almost as if I didn't have to get up at five thirty," I said. Mom reached down to the console between us, grabbed her coffee mug, and took a sip. My phone buzzed. A text from Augustus. Just CAN'T decide what to wear. Do you like me better in a polo or a button-down? I replied: Button-down. Thirty seconds later, the front door opened, and a smiling Augustus appeared, a roller bag behind him. He wore a pressed sky-blue button-down tucked into his jeans. A Camel Light dangled from his lips. My mom got out to say hi to him. He took the cigarette out momentarily and spoke in the confident voice to which I was accustomed. "Always a pleasure to see you, ma'am." I watched them through the rearview mirror until Mom opened the trunk. Moments later, Augustus opened a door behind me and engaged in the complicated business of entering the backseat of a car with one leg. "Do you want shotgun?" I asked. "Absolutely not," he said. "And hello, Hazel Grace." "Hi," I said. "Okay?" I asked. "Okay," he said. "Okay," I said. My mom got in and closed the car door. "Next stop, Amsterdam," she announced. ••• Which was not quite true. The next stop was the airport parking lot, and then a bus took us to the terminal, and then an open-air electric car took us to the security line. The TSA guy at the front of the line was shouting about how our bags had better not contain explosives or firearms or anything liquid over three ounces, and I said to Augustus, "Observation: Standing in line is a form of oppression," and he said, "Seriously." Rather than be searched by hand, I chose to walk through the metal detector without my cart or my tank or even the plastic nubbins in my nose. Walking through the X-ray machine marked the first time I'd taken a step without oxygen in some months, and it felt pretty amazing to walk unencumbered like that, stepping across the Rubicon, the machine's silence acknowledging that I was, however briefly, a nonmetallicized creature. I felt a bodily sovereignty that I can't really describe except to say that when I was a kid I used to have a really heavy backpack that I carried everywhere with all my books in it, and if I walked around with the backpack for long enough, when I took it off I felt like I was floating. After about ten seconds, my lungs felt like they were folding in upon themselves like flowers at dusk. I sat down on a gray bench just past the machine and tried to catch my breath, my cough a rattling drizzle, and I felt pretty miserable until I got the cannula back into place. Even then, it hurt. The pain was always there, pulling me inside of myself, demanding to be felt. It always felt like I was waking up from the pain when something in the world outside of me suddenly required my comment or attention. Mom was looking at me, concerned. She'd just said something. What had she just said? Then I remembered. She'd asked what was wrong. "Nothing," I said. "Amsterdam!" she half shouted. I smiled. "Amsterdam," I answered. She reached her hand down to me and pulled me up. ••• We got to the gate an hour before our scheduled boarding time. "Mrs. Lancaster, you are an impressively punctual person," Augustus said as he sat down next to me in the mostly empty gate area. "Well, it helps that I am not technically very busy," she said. "You're plenty busy," I told her, although it occurred to me that Mom's business was mostly me. There was also the business of being married to my dad—he was kind of clueless about, like, banking and hiring plumbers and cooking and doing things other than working for Morris Property, Inc.—but it was mostly me. Her primary reason for living and my primary reason for living were awfully entangled. As the seats around the gate started to fill, Augustus said, "I'm gonna get a hamburger before we leave. Can I get you anything?" "No," I said, "but I really appreciate your refusal to give in to breakfasty social conventions." He tilted his head at me, confused. "Hazel has developed an issue with the ghettoization of scrambled eggs," Mom said. "It's embarrassing that we all just walk through life blindly accepting that scrambled eggs are fundamentally associated with mornings." "I want to talk about this more," Augustus said. "But I am starving. I'll be right back." ••• When Augustus hadn't showed up after twenty minutes, I asked Mom if she thought something was wrong, and she looked up from her awful magazine only long enough to say, "He probably just went to the bathroom or something." A gate agent came over and switched my oxygen container out with one provided by the airline. I was embarrassed to have this lady kneeling in front of me while everyone watched, so I texted Augustus while she did it. He didn't reply. Mom seemed unconcerned, but I was imagining all kinds of Amsterdam trip–ruining fates (arrest, injury, mental breakdown) and I felt like there was something noncancery wrong with my chest as the minutes ticked away. And just when the lady behind the ticket counter announced they were going to start preboarding people who might need a bit of extra time and every single person in the gate area turned squarely to me, I saw Augustus fast-limping toward us with a McDonald's bag in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder. "Where were you?" I asked. "Line got superlong, sorry," he said, offering me a hand up. I took it, and we walked side by side to the gate to preboard. I could feel everybody watching us, wondering what was wrong with us, and whether it would kill us, and how heroic my mom must be, and everything else. That was the worst part about having cancer, sometimes: The physical evidence of disease separates you from other people. We were irreconcilably other, and never was it more obvious than when the three of us walked through the empty plane, the stewardess nodding sympathetically and gesturing us toward our row in the distant back. I sat in the middle of our three-person row with Augustus in the window seat and Mom in the aisle. I felt a little hemmed in by Mom, so of course I scooted over toward Augustus. We were right behind the plane's wing. He opened up his bag and unwrapped his burger. "The thing about eggs, though," he said, "is that breakfastization gives the scrambled egg a certain _sacrality_ , right? You can get yourself some bacon or Cheddar cheese anywhere anytime, from tacos to breakfast sandwiches to grilled cheese, but scrambled eggs—they're _important_." "Ludicrous," I said. The people were starting to file into the plane now. I didn't want to look at them, so I looked away, and to look away was to look at Augustus. "I'm just saying: Maybe scrambled eggs are ghettoized, but they're also special. They have a place and a time, like church does." "You couldn't be more wrong," I said. "You are buying into the cross-stitched sentiments of your parents' throw pillows. You're arguing that the fragile, rare thing is beautiful simply because it is fragile and rare. But that's a lie, and you know it." "You're a hard person to comfort," Augustus said. "Easy comfort isn't comforting," I said. "You were a rare and fragile flower once. You remember." For a moment, he said nothing. "You do know how to shut me up, Hazel Grace." "It's my privilege and my responsibility," I answered. Before I broke eye contact with him, he said, "Listen, sorry I avoided the gate area. The McDonald's line wasn't really that long; I just...I just didn't want to sit there with all those people looking at us or whatever." "At me, mostly," I said. You could glance at Gus and never know he'd been sick, but I carried my disease with me on the outside, which is part of why I'd become a homebody in the first place. "Augustus Waters, noted charismatist, is embarrassed to sit next to a girl with an oxygen tank." "Not embarrassed," he said. "They just piss me off sometimes. And I don't want to be pissed off today." After a minute, he dug into his pocket and flipped open his pack of smokes. About nine seconds later, a blond stewardess rushed over to our row and said, "Sir, you can't smoke on this plane. Or any plane." "I don't smoke," he explained, the cigarette dancing in his mouth as he spoke. "But—" "It's a metaphor," I explained. "He puts the killing thing in his mouth but doesn't give it the power to kill him." The stewardess was flummoxed for only a moment. "Well, that metaphor is prohibited on today's flight," she said. Gus nodded and rejoined the cigarette to its pack. ••• We finally taxied out to the runway and the pilot said, _Flight attendants, prepare for departure_ , and then two tremendous jet engines roared to life and we began to accelerate. "This is what it feels like to drive in a car with you," I said, and he smiled, but kept his jaw clenched tight and I said, "Okay?" We were picking up speed and suddenly Gus's hand grabbed the armrest, his eyes wide, and I put my hand on top of his and said, "Okay?" He didn't say anything, just stared at me wide-eyed, and I said, "Are you scared of flying?" "I'll tell you in a minute," he said. The nose of the plane rose up and we were aloft. Gus stared out the window, watching the planet shrink beneath us, and then I felt his hand relax beneath mine. He glanced at me and then back out the window. "We are _flying_ ," he announced. "You've never been on a plane before?" He shook his head. "LOOK!" he half shouted, pointing at the window. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I see it. It looks like we're in an airplane." "NOTHING HAS EVER LOOKED LIKE THAT EVER IN ALL OF HUMAN HISTORY," he said. His enthusiasm was adorable. I couldn't resist leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. "Just so you know, I'm right here," Mom said. "Sitting next to you. Your mother. Who held your hand as you took your first infantile steps." "It's friendly," I reminded her, turning to kiss her on the cheek. "Didn't feel too friendly," Gus mumbled just loud enough for me to hear. When surprised and excited and innocent Gus emerged from Grand Gesture Metaphorically Inclined Augustus, I literally could not resist. ••• It was a quick flight to Detroit, where the little electric car met us as we disembarked and drove us to the gate for Amsterdam. That plane had TVs in the back of each seat, and once we were above the clouds, Augustus and I timed it so that we started watching the same romantic comedy at the same time on our respective screens. But even though we were perfectly synchronized in our pressing of the play button, his movie started a couple seconds before mine, so at every funny moment, he'd laugh just as I started to hear whatever the joke was. ••• Mom had this big plan that we would sleep for the last several hours of the flight, so when we landed at eight A.M., we'd hit the city ready to suck the marrow out of life or whatever. So after the movie was over, Mom and Augustus and I all took sleeping pills. Mom conked out within seconds, but Augustus and I stayed up to look out the window for a while. It was a clear day, and although we couldn't see the sun setting, we could see the sky's response. "God, that is beautiful," I said mostly to myself. "'The risen sun too bright in her losing eyes,'" he said, a line from _An Imperial Affliction_. "But it's not rising," I said. "It's rising somewhere," he answered, and then after a moment said, "Observation: It would be awesome to fly in a superfast airplane that could chase the sunrise around the world for a while." "Also I'd live longer." He looked at me askew. "You know, because of relativity or whatever." He still looked confused. "We age slower when we move quickly versus standing still. So right now time is passing slower for us than for people on the ground." "College chicks," he said. "They're so smart." I rolled my eyes. He hit his (real) knee with my knee and I hit his knee back with mine. "Are you sleepy?" I asked him. "Not at all," he answered. "Yeah," I said. "Me neither." Sleeping meds and narcotics didn't do for me what they did for normal people. "Want to watch another movie?" he asked. "They've got a Portman movie from her Hazel Era." "I want to watch something you haven't seen." In the end we watched _300_ , a war movie about 300 Spartans who protect Sparta from an invading army of like a billion Persians. Augustus's movie started before mine again, and after a few minutes of hearing him go, "Dang!" or "Fatality!" every time someone was killed in some badass way, I leaned over the armrest and put my head on his shoulder so I could see his screen and we could actually watch the movie together. _300_ featured a sizable collection of shirtless and well-oiled strapping young lads, so it was not particularly difficult on the eyes, but it was mostly a lot of sword wielding to no real effect. The bodies of the Persians and the Spartans piled up, and I couldn't quite figure out why the Persians were so evil or the Spartans so awesome. "Contemporaneity," to quote _AIA_ , "specializes in the kind of battles wherein no one loses anything of any value, except arguably their lives." And so it was with these titans clashing. Toward the end of the movie, almost everyone is dead, and there is this insane moment when the Spartans start stacking the bodies of the dead up to form a wall of corpses. The dead become this massive roadblock standing between the Persians and the road to Sparta. I found the gore a bit gratuitous, so I looked away for a second, asking Augustus, "How many dead people do you think there are?" He dismissed me with a wave. " _Shh. Shh._ This is getting awesome." When the Persians attacked, they had to climb up the wall of death, and the Spartans were able to occupy the high ground atop the corpse mountain, and as the bodies piled up, the wall of martyrs only became higher and therefore harder to climb, and everybody swung swords/shot arrows, and the rivers of blood poured down Mount Death, etc. I took my head off his shoulder for a moment to get a break from the gore and watched Augustus watch the movie. He couldn't contain his goofy grin. I watched my own screen through squinted eyes as the mountain grew with the bodies of Persians and Spartans. When the Persians finally overran the Spartans, I looked over at Augustus again. Even though the good guys had just lost, Augustus seemed downright _joyful_. I nuzzled up to him again, but kept my eyes closed until the battle was finished. As the credits rolled, he took off his headphones and said, "Sorry, I was awash in the nobility of sacrifice. What were you saying?" "How many dead people do you think there are?" "Like, how many fictional people died in that fictional movie? Not enough," he joked. "No, I mean, like, ever. Like, how many people do you think have ever died?" "I happen to know the answer to that question," he said. "There are seven billion living people, and about ninety-eight billion dead people." "Oh," I said. I'd thought that maybe since population growth had been so fast, there were more people alive than all the dead combined. "There are about fourteen dead people for every living person," he said. The credits continued rolling. It took a long time to identify all those corpses, I guess. My head was still on his shoulder. "I did some research on this a couple years ago," Augustus continued. "I was wondering if everybody could be remembered. Like, if we got organized, and assigned a certain number of corpses to each living person, would there be enough living people to remember all the dead people?" "And are there?" "Sure, anyone can name fourteen dead people. But we're disorganized mourners, so a lot of people end up remembering Shakespeare, and no one ends up remembering the person he wrote Sonnet Fifty-five about." "Yeah," I said. It was quiet for a minute, and then he asked, "You want to read or something?" I said sure. I was reading this long poem called _Howl_ by Allen Ginsberg for my poetry class, and Gus was rereading _An Imperial Affliction_. After a while he said, "Is it any good?" "The poem?" I asked. "Yeah." "Yeah, it's great. The guys in this poem take even more drugs than I do. How's _AIA_?" "Still perfect," he said. "Read to me." "This isn't really a poem to read aloud when you are sitting next to your sleeping mother. It has, like, sodomy and angel dust in it," I said. "You just named two of my favorite pastimes," he said. "Okay, read me something else then?" "Um," I said. "I don't _have_ anything else?" "That's too bad. I am so in the mood for poetry. Do you have anything memorized?" "'Let us go then, you and I,'" I started nervously, "'When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table.'" "Slower," he said. I felt bashful, like I had when I'd first told him of _An Imperial Affliction_. "Um, okay. Okay. 'Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, / The muttering retreats / Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels / And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: / Streets that follow like a tedious argument / Of insidious intent / To lead you to an overwhelming question.../ Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" / Let us go and make our visit.'" "I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you." "Augustus," I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn't say it back. I couldn't say anything back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window. # **CHAPTER ELEVEN** **I** think he must have fallen asleep. I did, eventually, and woke to the landing gear coming down. My mouth tasted horrible, and I tried to keep it shut for fear of poisoning the airplane. I looked over at Augustus, who was staring out the window, and as we dipped below the low-hung clouds, I straightened my back to see the Netherlands. The land seemed sunk into the ocean, little rectangles of green surrounded on all sides by canals. We landed, in fact, parallel to a canal, like there were two runways: one for us and one for waterfowl. After getting our bags and clearing customs, we all piled into a taxi driven by this doughy bald guy who spoke perfect English—like better English than I do. "The Hotel Filosoof?" I said. And he said, "You are Americans?" "Yes," Mom said. "We're from _Indiana_." "Indiana," he said. "They steal the land from the Indians and leave the name, yes?" "Something like that," Mom said. The cabbie pulled out into traffic and we headed toward a highway with lots of blue signs featuring double vowels: Oosthuizen, Haarlem. Beside the highway, flat empty land stretched for miles, interrupted by the occasional huge corporate headquarters. In short, Holland looked like Indianapolis, only with smaller cars. "This is Amsterdam?" I asked the cabdriver. "Yes and no," he answered. "Amsterdam is like the rings of a tree: It gets older as you get closer to the center." It happened all at once: We exited the highway and there were the row houses of my imagination leaning precariously toward canals, ubiquitous bicycles, and coffeeshops advertising LARGE SMOKING ROOM. We drove over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats moored along the water. It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in the morning light—and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead. "Are these houses very old?" asked my mom. "Many of the canal houses date from the Golden Age, the seventeenth century," he said. "Our city has a rich history, even though many tourists are only wanting to see the Red Light District." He paused. "Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin." ••• All the rooms in the Hotel Filosoof were named after filosoofers: Mom and I were staying on the ground floor in the Kierkegaard; Augustus was on the floor above us, in the Heidegger. Our room was small: a double bed pressed against a wall with my BiPAP machine, an oxygen concentrator, and a dozen refillable oxygen tanks at the foot of the bed. Past the equipment, there was a dusty old paisley chair with a sagging seat, a desk, and a bookshelf above the bed containing the collected works of Søren Kierkegaard. On the desk we found a wicker basket full of presents from the Genies: wooden shoes, an orange Holland T-shirt, chocolates, and various other goodies. The Filosoof was right next to the Vondelpark, Amsterdam's most famous park. Mom wanted to go on a walk, but I was supertired, so she got the BiPAP working and placed its snout on me. I hated talking with that thing on, but I said, "Just go to the park and I'll call you when I wake up." "Okay," she said. "Sleep tight, honey." ••• But when I woke up some hours later, she was sitting in the ancient little chair in the corner, reading a guidebook. "Morning," I said. "Actually late afternoon," she answered, pushing herself out of the chair with a sigh. She came to the bed, placed a tank in the cart, and connected it to the tube while I took off the BiPAP snout and placed the nubbins into my nose. She set it for 2.5 liters a minute—six hours before I'd need a change—and then I got up. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Good," I said. "Great. How was the Vondelpark?" "I skipped it," she said. "Read all about it in the guidebook, though." "Mom," I said, "you didn't have to stay here." She shrugged. "I know. I wanted to. I like watching you sleep." "Said the creeper." She laughed, but I still felt bad. "I just want you to have fun or whatever, you know?" "Okay. I'll have fun tonight, okay? I'll go do crazy mom stuff while you and Augustus go to dinner." "Without you?" I asked. "Yes without me. In fact, you have reservations at a place called Oranjee," she said. "Mr. Van Houten's assistant set it up. It's in this neighborhood called the Jordaan. Very fancy, according to the guidebook. There's a tram station right around the corner. Augustus has directions. You can eat outside, watch the boats go by. It'll be lovely. Very romantic." "Mom." "I'm just saying," she said. "You should get dressed. The sundress, maybe?" One might marvel at the insanity of the situation: A mother sends her sixteen-year-old daughter alone with a seventeen-year-old boy out into a foreign city famous for its permissiveness. But this, too, was a side effect of dying: I could not run or dance or eat foods rich in nitrogen, but in the city of freedom, I was among the most liberated of its residents. I did indeed wear the sundress—this blue print, flowey knee-length Forever 21 thing—with tights and Mary Janes because I liked being quite a lot shorter than him. I went into the hilariously tiny bathroom and battled my bedhead for a while until everything looked suitably mid-2000s Natalie Portman. At six P.M. on the dot (noon back home), there was a knock. "Hello?" I said through the door. There was no peephole at the Hotel Filosoof. "Okay," Augustus answered. I could hear the cigarette in his mouth. I looked down at myself. The sundress offered the most in the way of my rib cage and collarbone that Augustus had seen. It wasn't obscene or anything, but it was as close as I ever got to showing some skin. (My mother had a motto on this front that I agreed with: "Lancasters don't bare midriffs.") I pulled the door open. Augustus wore a black suit, narrow lapels, perfectly tailored, over a light blue dress shirt and a thin black tie. A cigarette dangled from the unsmiling corner of his mouth. "Hazel Grace," he said, "you look gorgeous." "I," I said. I kept thinking the rest of my sentence would emerge from the air passing through my vocal cords, but nothing happened. Then finally, I said, "I feel underdressed." "Ah, this old thing?" he said, smiling down at me. "Augustus," my mom said behind me, "you look _extremely_ handsome." "Thank you, ma'am," he said. He offered me his arm. I took it, glancing back to Mom. "See you by eleven," she said. ••• Waiting for the number one tram on a wide street busy with traffic, I said to Augustus, "The suit you wear to funerals, I assume?" "Actually, no," he said. "That suit isn't nearly this nice." The blue-and-white tram arrived, and Augustus handed our cards to the driver, who explained that we needed to wave them at this circular sensor. As we walked through the crowded tram, an old man stood up to give us seats together, and I tried to tell him to sit, but he gestured toward the seat insistently. We rode the tram for three stops, me leaning over Gus so we could look out the window together. Augustus pointed up at the trees and asked, "Do you see that?" I did. There were elm trees everywhere along the canals, and these seeds were blowing out of them. But they didn't look like seeds. They looked for all the world like miniaturized rose petals drained of their color. These pale petals were gathering in the wind like flocking birds—thousands of them, like a spring snowstorm. The old man who'd given up his seat saw us noticing and said, in English, "Amsterdam's spring snow. The _iepen_ throw confetti to greet the spring." We switched trams, and after four more stops we arrived at a street split by a beautiful canal, the reflections of the ancient bridge and picturesque canal houses rippling in water. Oranjee was just steps from the tram. The restaurant was on one side of the street; the outdoor seating on the other, on a concrete outcropping right at the edge of the canal. The hostess's eyes lit up as Augustus and I walked toward her. "Mr. and Mrs. Waters?" "I guess?" I said. "Your table," she said, gesturing across the street to a narrow table inches from the canal. "The champagne is our gift." Gus and I glanced at each other, smiling. Once we'd crossed the street, he pulled out a seat for me and helped me scoot it back in. There were indeed two flutes of champagne at our white-tableclothed table. The slight chill in the air was balanced magnificently by the sunshine; on one side of us, cyclists pedaled past—well-dressed men and women on their way home from work, improbably attractive blond girls riding sidesaddle on the back of a friend's bike, tiny helmetless kids bouncing around in plastic seats behind their parents. And on our other side, the canal water was choked with millions of the confetti seeds. Little boats were moored at the brick banks, half full of rainwater, some of them near sinking. A bit farther down the canal, I could see houseboats floating on pontoons, and in the middle of the canal, an open-air, flat-bottomed boat decked out with lawn chairs and a portable stereo idled toward us. Augustus took his flute of champagne and raised it. I took mine, even though I'd never had a drink aside from sips of my dad's beer. "Okay," he said. "Okay," I said, and we clinked glasses. I took a sip. The tiny bubbles melted in my mouth and journeyed northward into my brain. Sweet. Crisp. Delicious. "That is really good," I said. "I've never drunk champagne." A sturdy young waiter with wavy blond hair appeared. He was maybe even taller than Augustus. "Do you know," he asked in a delicious accent, "what Dom Pérignon said after inventing champagne?" "No?" I said. "He called out to his fellow monks, 'Come quickly: I am tasting the stars.' Welcome to Amsterdam. Would you like to see a menu, or will you have the chef's choice?" I looked at Augustus and he at me. "The chef's choice sounds lovely, but Hazel is a vegetarian." I'd mentioned this to Augustus precisely once, on the first day we met. "This is not a problem," the waiter said. "Awesome. And can we get more of this?" Gus asked, of the champagne. "Of course," said our waiter. "We have bottled all the stars this evening, my young friends. Gah, the confetti!" he said, and lightly brushed a seed from my bare shoulder. "It hasn't been so bad in many years. It's everywhere. Very annoying." The waiter disappeared. We watched the confetti fall from the sky, skip across the ground in the breeze, and tumble into the canal. "Kind of hard to believe anyone could ever find that annoying," Augustus said after a while. "People always get used to beauty, though." "I haven't gotten used to you just yet," he answered, smiling. I felt myself blushing. "Thank you for coming to Amsterdam," he said. "Thank you for letting me hijack your wish," I said. "Thank you for wearing that dress which is like whoa," he said. I shook my head, trying not to smile at him. I didn't want to be a grenade. But then again, he knew what he was doing, didn't he? It was his choice, too. "Hey, how's that poem end?" he asked. "Huh?" "The one you recited to me on the plane." "Oh, 'Prufrock'? It ends, 'We have lingered in the chambers of the sea / By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown / Till human voices wake us, and we drown.'" Augustus pulled out a cigarette and tapped the filter against the table. "Stupid human voices always ruining everything." The waiter arrived with two more glasses of champagne and what he called "Belgian white asparagus with a lavender infusion." "I've never had champagne either," Gus said after he left. "In case you were wondering or whatever. Also, I've never had white asparagus." I was chewing my first bite. "It's amazing," I promised. He took a bite, swallowed. "God. If asparagus tasted like that all the time, I'd be a vegetarian, too." Some people in a lacquered wooden boat approached us on the canal below. One of them, a woman with curly blond hair, maybe thirty, drank from a beer then raised her glass toward us and shouted something. "We don't speak Dutch," Gus shouted back. One of the others shouted a translation: "The beautiful couple is beautiful." ••• The food was so good that with each passing course, our conversation devolved further into fragmented celebrations of its deliciousness: "I want this dragon carrot risotto to become a person so I can take it to Las Vegas and marry it." "Sweet-pea sorbet, you are so unexpectedly magnificent." I wish I'd been hungrier. After green garlic gnocchi with red mustard leaves, the waiter said, "Dessert next. More stars first?" I shook my head. Two glasses was enough for me. Champagne was no exception to my high tolerance for depressants and pain relievers; I felt warm but not intoxicated. But I didn't want to get drunk. Nights like this one didn't come along often, and I wanted to remember it. "Mmmm," I said after the waiter left, and Augustus smiled crookedly as he stared down the canal while I stared up it. We had plenty to look at, so the silence didn't feel awkward really, but I wanted everything to be perfect. It _was_ perfect, I guess, but it felt like someone had tried to stage the Amsterdam of my imagination, which made it hard to forget that this dinner, like the trip itself, was a cancer perk. I just wanted us to be talking and joking comfortably, like we were on the couch together back home, but some tension underlay everything. "It's not my funeral suit," he said after a while. "When I first found out I was sick—I mean, they told me I had like an eighty-five percent chance of cure. I know those are great odds, but I kept thinking it was a game of Russian roulette. I mean, I was going to have to go through hell for six months or a year and lose my leg and then at the end, it _still_ might not work, you know?" "I know," I said, although I didn't, not really. I'd never been anything but terminal; all my treatment had been in pursuit of extending my life, not curing my cancer. Phalanxifor had introduced a measure of ambiguity to my cancer story, but I was different from Augustus: My final chapter was written upon diagnosis. Gus, like most cancer survivors, lived with uncertainty. "Right," he said. "So I went through this whole thing about wanting to be ready. We bought a plot in Crown Hill, and I walked around with my dad one day and picked out a spot. And I had my whole funeral planned out and everything, and then right before the surgery, I asked my parents if I could buy a suit, like a really nice suit, just in case I bit it. Anyway, I've never had occasion to wear it. Until tonight." "So it's your death suit." "Correct. Don't you have a death outfit?" "Yeah," I said. "It's a dress I bought for my fifteenth birthday party. But I don't wear it on dates." His eyes lit up. "We're on a date?" he asked. I looked down, feeling bashful. "Don't push it." ••• We were both really full, but dessert—a succulently rich _crémeux_ surrounded by passion fruit—was too good not to at least nibble, so we lingered for a while over dessert, trying to get hungry again. The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light. Out of nowhere, Augustus asked, "Do you believe in an afterlife?" "I think forever is an incorrect concept," I answered. He smirked. "You're an incorrect concept." "I know. That's why I'm being taken out of the rotation." "That's not funny," he said, looking at the street. Two girls passed on a bike, one riding sidesaddle over the back wheel. "Come on," I said. "That was a joke." "The thought of you being removed from the rotation is not funny to me," he said. "Seriously, though: afterlife?" "No," I said, and then revised. "Well, maybe I wouldn't go so far as no. You?" "Yes," he said, his voice full of confidence. "Yes, absolutely. Not like a heaven where you ride unicorns, play harps, and live in a mansion made of clouds. But yes. I believe in Something with a capital _S_. Always have." "Really?" I asked. I was surprised. I'd always associated belief in heaven with, frankly, a kind of intellectual disengagement. But Gus wasn't dumb. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I believe in that line from _An Imperial Affliction_. 'The risen sun too bright in her losing eyes.' That's God, I think, the rising sun, and the light is too bright and her eyes are losing but they aren't lost. I don't believe we return to haunt or comfort the living or anything, but I think something becomes of us." "But you fear oblivion." "Sure, I fear earthly oblivion. But, I mean, not to sound like my parents, but I believe humans have souls, and I believe in the conservation of souls. The oblivion fear is something else, fear that I won't be able to give anything in exchange for my life. If you don't live a life in service of a greater good, you've gotta at least die a death in service of a greater good, you know? And I fear that I won't get either a life or a death that means anything." I just shook my head. "What?" he asked. "Your obsession with, like, dying for something or leaving behind some great sign of your heroism or whatever. It's just weird." "Everyone wants to lead an extraordinary life." "Not everyone," I said, unable to disguise my annoyance. "Are you mad?" "It's just," I said, and then couldn't finish my sentence. "Just," I said again. Between us flickered the candle. "It's really mean of you to say that the only lives that matter are the ones that are lived for something or die for something. That's a really mean thing to say to me." I felt like a little kid for some reason, and I took a bite of dessert to make it appear like it was not that big of a deal to me. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it like that. I was just thinking about myself." "Yeah, you were," I said. I was too full to finish. I worried I might puke, actually, because I often puked after eating. (Not bulimia, just cancer.) I pushed my dessert plate toward Gus, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said again, reaching across the table for my hand. I let him take it. "I could be worse, you know." "How?" I asked, teasing. "I mean, I have a work of calligraphy over my toilet that reads, 'Bathe Yourself Daily in the Comfort of God's Words,' Hazel. I could be way worse." "Sounds unsanitary," I said. "I could be worse." "You could be worse." I smiled. He really did like me. Maybe I was a narcissist or something, but when I realized it there in that moment at Oranjee, it made me like him even more. When our waiter appeared to take dessert away, he said, "Your meal has been paid for by Mr. Peter Van Houten." Augustus smiled. "This Peter Van Houten fellow ain't half bad." ••• We walked along the canal as it got dark. A block up from Oranjee, we stopped at a park bench surrounded by old rusty bicycles locked to bike racks and to each other. We sat down hip to hip facing the canal, and he put his arm around me. I could see the halo of light coming from the Red Light District. Even though it was the _Red_ Light District, the glow coming from up there was an eerie sort of green. I imagined thousands of tourists getting drunk and stoned and pinballing around the narrow streets. "I can't believe he's going to tell us tomorrow," I said. "Peter Van Houten is going to tell us the famously unwritten end of the best book ever." "Plus he paid for our dinner," Augustus said. "I keep imagining that he is going to search us for recording devices before he tells us. And then he will sit down between us on the couch in his living room and whisper whether Anna's mom married the Dutch Tulip Man." "Don't forget Sisyphus the Hamster," Augustus added. "Right, and also of course what fate awaited Sisyphus the Hamster." I leaned forward, to see into the canal. There were so many of those pale elm petals in the canals, it was ridiculous. "A sequel that will exist just for us," I said. "So what's your guess?" he asked. "I really don't know. I've gone back and forth like a thousand times about it all. Each time I reread it, I think something different, you know?" He nodded. "You have a theory?" "Yeah. I don't think the Dutch Tulip Man is a con man, but he's also not rich like he leads them to believe. And I think after Anna dies, Anna's mom goes to Holland with him and thinks they will live there forever, but it doesn't work out, because she wants to be near where her daughter was." I hadn't realized he'd thought about the book so much, that _An Imperial Affliction_ mattered to Gus independently of me mattering to him. The water lapped quietly at the stone canal walls beneath us; a group of friends biked past in a clump, shouting over each other in rapid-fire, guttural Dutch; the tiny boats, not much longer than me, half drowned in the canal; the smell of water that had stood too still for too long; his arm pulling me in; his real leg against my real leg all the way from hip to foot. I leaned in to his body a little. He winced. "Sorry, you okay?" He breathed out a _yeah_ in obvious pain. "Sorry," I said. "Bony shoulder." "It's okay," he said. "Nice, actually." We sat there for a long time. Eventually his hand abandoned my shoulder and rested against the back of the park bench. Mostly we just stared into the canal. I was thinking a lot about how they'd made this place exist even though it should've been underwater, and how I was for Dr. Maria a kind of Amsterdam, a half-drowned anomaly, and that made me think about dying. "Can I ask you about Caroline Mathers?" "And you say there's no afterlife," he answered without looking at me. "But yeah, of course. What do you want to know?" I wanted to know that he would be okay if I died. I wanted to not be a grenade, to not be a malevolent force in the lives of people I loved. "Just, like, what happened." He sighed, exhaling for so long that to my crap lungs it seemed like he was bragging. He popped a fresh cigarette into his mouth. "You know how there is famously no place less played in than a hospital playground?" I nodded. "Well, I was at Memorial for a couple weeks when they took off the leg and everything. I was up on the fifth floor and I had a view of the playground, which was always of course utterly desolate. I was all awash in the metaphorical resonance of the empty playground in the hospital courtyard. But then this girl started showing up alone at the playground, every day, swinging on a swing completely alone, like you'd see in a movie or something. So I asked one of my nicer nurses to get the skinny on the girl, and the nurse brought her up to visit, and it was Caroline, and I used my immense charisma to win her over." He paused, so I decided to say something. "You're not that charismatic," I said. He scoffed, disbelieving. "You're mostly just hot," I explained. He laughed it off. "The thing about dead people," he said, and then stopped himself. "The thing is you sound like a bastard if you don't romanticize them, but the truth is...complicated, I guess. Like, you are familiar with the trope of the stoic and determined cancer victim who heroically fights her cancer with inhuman strength and never complains or stops smiling even at the very end, etcetera?" "Indeed," I said. "They are kindhearted and generous souls whose every breath is an Inspiration to Us All. They're so strong! We admire them so!" "Right, but really, I mean aside from us obviously, cancer kids are not statistically more likely to be awesome or compassionate or perseverant or whatever. Caroline was always moody and miserable, but I liked it. I liked feeling as if she had chosen me as the only person in the world not to hate, and so we spent all this time together just ragging on everyone, you know? Ragging on the nurses and the other kids and our families and whatever else. But I don't know if that was her or the tumor. I mean, one of her nurses told me once that the kind of tumor Caroline had is known among medical types as the Asshole Tumor, because it just turns you into a monster. So here's this girl missing a fifth of her brain who's just had a recurrence of the Asshole Tumor, and so she was not, you know, the paragon of stoic cancer-kid heroism. She was...I mean, to be honest, she was a bitch. But you can't say that, because she had this tumor, and also she's, I mean, she's dead. And she had plenty of reason to be unpleasant, you know?" I knew. "You know that part in _An Imperial Affliction_ when Anna's walking across the football field to go to PE or whatever and she falls and goes face-first into the grass and that's when she knows that the cancer is back and in her nervous system and she can't get up and her face is like an inch from the football-field grass and she's just stuck there looking at this grass up close, noticing the way the light hits it and...I don't remember the line but it's something like Anna having the Whitmanesque revelation that the definition of humanness is the opportunity to marvel at the majesty of creation or whatever. You know that part?" "I know that part," I said. "So afterward, while I was getting eviscerated by chemo, for some reason I decided to feel really hopeful. Not about survival specifically, but I felt like Anna does in the book, that feeling of excitement and gratitude about just being able to marvel at it all. "But meanwhile Caroline got worse every day. She went home after a while and there were moments where I thought we could have, like, a regular relationship, but we couldn't, really, because she had no filter between her thoughts and her speech, which was sad and unpleasant and frequently hurtful. But, I mean, you can't dump a girl with a brain tumor. And her parents liked me, and she has this little brother who is a really cool kid. I mean, how can you dump her? She's _dying_. "It took forever. It took almost a year, and it was a year of me hanging out with this girl who would, like, just start laughing out of nowhere and point at my prosthetic and call me Stumpy." "No," I said. "Yeah. I mean, it was the tumor. It ate her brain, you know? Or it wasn't the tumor. I have no way of knowing, because they were inseparable, she and the tumor. But as she got sicker, I mean, she'd just repeat the same stories and laugh at her own comments even if she'd already said the same thing a hundred times that day. Like, she made the same joke over and over again for weeks: 'Gus has great legs. I mean leg.' And then she would just laugh like a maniac." "Oh, Gus," I said. "That's..." I didn't know what to say. He wasn't looking at me, and it felt invasive of me to look at him. I felt him scoot forward. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, then put it back. "Well," he said, "to be fair, I _do_ have great leg." "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm really sorry." "It's all good, Hazel Grace. But just to be clear, when I thought I saw Caroline Mathers's ghost in Support Group, I was not entirely happy. I was staring, but I wasn't yearning, if you know what I mean." He pulled the pack out of his pocket and placed the cigarette back in it. "I'm sorry," I said again. "Me too," he said. "I don't ever want to do that to you," I told him. "Oh, I wouldn't mind, Hazel Grace. It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you." # **CHAPTER TWELVE** **I** woke up at four in the Dutch morning ready for the day. All attempts to go back to sleep failed, so I lay there with the BiPAP pumping the air in and urging it out, enjoying the dragon sounds but wishing I could choose my breaths. I reread _An Imperial Affliction_ until Mom woke up and rolled over toward me around six. She nuzzled her head against my shoulder, which felt uncomfortable and vaguely Augustinian. The hotel brought a breakfast to our room that, much to my delight, featured _deli meat_ among many other denials of American breakfast constructions. The dress I'd planned to wear to meet Peter Van Houten had been moved up in the rotation for the Oranjee dinner, so after I showered and got my hair to lie halfway flat, I spent like thirty minutes debating with Mom the various benefits and drawbacks of the available outfits before deciding to dress as much like Anna in _AIA_ as possible: Chuck Taylors and dark jeans like she always wore, and a light blue T-shirt. The shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by René Magritte in which he drew a pipe and then beneath it wrote in cursive _Ceci n'est pas une pipe._ ("This is not a pipe.") "I just don't get that shirt," Mom said. "Peter Van Houten will get it, trust me. There are like seven thousand Magritte references in _An Imperial Affliction_." "But it _is_ a pipe." "No, it's not," I said. "It's a _drawing_ of a pipe. Get it? All representations of a thing are inherently abstract. It's very clever." "How did you get so grown up that you understand things that confuse your ancient mother?" Mom asked. "It seems like just yesterday that I was telling seven-year-old Hazel why the sky was blue. You thought I was a genius back then." "Why _is_ the sky blue?" I asked. "Cuz," she answered. I laughed. As it got closer to ten, I grew more and more nervous: nervous to see Augustus; nervous to meet Peter Van Houten; nervous that my outfit was not a good outfit; nervous that we wouldn't find the right house since all the houses in Amsterdam looked pretty similar; nervous that we would get lost and never make it back to the Filosoof; nervous nervous nervous. Mom kept trying to talk to me, but I couldn't really listen. I was about to ask her to go upstairs and make sure Augustus was up when he knocked. I opened the door. He looked down at the shirt and smiled. "Funny," he said. "Don't call my boobs funny," I answered. "Right here," Mom said behind us. But I'd made Augustus blush and put him enough off his game that I could finally bear to look up at him. "You sure you don't want to come?" I asked Mom. "I'm going to the Rijksmuseum and the Vondelpark today," she said. "Plus, I just don't get his book. No offense. Thank him and Lidewij for us, okay?" "Okay," I said. I hugged Mom, and she kissed my head just above my ear. ••• Peter Van Houten's white row house was just around the corner from the hotel, on the Vondelstraat, facing the park. Number 158. Augustus took me by one arm and grabbed the oxygen cart with the other, and we walked up the three steps to the lacquered blue-black front door. My heart pounded. One closed door away from the answers I'd dreamed of ever since I first read that last unfinished page. Inside, I could hear a bass beat thumping loud enough to rattle the windowsills. I wondered whether Peter Van Houten had a kid who liked rap music. I grabbed the lion's-head door knocker and knocked tentatively. The beat continued. "Maybe he can't hear over the music?" Augustus asked. He grabbed the lion's head and knocked much louder. The music disappeared, replaced by shuffled footsteps. A dead bolt slid. Another. The door creaked open. A potbellied man with thin hair, sagging jowls, and a week-old beard squinted into the sunlight. He wore baby-blue man pajamas like guys in old movies. His face and belly were so round, and his arms so skinny, that he looked like a dough ball with four sticks stuck into it. "Mr. Van Houten?" Augustus asked, his voice squeaking a bit. The door slammed shut. Behind it, I heard a stammering, reedy voice shout, "LEEE-DUH-VIGH!" (Until then, I'd pronounced his assistant's name like lid-uh-widge.) We could hear everything through the door. "Are they here, Peter?" a woman asked. "There are—Lidewij, there are two adolescent apparitions outside the door." "Apparitions?" she asked with a pleasant Dutch lilt. Van Houten answered in a rush. "Phantasms specters ghouls visitants post-terrestrials _apparitions_ , Lidewij. How can someone pursuing a postgraduate degree in American literature display such abominable English-language skills?" "Peter, those are not post-terrestrials. They are Augustus and Hazel, the young fans with whom you have been corresponding." "They are—what? They—I thought they were in America!" "Yes, but you invited them here, you will remember." "Do you know why I left America, Lidewij? So that I would never again have to encounter Americans." "But you are an American." "Incurably so, it seems. But as to _these_ Americans, you must tell them to leave at once, that there has been a terrible mistake, that the blessed Van Houten was making a rhetorical offer to meet, not an actual one, that such offers must be read symbolically." I thought I might throw up. I looked over at Augustus, who was staring intently at the door, and saw his shoulders slacken. "I will not do this, Peter," answered Lidewij. "You _must_ meet them. You must. You need to see them. You need to see how your work matters." "Lidewij, did you knowingly deceive me to arrange this?" A long silence ensued, and then finally the door opened again. He turned his head metronomically from Augustus to me, still squinting. "Which of you is Augustus Waters?" he asked. Augustus raised his hand tentatively. Van Houten nodded and said, "Did you close the deal with that chick yet?" Whereupon I encountered for the first and only time a truly speechless Augustus Waters. "I," he started, "um, I, Hazel, um. Well." "This boy appears to have some kind of developmental delay," Peter Van Houten said to Lidewij. _"Peter,"_ she scolded. "Well," Peter Van Houten said, extending his hand to me. "It is at any rate a pleasure to meet such ontologically improbable creatures." I shook his swollen hand, and then he shook hands with Augustus. I was wondering what _ontologically_ meant. Regardless, I liked it. Augustus and I were together in the Improbable Creatures Club: us and duck-billed platypuses. Of course, I had hoped that Peter Van Houten would be sane, but the world is not a wish-granting factory. The important thing was that the door was open and I was crossing the threshold to learn what happens after the end of _An Imperial Affliction_. That was enough. We followed him and Lidewij inside, past a huge oak dining room table with only two chairs, into a creepily sterile living room. It looked like a museum, except there was no art on the empty white walls. Aside from one couch and one lounge chair, both a mix of steel and black leather, the room seemed empty. Then I noticed two large black garbage bags, full and twist-tied, behind the couch. "Trash?" I mumbled to Augustus soft enough that I thought no one else would hear. "Fan mail," Van Houten answered as he sat down in the lounge chair. "Eighteen years' worth of it. Can't open it. Terrifying. Yours are the first missives to which I have replied, and look where that got me. I frankly find the reality of readers wholly unappetizing." That explained why he'd never replied to my letters: He'd never read them. I wondered why he kept them at all, let alone in an otherwise empty formal living room. Van Houten kicked his feet up onto the ottoman and crossed his slippers. He motioned toward the couch. Augustus and I sat down next to each other, but not _too_ next. "Would you care for some breakfast?" asked Lidewij. I started to say that we'd already eaten when Peter interrupted. "It is far too early for breakfast, Lidewij." "Well, they are from America, Peter, so it is past noon in their bodies." "Then it's too late for breakfast," he said. "However, it being after noon in the body and whatnot, we should enjoy a cocktail. Do you drink Scotch?" he asked me. "Do I—um, no, I'm fine," I said. "Augustus Waters?" Van Houten asked, nodding toward Gus. "Uh, I'm good." "Just me, then, Lidewij. Scotch and water, please." Peter turned his attention to Gus, asking, "You know how we make a Scotch and water in this home?" "No, sir," Gus said. "We pour Scotch into a glass and then call to mind thoughts of water, and then we mix the actual Scotch with the abstracted idea of water." Lidewij said, "Perhaps a bit of breakfast first, Peter." He looked toward us and stage-whispered, "She thinks I have a drinking problem." "And I think that the sun has risen," Lidewij responded. Nonetheless, she turned to the bar in the living room, reached up for a bottle of Scotch, and poured a glass half full. She carried it to him. Peter Van Houten took a sip, then sat up straight in his chair. "A drink this good deserves one's best posture," he said. I became conscious of my own posture and sat up a little on the couch. I rearranged my cannula. Dad always told me that you can judge people by the way they treat waiters and assistants. By this measure, Peter Van Houten was possibly the world's douchiest douche. "So you like my book," he said to Augustus after another sip. "Yeah," I said, speaking up on Augustus's behalf. "And yes, we—well, Augustus, he made meeting you his Wish so that we could come here, so that you could tell us what happens after the end of _An Imperial Affliction_." Van Houten said nothing, just took a long pull on his drink. After a minute, Augustus said, "Your book is sort of the thing that brought us together." "But you aren't together," he observed without looking at me. "The thing that brought us nearly together," I said. Now he turned to me. "Did you dress like her on purpose?" "Anna?" I asked. He just kept staring at me. "Kind of," I said. He took a long drink, then grimaced. "I do not have a drinking problem," he announced, his voice needlessly loud. "I have a Churchillian relationship with alcohol: I can crack jokes and govern England and do anything I want to do. Except not drink." He glanced over at Lidewij and nodded toward his glass. She took it, then walked back to the bar. "Just the _idea_ of water, Lidewij," he instructed. "Yah, got it," she said, the accent almost American. The second drink arrived. Van Houten's spine stiffened again out of respect. He kicked off his slippers. He had really ugly feet. He was rather ruining the whole business of authorial genius for me. But he had the answers. "Well, um," I said, "first, we do want to say thank you for dinner last night and—" "We bought them dinner last night?" Van Houten asked Lidewij. "Yes, at Oranjee." "Ah, yes. Well, believe me when I say that you do not have me to thank but rather Lidewij, who is exceptionally talented in the field of spending my money." "It was our pleasure," Lidewij said. "Well, thanks, at any rate," Augustus said. I could hear annoyance in his voice. "So here I am," Van Houten said after a moment. "What are your questions?" "Um," Augustus said. "He seemed so intelligent in print," Van Houten said to Lidewij regarding Augustus. "Perhaps the cancer has established a beachhead in his brain." "Peter," Lidewij said, duly horrified. I was horrified, too, but there was something pleasant about a guy so despicable that he wouldn't treat us deferentially. "We do have some questions, actually," I said. "I talked about them in my email. I don't know if you remember." "I do not." "His memory is compromised," Lidewij said. "If only my memory would compromise," Van Houten responded. "So, our questions," I repeated. "She uses the royal we," Peter said to no one in particular. Another sip. I didn't know what Scotch tasted like, but if it tasted anything like champagne, I couldn't imagine how he could drink so much, so quickly, so early in the morning. "Are you familiar with Zeno's tortoise paradox?" he asked me. "We have questions about what happens to the characters after the end of the book, specifically Anna's—" "You wrongly assume that I need to hear your question in order to answer it. You are familiar with the philosopher Zeno?" I shook my head vaguely. "Alas. Zeno was a pre-Socratic philosopher who is said to have discovered forty paradoxes within the worldview put forth by Parmenides—surely you know Parmenides," he said, and I nodded that I knew Parmenides, although I did not. "Thank God," he said. "Zeno professionally specialized in revealing the inaccuracies and oversimplifications of Parmenides, which wasn't difficult, since Parmenides was spectacularly wrong everywhere and always. Parmenides is valuable in precisely the way that it is valuable to have an acquaintance who reliably picks the wrong horse each and every time you take him to the racetrack. But Zeno's most important—wait, give me a sense of your familiarity with Swedish hip-hop." I could not tell if Peter Van Houten was kidding. After a moment, Augustus answered for me. "Limited," he said. "Okay, but presumably you know Afasi och Filthy's seminal album _Fläcken_." "We do not," I said for the both of us. "Lidewij, play 'Bomfalleralla' immediately." Lidewij walked over to an MP3 player, spun the wheel a bit, then hit a button. A rap song boomed from every direction. It sounded like a fairly regular rap song, except the words were in Swedish. After it was over, Peter Van Houten looked at us expectantly, his little eyes as wide as they could get. "Yeah?" he asked. "Yeah?" I said, "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't speak Swedish." "Well, of course you don't. Neither do I. Who the hell speaks Swedish? The important thing is not whatever nonsense the voices are _saying_ , but what the voices are _feeling_. Surely you know that there are only two emotions, love and fear, and that Afasi och Filthy navigate between them with the kind of facility that one simply does not find in hip-hop music outside of Sweden. Shall I play it for you again?" "Are you joking?" Gus said. "Pardon?" "Is this some kind of performance?" He looked up at Lidewij and asked, "Is it?" "I'm afraid not," Lidewij answered. "He's not always—this is unusually—" "Oh, shut up, Lidewij. Rudolf Otto said that if you had not encountered the numinous, if you have not experienced a nonrational encounter with the _mysterium tremendum_ , then his work was not for you. And I say to you, young friends, that if you cannot hear Afasi och Filthy's bravadic response to fear, then my work is not for you." I cannot emphasize this enough: It was a completely normal rap song, except in Swedish. "Um," I said. "So about _An Imperial Affliction_. Anna's mom, when the book ends, is about to—" Van Houten interrupted me, tapping his glass as he talked until Lidewij refilled it again. "So Zeno is most famous for his tortoise paradox. Let us imagine that you are in a race with a tortoise. The tortoise has a ten-yard head start. In the time it takes you to run that ten yards, the tortoise has maybe moved one yard. And then in the time it takes you to make up that distance, the tortoise goes a bit farther, and so on forever. You are faster than the tortoise but you can never catch him; you can only decrease his lead. "Of course, you just run past the tortoise without contemplating the mechanics involved, but the question of how you are able to do this turns out to be incredibly complicated, and no one really solved it until Cantor showed us that some infinities are bigger than other infinities." "Um," I said. "I assume that answers your question," he said confidently, then sipped generously from his glass. "Not really," I said. "We were wondering, after the end of _An Imperial Affliction_ —" "I disavow everything in that putrid novel," Van Houten said, cutting me off. "No," I said. "Excuse me?" "No, that is not acceptable," I said. "I understand that the story ends midnarrative because Anna dies or becomes too sick to continue, but you said you would tell us what happens to everybody, and that's why we're here, and we, _I_ need you to tell me." Van Houten sighed. After another drink, he said, "Very well. Whose story do you seek?" "Anna's mom, the Dutch Tulip Man, Sisyphus the Hamster, I mean, just—what happens to everyone." Van Houten closed his eyes and puffed his cheeks as he exhaled, then looked up at the exposed wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. "The hamster," he said after a while. "The hamster gets adopted by Christine"—who was one of Anna's presickness friends. That made sense. Christine and Anna played with Sisyphus in a few scenes. "He is adopted by Christine and lives for a couple years after the end of the novel and dies peacefully in his hamster sleep." _Now_ we were getting somewhere. "Great," I said. "Great. Okay, so the Dutch Tulip Man. Is he a con man? Do he and Anna's mom get married?" Van Houten was still staring at the ceiling beams. He took a drink. The glass was almost empty again. "Lidewij, I can't do it. I can't. I _can't_." He leveled his gaze to me. " _Nothing_ happens to the Dutch Tulip Man. He isn't a con man or not a con man; he's _God_. He's an obvious and unambiguous metaphorical representation of _God_ , and asking what becomes of him is the intellectual equivalent of asking what becomes of the disembodied eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg in _Gatsby_. Do he and Anna's mom get married? We are speaking of a novel, dear child, not some historical enterprise." "Right, but surely you must have thought about what happens to them, I mean as characters, I mean independent of their metaphorical meanings or whatever." "They're fictions," he said, tapping his glass again. "Nothing happens to them." "You said you'd tell me," I insisted. I reminded myself to be assertive. I needed to keep his addled attention on my questions. "Perhaps, but I was under the misguided impression that you were incapable of transatlantic travel. I was trying...to provide you some comfort, I suppose, which I should know better than to attempt. But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel...it's ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear. The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches. What _happened_ to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended." "No," I said. I pushed myself up off the couch. "No, I understand that, but it's impossible not to imagine a future for them. You are the most qualified person to imagine that future. Something happened to Anna's mother. She either got married or didn't. She either moved to Holland with the Dutch Tulip Man or didn't. She either had more kids or didn't. I need to know what happens to her." Van Houten pursed his lips. "I regret that I cannot indulge your childish whims, but I refuse to pity you in the manner to which you are well accustomed." "I don't want your pity," I said. "Like all sick children," he answered dispassionately, "you say you don't want pity, but your very existence depends upon it." "Peter," Lidewij said, but he continued as he reclined there, his words getting rounder in his drunken mouth. "Sick children inevitably become arrested: You are fated to live out your days as the child you were when diagnosed, the child who believes there is life after a novel ends. And we, as adults, we pity this, so we pay for your treatments, for your oxygen machines. We give you food and water though you are unlikely to live long enough—" "PETER!" Lidewij shouted. "You are a side effect," Van Houten continued, "of an evolutionary process that cares little for individual lives. You are a failed experiment in mutation." "I RESIGN!" Lidewij shouted. There were tears in her eyes. But I wasn't angry. He was looking for the most hurtful way to tell the truth, but of course I already knew the truth. I'd had years of staring at ceilings from my bedroom to the ICU, and so I'd long ago found the most hurtful ways to imagine my own illness. I stepped toward him. "Listen, douchepants," I said, "you're not going to tell me anything about disease I don't already know. I need one and only one thing from you before I walk out of your life forever: WHAT HAPPENS TO ANNA'S MOTHER?" He raised his flabby chins vaguely toward me and shrugged his shoulders. "I can no more tell you what happens to her than I can tell you what becomes of Proust's Narrator or Holden Caulfield's sister or Huckleberry Finn after he lights out for the territories." "BULLSHIT! That's bullshit. Just tell me! Make something up!" "No, and I'll thank you not to curse in my house. It isn't becoming of a lady." I still wasn't angry, exactly, but I was very focused on getting the thing I'd been promised. Something inside me welled up and I reached down and smacked the swollen hand that held the glass of Scotch. What remained of the Scotch splashed across the vast expanse of his face, the glass bouncing off his nose and then spinning balletically through the air, landing with a shattering crash on the ancient hardwood floors. "Lidewij," Van Houten said calmly, "I'll have a martini, if you please. Just a whisper of vermouth." "I have resigned," Lidewij said after a moment. "Don't be ridiculous." I didn't know what to do. Being nice hadn't worked. Being mean hadn't worked. I needed an answer. I'd come all this way, hijacked Augustus's Wish. I needed to know. "Have you ever stopped to wonder," he said, his words slurring now, "why you care so much about your silly questions?" "YOU PROMISED!" I shouted, hearing Isaac's impotent wailing echoing from the night of the broken trophies. Van Houten didn't reply. I was still standing over him, waiting for him to say something to me when I felt Augustus's hand on my arm. He pulled me away toward the door, and I followed him while Van Houten ranted to Lidewij about the ingratitude of contemporary teenagers and the death of polite society, and Lidewij, somewhat hysterical, shouted back at him in rapid-fire Dutch. "You'll have to forgive my former assistant," he said. "Dutch is not so much a language as an ailment of the throat." Augustus pulled me out of the room and through the door to the late spring morning and the falling confetti of the elms. ••• For me there was no such thing as a quick getaway, but we made our way down the stairs, Augustus holding my cart, and then started to walk back toward the Filosoof on a bumpy sidewalk of interwoven rectangular bricks. For the first time since the swing set, I started crying. "Hey," he said, touching my waist. "Hey. It's okay." I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my hand. "He sucks." I nodded again. "I'll write you an epilogue," Gus said. That made me cry harder. "I will," he said. "I will. Better than any shit that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese. He doesn't even remember writing the book. I can write ten times the story that guy can. There will be blood and guts and sacrifice. _An Imperial Affliction_ meets _The Price of Dawn_. You'll love it." I kept nodding, faking a smile, and then he hugged me, his strong arms pulling me into his muscular chest, and I sogged up his polo shirt a little but then recovered enough to speak. "I spent your Wish on that doucheface," I said into his chest. "Hazel Grace. No. I will grant you that you did spend my one and only Wish, but you did not spend it on him. You spent it on us." Behind us, I heard the _plonk plonk_ of high heels running. I turned around. It was Lidewij, her eyeliner running down her cheeks, duly horrified, chasing us up the sidewalk. "Perhaps we should go to the Anne Frank Huis," Lidewij said. "I'm not going anywhere with that monster," Augustus said. "He is not invited," Lidewij said. Augustus kept holding me, protective, his hand on the side of my face. "I don't think—" he started, but I cut him off. "We should go." I still wanted answers from Van Houten. But it wasn't all I wanted. I only had two days left in Amsterdam with Augustus Waters. I wouldn't let a sad old man ruin them. ••• Lidewij drove a clunky gray Fiat with an engine that sounded like an excited four-year-old girl. As we drove through the streets of Amsterdam, she repeatedly and profusely apologized. "I am very sorry. There is no excuse. He is very sick," she said. "I thought meeting you would help him, if he would see that his work has shaped real lives, but...I'm very sorry. It is very, very embarrassing." Neither Augustus nor I said anything. I was in the backseat behind him. I snuck my hand between the side of the car and his seat, feeling for his hand, but I couldn't find it. Lidewij continued, "I have continued this work because I believe he is a genius and because the pay is very good, but he has become a monster." "I guess he got pretty rich on that book," I said after a while. "Oh, no no, he is of the Van Houtens," she said. "In the seventeenth century, his ancestor discovered how to mix cocoa into water. Some Van Houtens moved to the United States long ago, and Peter is of those, but he moved to Holland after his novel. He is an embarrassment to a great family." The engine screamed. Lidewij shifted and we shot up a canal bridge. "It is circumstance," she said. "Circumstance has made him so cruel. He is not an evil man. But this day, I did not think—when he said these terrible things, I could not believe it. I am very sorry. Very very sorry." ••• We had to park a block away from the Anne Frank House, and then while Lidewij stood in line to get tickets for us, I sat with my back against a little tree, looking at all the moored houseboats in the Prinsengracht canal. Augustus was standing above me, rolling my oxygen cart in lazy circles, just watching the wheels spin. I wanted him to sit next to me, but I knew it was hard for him to sit, and harder still to stand back up. "Okay?" he asked, looking down at me. I shrugged and reached a hand for his calf. It was his fake calf, but I held on to it. He looked down at me. "I wanted..." I said. "I know," he said. "I know. Apparently the world is not a wish-granting factory." That made me smile a little. Lidewij returned with tickets, but her thin lips were pursed with worry. "There is no elevator," she said. "I am very very sorry." "It's okay," I said. "No, there are many stairs," she said. "Steep stairs." "It's okay," I said again. Augustus started to say something, but I interrupted. "It's okay. I can do it." We began in a room with a video about Jews in Holland and the Nazi invasion and the Frank family. Then we walked upstairs into the canal house where Otto Frank's business had been. The stairs were slow, for me and Augustus both, but I felt strong. Soon I was staring at the famous bookcase that had hid Anne Frank, her family, and four others. The bookcase was half open, and behind it was an even steeper set of stairs, only wide enough for one person. There were fellow visitors all around us, and I didn't want to hold up the procession, but Lidewij said, "If everyone could be patient, please," and I began the walk up, Lidewij carrying the cart behind me, Gus behind her. It was fourteen steps. I kept thinking about the people behind me—they were mostly adults speaking a variety of languages—and feeling embarrassed or whatever, feeling like a ghost that both comforts and haunts, but finally I made it up, and then I was in an eerily empty room, leaning against the wall, my brain telling my lungs _it's okay it's okay calm down it's okay_ and my lungs telling my brain _oh, God,we're dying here_. I didn't even see Augustus come upstairs, but he came over and wiped his brow with the back of his hand like _whew_ and said, "You're a champion." After a few minutes of wall-leaning, I made it to the next room, which Anne had shared with the dentist Fritz Pfeffer. It was tiny, empty of all furniture. You'd never know anyone had ever lived there except that the pictures Anne had pasted onto the wall from magazines and newspapers were still there. Another staircase led up to the room where the van Pels family had lived, this one steeper than the last and eighteen steps, essentially a glorified ladder. I got to the threshold and looked up and figured I could not do it, but also knew the only way through was up. "Let's go back," Gus said behind me. "I'm okay," I answered quietly. It's stupid, but I kept thinking I _owed_ it to her—to Anne Frank, I mean—because she was dead and I wasn't, because she had stayed quiet and kept the blinds drawn and done everything right and still died, and so I should go up the steps and see the rest of the world she'd lived in those years before the Gestapo came. I began to climb the stairs, crawling up them like a little kid would, slow at first so I could breathe, but then faster because I knew I couldn't breathe and wanted to get to the top before everything gave out. The blackness encroached around my field of vision as I pulled myself up, eighteen steps, steep as hell. I finally crested the staircase mostly blind and nauseated, the muscles in my arms and legs screaming for oxygen. I slumped seated against a wall, heaving watered-down coughs. There was an empty glass case bolted to the wall above me and I stared up through it to the ceiling and tried not to pass out. Lidewij crouched down next to me, saying, "You are at the top, that is it," and I nodded. I had a vague awareness of the adults all around glancing down at me worriedly; of Lidewij speaking quietly in one language and then another and then another to various visitors; of Augustus standing above me, his hand on the top of my head, stroking my hair along the part. After a long time, Lidewij and Augustus pulled me to my feet and I saw what was protected by the glass case: pencil marks on the wallpaper measuring the growth of all the children in the annex during the period they lived there, inch after inch until they would grow no more. From there, we left the Franks' living area, but we were still in the museum: A long narrow hallway showed pictures of each of the annex's eight residents and described how and where and when they died. "The only member of his whole family who survived the war," Lidewij told us, referring to Anne's father, Otto. Her voice was hushed like we were in church. "But he didn't survive a war, not really," Augustus said. "He survived a genocide." "True," Lidewij said. "I do not know how you go on, without your family. I do not know." As I read about each of the seven who died, I thought of Otto Frank not being a father anymore, left with a diary instead of a wife and two daughters. At the end of the hallway, a huge book, bigger than a dictionary, contained the names of the 103,000 dead from the Netherlands in the Holocaust. (Only 5,000 of the deported Dutch Jews, a wall label explained, had survived. 5,000 Otto Franks.) The book was turned to the page with Anne Frank's name, but what got me about it was the fact that right beneath her name there were four Aron Franks. _Four._ Four Aron Franks without museums, without historical markers, without anyone to mourn them. I silently resolved to remember and pray for the four Aron Franks as long as I was around. (Maybe some people need to believe in a proper and omnipotent God to pray, but I don't.) As we got to the end of the room, Gus stopped and said, "You okay?" I nodded. He gestured back toward Anne's picture. "The worst part is that she almost lived, you know? She died weeks away from liberation." Lidewij took a few steps away to watch a video, and I grabbed Augustus's hand as we walked into the next room. It was an A-frame room with some letters Otto Frank had written to people during his months-long search for his daughters. On the wall in the middle of the room, a video of Otto Frank played. He was speaking in English. "Are there any Nazis left that I could hunt down and bring to justice?" Augustus asked while we leaned over the vitrines reading Otto's letters and the gutting replies that no, no one had seen his children after the liberation. "I think they're all dead. But it's not like the Nazis had a monopoly on evil." "True," he said. "That's what we should do, Hazel Grace: We should team up and be this disabled vigilante duo roaring through the world, righting wrongs, defending the weak, protecting the endangered." Although it was his dream and not mine, I indulged it. He'd indulged mine, after all. "Our fearlessness shall be our secret weapon," I said. "The tales of our exploits will survive as long as the human voice itself," he said. "And even after that, when the robots recall the human absurdities of sacrifice and compassion, they will remember us." "They will robot-laugh at our courageous folly," he said. "But something in their iron robot hearts will yearn to have lived and died as we did: on the hero's errand." "Augustus Waters," I said, looking up at him, thinking that you cannot kiss anyone in the Anne Frank House, and then thinking that Anne Frank, after all, kissed someone in the Anne Frank House, and that she would probably like nothing more than for her home to have become a place where the young and irreparably broken sink into love. "I must say," Otto Frank said on the video in his accented English, "I was very much surprised by the deep thoughts Anne had." And then we were kissing. My hand let go of the oxygen cart and I reached up for his neck, and he pulled me up by my waist onto my tiptoes. As his parted lips met mine, I started to feel breathless in a new and fascinating way. The space around us evaporated, and for a weird moment I really liked my body; this cancer-ruined thing I'd spent years dragging around suddenly seemed worth the struggle, worth the chest tubes and the PICC lines and the ceaseless bodily betrayal of the tumors. "It was quite a different Anne I had known as my daughter. She never really showed this kind of inner feeling," Otto Frank continued. The kiss lasted forever as Otto Frank kept talking from behind me. "And my conclusion is," he said, "since I had been in very good terms with Anne, that most parents don't know really their children." I realized that my eyes were closed and opened them. Augustus was staring at me, his blue eyes closer to me than they'd ever been, and behind him, a crowd of people three deep had sort of circled around us. They were angry, I thought. Horrified. These teenagers, with their hormones, making out beneath a video broadcasting the shattered voice of a former father. I pulled away from Augustus, and he snuck a peck onto my forehead as I stared down at my Chuck Taylors. And then they started clapping. All the people, all these adults, just started clapping, and one shouted "Bravo!" in a European accent. Augustus, smiling, bowed. Laughing, I curtsied ever so slightly, which was met with another round of applause. We made our way downstairs, letting all the adults go down first, and right before we got to the café (where blessedly an elevator took us back down to ground level and the gift shop) we saw pages of Anne's diary, and also her unpublished book of quotations. The quote book happened to be turned to a page of Shakespeare quotations. _For who so firm that cannot be seduced?_ she'd written. ••• Lidewij drove us back to the Filosoof. Outside the hotel, it was drizzling and Augustus and I stood on the brick sidewalk slowly getting wet. Augustus: "You probably need some rest." Me: "I'm okay." Augustus: "Okay." (Pause.) "What are you thinking about?" Me: "You." Augustus: "What about me?" Me: "'I do not know which to prefer, / The beauty of inflections / Or the beauty of innuendos, / The blackbird whistling / Or just after.'" Augustus: "God, you are sexy." Me: "We could go to your room." Augustus: "I've heard worse ideas." ••• We squeezed into the tiny elevator together. Every surface, including the floor, was mirrored. We had to pull the door to shut ourselves in and then the old thing creaked slowly up to the second floor. I was tired and sweaty and worried that I generally looked and smelled gross, but even so I kissed him in that elevator, and then he pulled away and pointed at the mirror and said, "Look, infinite Hazels." "Some infinities are larger than other infinities," I drawled, mimicking Van Houten. "What an assclown," Augustus said, and it took all that time and more just to get us to the second floor. Finally the elevator lurched to a halt, and he pushed the mirrored door open. When it was half open, he winced in pain and lost his grip on the door for a second. "You okay?" I asked. After a second, he said, "Yeah, yeah, door's just heavy, I guess." He pushed again and got it open. He let me walk out first, of course, but then I didn't know which direction to walk down the hallway, and so I just stood there outside the elevator and he stood there, too, his face still contorted, and I said again, "Okay?" "Just out of shape, Hazel Grace. All is well." We were just standing there in the hallway, and he wasn't leading the way to his room or anything, and I didn't know where his room was, and as the stalemate continued, I became convinced he was trying to figure out a way not to hook up with me, that I never should have suggested the idea in the first place, that it was unladylike and therefore had disgusted Augustus Waters, who was standing there looking at me unblinking, trying to think of a way to extricate himself from the situation politely. And then, after forever, he said, "It's above my knee and it just tapers a little and then it's just skin. There's a nasty scar, but it just looks like—" "What?" I asked. "My leg," he said. "Just so you're prepared in case, I mean, in case you see it or what—" "Oh, get over yourself," I said, and took the two steps I needed to get to him. I kissed him, hard, pressing him against the wall, and I kept kissing him as he fumbled for the room key. ••• We crawled into the bed, my freedom circumscribed some by the oxygen, but even so I could get on top of him and take his shirt off and taste the sweat on the skin below his collarbone as I whispered into his skin, "I love you, Augustus Waters," his body relaxing beneath mine as he heard me say it. He reached down and tried to pull my shirt off, but it got tangled in the tube. I laughed. ••• "How do you do this every day?" he asked as I disentangled my shirt from the tubes. Idiotically, it occurred to me that my pink underwear didn't match my purple bra, as if boys even notice such things. I crawled under the covers and kicked out of my jeans and socks and then watched the comforter dance as beneath it, Augustus removed first his jeans and then his leg. ••• We were lying on our backs next to each other, everything hidden by the covers, and after a second I reached over for his thigh and let my hand trail downward to the stump, the thick scarred skin. I held the stump for a second. He flinched. "It hurts?" I asked. "No," he said. He flipped himself onto his side and kissed me. "You're so hot," I said, my hand still on his leg. "I'm starting to think you have an amputee fetish," he answered, still kissing me. I laughed. "I have an Augustus Waters fetish," I explained. The whole affair was the precise opposite of what I figured it would be: slow and patient and quiet and neither particularly painful nor particularly ecstatic. There were a lot of condomy problems that I did not get a particularly good look at. No headboards were broken. No screaming. Honestly, it was probably the longest time we'd ever spent together without talking. Only one thing followed type: Afterward, when I had my face resting against Augustus's chest, listening to his heart pound, Augustus said, "Hazel Grace, I literally cannot keep my eyes open." "Misuse of literality," I said. "No," he said. "So. Tired." His face turned away from me, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to his lungs settle into the rhythm of sleep. After a while, I got up, dressed, found the Hotel Filosoof stationery, and wrote him a love letter: Dearest Augustus, yrs, Hazel Grace # **CHAPTER THIRTEEN** **T** he next morning, our last full day in Amsterdam, Mom and Augustus and I walked the half block from the hotel to the Vondelpark, where we found a café in the shadow of the Dutch national film museum. Over lattes—which, the waiter explained to us, the Dutch called "wrong coffee" because it had more milk than coffee—we sat in the lacy shade of a huge chestnut tree and recounted for Mom our encounter with the great Peter Van Houten. We made the story funny. You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice: Augustus, slumped in the café chair, pretended to be the tongue-tied, word-slurring Van Houten who could not so much as push himself out of his chair; I stood up to play a me all full of bluster and machismo, shouting, "Get up, you fat ugly old man!" "Did you call him ugly?" Augustus asked. "Just go with it," I told him. "I'm naht uggy. You're the uggy one, nosetube girl." "You're a coward!" I rumbled, and Augustus broke character to laugh. I sat down. We told Mom about the Anne Frank House, leaving out the kissing. "Did you go back to chez Van Houten afterward?" Mom asked. Augustus didn't even give me time to blush. "Nah, we just hung out at a café. Hazel amused me with some Venn diagram humor." He glanced at me. God, he was sexy. "Sounds lovely," she said. "Listen, I'm going to go for a walk. Give the two of you time to talk," she said at Gus, an edge in it. "Then maybe later we can go for a tour on a canal boat." "Um, okay?" I said. Mom left a five-euro note under her saucer and then kissed me on the top of the head, whispering, "I love love love you," which was two more loves than usual. Gus motioned down to the shadows of the branches intersecting and coming apart on the concrete. "Beautiful, huh?" "Yeah," I said. "Such a good metaphor," he mumbled. "Is it now?" I asked. "The negative image of things blown together and then blown apart," he said. Before us, hundreds of people passed, jogging and biking and Rollerblading. Amsterdam was a city designed for movement and activity, a city that would rather not travel by car, and so inevitably I felt excluded from it. But God, was it beautiful, the creek carving a path around the huge tree, a heron standing still at the water's edge, searching for a breakfast amid the millions of elm petals floating in the water. But Augustus didn't notice. He was too busy watching the shadows move. Finally, he said, "I could look at this all day, but we should go to the hotel." "Do we have time?" I asked. He smiled sadly. "If only," he said. "What's wrong?" I asked. He nodded back in the direction of the hotel. ••• We walked in silence, Augustus a half step in front of me. I was too scared to ask if I had reason to be scared. So there is this thing called Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Basically, this guy Abraham Maslow became famous for his theory that certain needs must be met before you can even have other kinds of needs. It looks like this: MASLOW'S HIERARCHY OF NEEDS Once your needs for food and water are fulfilled, you move up to the next set of needs, security, and then the next and the next, but the important thing is that, according to Maslow, until your physiological needs are satisfied, you can't even _worry_ about security or social needs, let alone "self-actualization," which is when you start to, like, make art and think about morality and quantum physics and stuff. According to Maslow, I was stuck on the second level of the pyramid, unable to feel secure in my health and therefore unable to reach for love and respect and art and whatever else, which is, of course, utter horseshit: The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness. Maslow's pyramid seemed to imply that I was less human than other people, and most people seemed to agree with him. But not Augustus. I always thought he could love me because he'd once been sick. Only now did it occur to me that maybe he still was. ••• We arrived in my room, the Kierkegaard. I sat down on the bed expecting him to join me, but he hunkered down in the dusty paisley chair. That chair. How old was it? Fifty years? I felt the ball in the base of my throat hardening as I watched him pull a cigarette from his pack and stick it between his lips. He leaned back and sighed. "Just before you went into the ICU, I started to feel this ache in my hip." "No," I said. Panic rolled in, pulled me under. He nodded. "So I went in for a PET scan." He stopped. He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and clenched his teeth. Much of my life had been devoted to trying not to cry in front of people who loved me, so I knew what Augustus was doing. You clench your teeth. You look up. You tell yourself that if they see you cry, it will hurt them, and you will be nothing but A Sadness in their lives, and you must not become a mere sadness, so you will not cry, and you say all of this to yourself while looking up at the ceiling, and then you swallow even though your throat does not want to close and you look at the person who loves you and smile. He flashed his crooked smile, then said, "I lit up like a Christmas tree, Hazel Grace. The lining of my chest, my left hip, my liver, everywhere." Everywhere. That word hung in the air awhile. We both knew what it meant. I got up, dragging my body and the cart across carpet that was older than Augustus would ever be, and I knelt at the base of the chair and put my head in his lap and hugged him by the waist. He was stroking my hair. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said, his voice calm. "Your mom must know. The way she looked at me. My mom must've just told her or something. I should've told you. It was stupid. Selfish." I knew why he hadn't said anything, of course: the same reason I hadn't wanted him to see me in the ICU. I couldn't be mad at him for even a moment, and only now that I loved a grenade did I understand the foolishness of trying to save others from my own impending fragmentation: I couldn't unlove Augustus Waters. And I didn't want to. "It's not fair," I said. "It's just so goddamned unfair." "The world," he said, "is not a wish-granting factory," and then he broke down, just for one moment, his sob roaring impotent like a clap of thunder unaccompanied by lightning, the terrible ferocity that amateurs in the field of suffering might mistake for weakness. Then he pulled me to him and, his face inches from mine, resolved, "I'll fight it. I'll fight it for you. Don't you worry about me, Hazel Grace. I'm okay. I'll find a way to hang around and annoy you for a long time." I was crying. But even then he was strong, holding me tight so that I could see the sinewy muscles of his arms wrapped around me as he said, "I'm sorry. You'll be okay. It'll be okay. I promise," and smiled his crooked smile. He kissed my forehead, and then I felt his powerful chest deflate just a little. "I guess I had a _hamartia_ after all." ••• After a while, I pulled him over to the bed and we lay there together as he told me they'd started palliative chemo, but he gave it up to go to Amsterdam, even though his parents were furious. They'd tried to stop him right up until that morning, when I heard him screaming that his body belonged to him. "We could have rescheduled," I said. "No, we couldn't have," he answered. "Anyway, it wasn't working. I could tell it wasn't working, you know?" I nodded. "It's just bullshit, the whole thing," I said. "They'll try something else when I get home. They've always got a new idea." "Yeah," I said, having been the experimental pincushion myself. "I kind of conned you into believing you were falling in love with a healthy person," he said. I shrugged. "I'd have done the same to you." "No, you wouldn't've, but we can't all be as awesome as you." He kissed me, then grimaced. "Does it hurt?" I asked. "No. Just." He stared at the ceiling for a long time before saying, "I like this world. I like drinking champagne. I like not smoking. I like the sound of Dutch people speaking Dutch. And now...I don't even get a battle. I don't get a fight." "You get to battle cancer," I said. "That is your battle. And you'll keep fighting," I told him. I hated it when people tried to build me up to prepare for battle, but I did it to him, anyway. "You'll...you'll...live your best life today. This is your war now." I despised myself for the cheesy sentiment, but what else did I have? "Some war," he said dismissively. "What am I at war with? My cancer. And what is my cancer? My cancer is me. The tumors are made of me. They're made of me as surely as my brain and my heart are made of me. It is a civil war, Hazel Grace, with a predetermined winner." "Gus," I said. I couldn't say anything else. He was too smart for the kinds of solace I could offer. "Okay," he said. But it wasn't. After a moment, he said, "If you go to the Rijksmuseum, which I really wanted to do—but who are we kidding, neither of us can walk through a museum. But anyway, I looked at the collection online before we left. If you were to go, and hopefully someday you will, you would see a lot of paintings of dead people. You'd see Jesus on the cross, and you'd see a dude getting stabbed in the neck, and you'd see people dying at sea and in battle and a parade of martyrs. But Not. One. Single. Cancer. Kid. Nobody biting it from the plague or smallpox or yellow fever or whatever, because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying _of_." Abraham Maslow, I present to you Augustus Waters, whose existential curiosity dwarfed that of his well-fed, well-loved, healthy brethren. While the mass of men went on leading thoroughly unexamined lives of monstrous consumption, Augustus Waters examined the collection of the Rijksmuseum from afar. "What?" Augustus asked after a while. "Nothing," I said. "I'm just..." I couldn't finish the sentence, didn't know how to. "I'm just very, very fond of you." He smiled with half his mouth, his nose inches from mine. "The feeling is mutual. I don't suppose you can forget about it and treat me like I'm not dying." "I don't think you're dying," I said. "I think you've just got a touch of cancer." He smiled. Gallows humor. "I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up," he said. "And it is my privilege and my responsibility to ride all the way up with you," I said. "Would it be absolutely ludicrous to try to make out?" "There is no try," I said. "There is only do." # **CHAPTER FOURTEEN** **O** n the flight home, twenty thousand feet above clouds that were ten thousand feet above the ground, Gus said, "I used to think it would be fun to live on a cloud." "Yeah," I said. "Like it would be like one of those inflatable moonwalk machines, except for always." "But then in middle school science, Mr. Martinez asked who among us had ever fantasized about living in the clouds, and everyone raised their hand. Then Mr. Martinez told us that up in the clouds the wind blew one hundred and fifty miles an hour and the temperature was thirty below zero and there was no oxygen and we'd all die within seconds." "Sounds like a nice guy." "He specialized in the murder of dreams, Hazel Grace, let me tell you. You think volcanoes are awesome? Tell that to the ten thousand screaming corpses at Pompeii. You still secretly believe that there is an element of magic to this world? It's all just soulless molecules bouncing against each other randomly. Do you worry about who will take care of you if your parents die? As well you should, because they will be worm food in the fullness of time." "Ignorance is bliss," I said. A flight attendant walked through the aisle with a beverage cart, half whispering, "Drinks? Drinks? Drinks? Drinks?" Gus leaned over me, raising his hand. "Could we have some champagne, please?" "You're twenty-one?" she asked dubiously. I conspicuously rearranged the nubbins in my nose. The stewardess smiled, then glanced down at my sleeping mother. "She won't mind?" she asked of Mom. "Nah," I said. So she poured champagne into two plastic cups. Cancer Perks. Gus and I toasted. "To you," he said. "To you," I said, touching my cup to his. We sipped. Dimmer stars than we'd had at Oranjee, but still good enough to drink. "You know," Gus said to me, "everything Van Houten said was true." "Maybe, but he didn't have to be such a douche about it. I can't believe he imagined a future for Sisyphus the Hamster but not for Anna's mom." Augustus shrugged. He seemed to zone out all of a sudden. "Okay?" I asked. He shook his head microscopically. "Hurts," he said. "Chest?" He nodded. Fists clenched. Later, he would describe it as a one-legged fat man wearing a stiletto heel standing on the middle of his chest. I returned my seat-back tray to its upright and locked position and bent forward to dig pills out of his backpack. He swallowed one with champagne. "Okay?" I asked again. Gus sat there, pumping his fist, waiting for the medicine to work, the medicine that did not kill the pain so much as distance him from it (and from me). "It was like it was personal," Gus said quietly. "Like he was mad at us for some reason. Van Houten, I mean." He drank the rest of his champagne in a quick series of gulps and soon fell asleep. ••• My dad was waiting for us in baggage claim, standing amid all the limo drivers in suits holding signs printed with the last names of their passengers: JOHNSON, BARRINGTON, CARMICHAEL. Dad had a sign of his own. MY BEAUTIFUL FAMILY, it read, and then underneath that (AND GUS). I hugged him, and he started crying (of course). As we drove home, Gus and I told Dad stories of Amsterdam, but it wasn't until I was home and hooked up to Philip watching good ol' American television with Dad and eating American pizza off napkins on our laps that I told him about Gus. "Gus had a recurrence," I said. "I know," he said. He scooted over toward me, and then added, "His mom told us before the trip. I'm sorry he kept it from you. I'm...I'm sorry, Hazel." I didn't say anything for a long time. The show we were watching was about people who are trying to pick which house they are going to buy. "So I read _An Imperial Affliction_ while you guys were gone," Dad said. I turned my head up to him. "Oh, cool. What'd you think?" "It was good. A little over my head. I was a biochemistry major, remember, not a literature guy. I do wish it had ended." "Yeah," I said. "Common complaint." "Also, it was a bit hopeless," he said. "A bit defeatist." "If by defeatist you mean _honest_ , then I agree." "I don't think defeatism is honest," Dad answered. "I refuse to accept that." "So everything happens for a reason and we'll all go live in the clouds and play harps and live in mansions?" Dad smiled. He put a big arm around me and pulled me to him, kissing the side of my head. "I don't know what I believe, Hazel. I thought being an adult meant knowing what you believe, but that has not been my experience." "Yeah," I said. "Okay." He told me again that he was sorry about Gus, and then we went back to watching the show, and the people picked a house, and Dad still had his arm around me, and I was kinda starting to fall asleep, but I didn't want to go to bed, and then Dad said, "You know what I believe? I remember in college I was taking this math class, this really great math class taught by this tiny old woman. She was talking about fast Fourier transforms and she stopped midsentence and said, 'Sometimes it seems the universe wants to be noticed.' "That's what I believe. I believe the universe wants to be noticed. I think the universe is improbably biased toward consciousness, that it rewards intelligence in part because the universe enjoys its elegance being observed. And who am I, living in the middle of history, to tell the universe that it—or my observation of it—is temporary?" "You are fairly smart," I said after a while. "You are fairly good at compliments," he answered. ••• The next afternoon, I drove over to Gus's house and ate peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with his parents and told them stories about Amsterdam while Gus napped on the living room couch, where we'd watched _V for Vendetta_. I could just see him from the kitchen: He lay on his back, head turned away from me, a PICC line already in. They were attacking the cancer with a new cocktail: two chemo drugs and a protein receptor that they hoped would turn off the oncogene in Gus's cancer. He was lucky to get enrolled in the trial, they told me. Lucky. I knew one of the drugs. Hearing the sound of its name made me want to barf. After a while, Isaac's mom brought him over. "Isaac, hi, it's Hazel from Support Group, not your evil ex-girlfriend." His mom walked him to me, and I pulled myself out of the dining room chair and hugged him, his body taking a moment to find me before he hugged me back, hard. "How was Amsterdam?" he asked. "Awesome," I said. "Waters," he said. "Where are ya, bro?" "He's napping," I said, and my voice caught. Isaac shook his head, everyone quiet. "Sucks," Isaac said after a second. His mom walked him to a chair she'd pulled out. He sat. "I can still dominate your blind ass at Counterinsurgence," Augustus said without turning toward us. The medicine slowed his speech a bit, but only to the speed of regular people. "I'm pretty sure all asses are blind," Isaac answered, reaching his hands into the air vaguely, looking for his mom. She grabbed him, pulled him up, and they walked over to the couch, where Gus and Isaac hugged awkwardly. "How are you feeling?" Isaac asked. "Everything tastes like pennies. Aside from that, I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up, kid," Gus answered. Isaac laughed. "How are the eyes?" "Oh, excellent," he said. "I mean, they're not in my head is the only problem." "Awesome, yeah," Gus said. "Not to one-up you or anything, but my body is made out of cancer." "So I heard," Isaac said, trying not to let it get to him. He fumbled toward Gus's hand and found only his thigh. "I'm taken," Gus said. ••• Isaac's mom brought over two dining room chairs, and Isaac and I sat down next to Gus. I took Gus's hand, stroking circles around the space between his thumb and forefinger. The adults headed down to the basement to commiserate or whatever, leaving the three of us alone in the living room. After a while, Augustus turned his head to us, the waking up slow. "How's Monica?" he asked. "Haven't heard from her once," Isaac said. "No cards; no emails. I got this machine that reads me my emails. It's awesome. I can change the voice's gender or accent or whatever." "So I can like send you a porn story and you can have an old German man read it to you?" "Exactly," Isaac said. "Although Mom still has to help me with it, so maybe hold off on the German porno for a week or two." "She hasn't even, like, texted you to ask how you're doing?" I asked. This struck me as an unfathomable injustice. "Total radio silence," Isaac said. "Ridiculous," I said. "I've stopped thinking about it. I don't have time to have a girlfriend. I have like a full-time job Learning How to Be Blind." Gus turned his head back away from us, staring out the window at the patio in his backyard. His eyes closed. Isaac asked how I was doing, and I said I was good, and he told me there was a new girl in Support Group with a really hot voice and he needed me to go to tell him if she was actually hot. Then out of nowhere Augustus said, "You can't just not contact your former boyfriend after his eyes get cut out of his freaking head." "Just one of—" Isaac started. "Hazel Grace, do you have four dollars?" asked Gus. "Um," I said. "Yes?" "Excellent. You'll find my leg under the coffee table," he said. Gus pushed himself upright and scooted down to the edge of the couch. I handed him the prosthetic; he fastened it in slow motion. I helped him to stand and then offered my arm to Isaac, guiding him past furniture that suddenly seemed intrusive, realizing that, for the first time in years, I was the healthiest person in the room. I drove. Augustus rode shotgun. Isaac sat in the back. We stopped at a grocery store, where, per Augustus's instruction, I bought a dozen eggs while he and Isaac waited in the car. And then Isaac guided us by his memory to Monica's house, an aggressively sterile, two-story house near the JCC. Monica's bright green 1990s Pontiac Firebird sat fat-wheeled in the driveway. "Is it there?" Isaac asked when he felt me coming to a stop. "Oh, it's there," Augustus said. "You know what it looks like, Isaac? It looks like all the hopes we were foolish to hope." "So she's inside?" Gus turned his head around slowly to look at Isaac. "Who cares where she is? This is not about her. This is about _you_." Gus gripped the egg carton in his lap, then opened the door and pulled his legs out onto the street. He opened the door for Isaac, and I watched through the mirror as Gus helped Isaac out of the car, the two of them leaning on each other at the shoulder then tapering away, like praying hands that don't quite meet at the palms. I rolled down the windows and watched from the car, because vandalism made me nervous. They took a few steps toward the car, then Gus flipped open the egg carton and handed Isaac an egg. Isaac tossed it, missing the car by a solid forty feet. "A little to the left," Gus said. "My throw was a little to the left or I need to aim a little to the left?" "Aim left." Isaac swiveled his shoulders. "Lefter," Gus said. Isaac swiveled again. "Yes. Excellent. And throw hard." Gus handed him another egg, and Isaac hurled it, the egg arcing over the car and smashing against the slow-sloping roof of the house. "Bull's-eye!" Gus said. "Really?" Isaac asked excitedly. "No, you threw it like twenty feet over the car. Just, throw hard, but keep it low. And a little right of where you were last time." Isaac reached over and found an egg himself from the carton Gus cradled. He tossed it, hitting a taillight. "Yes!" Gus said. "Yes! TAILLIGHT!" Isaac reached for another egg, missed wide right, then another, missing low, then another, hitting the back windshield. He then nailed three in a row against the trunk. "Hazel Grace," Gus shouted back to me. "Take a picture of this so Isaac can see it when they invent robot eyes." I pulled myself up so I was sitting in the rolled-down window, my elbows on the roof of the car, and snapped a picture with my phone: Augustus, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, his smile deliciously crooked, holds the mostly empty pink egg carton above his head. His other hand is draped around Isaac's shoulder, whose sunglasses are turned not quite toward the camera. Behind them, egg yolks drip down the windshield and bumper of the green Firebird. And behind that, a door is opening. "What," asked the middle-aged woman a moment after I'd snapped the picture, "in God's name—" and then she stopped talking. "Ma'am," Augustus said, nodding toward her, "your daughter's car has just been deservedly egged by a blind man. Please close the door and go back inside or we'll be forced to call the police." After wavering for a moment, Monica's mom closed the door and disappeared. Isaac threw the last three eggs in quick succession and Gus then guided him back toward the car. "See, Isaac, if you just take—we're coming to the curb now—the feeling of legitimacy away from them, if you turn it around so they feel like _they_ are committing a crime by watching—a few more steps—their cars get egged, they'll be confused and scared and worried and they'll just return to their—you'll find the door handle directly in front of you—quietly desperate lives." Gus hurried around the front of the car and installed himself in the shotgun seat. The doors closed, and I roared off, driving for several hundred feet before I realized I was headed down a dead-end street. I circled the cul-de-sac and raced back past Monica's house. I never took another picture of him. # **CHAPTER FIFTEEN** **A** few days later, at Gus's house, his parents and my parents and Gus and me all squeezed around the dining room table, eating stuffed peppers on a tablecloth that had, according to Gus's dad, last seen use in the previous century. My dad: "Emily, this risotto..." My mom: "It's just delicious." Gus's mom: "Oh, thanks. I'd be happy to give you the recipe." Gus, swallowing a bite: "You know, the primary taste I'm getting is not-Oranjee." Me: "Good observation, Gus. This food, while delicious, does not taste like Oranjee." My mom: "Hazel." Gus: "It tastes like..." Me: "Food." Gus: "Yes, precisely. It tastes like food, excellently prepared. But it does not taste, how do I put this delicately...?" Me: "It does not taste like God Himself cooked heaven into a series of five dishes which were then served to you accompanied by several luminous balls of fermented, bubbly plasma while actual and literal flower petals floated down all around your canal-side dinner table." Gus: "Nicely phrased." Gus's father: "Our children are weird." My dad: "Nicely phrased." ••• A week after our dinner, Gus ended up in the ER with chest pain, and they admitted him overnight, so I drove over to Memorial the next morning and visited him on the fourth floor. I hadn't been to Memorial since visiting Isaac. It didn't have any of the cloyingly bright primary color–painted walls or the framed paintings of dogs driving cars that one found at Children's, but the absolute sterility of the place made me nostalgic for the happy-kid bullshit at Children's. Memorial was so _functional_. It was a storage facility. A prematorium. When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I saw Gus's mom pacing in the waiting room, talking on a cell phone. She hung up quickly, then hugged me and offered to take my cart. "I'm okay," I said. "How's Gus?" "He had a tough night, Hazel," she said. "His heart is working too hard. He needs to scale back on activity. Wheelchairs from here on out. They're putting him on some new medicine that should be better for the pain. His sisters just drove in." "Okay," I said. "Can I see him?" She put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. It felt weird. "You know we love you, Hazel, but right now we just need to be a family. Gus agrees with that. Okay?" "Okay," I said. "I'll tell him you visited." "Okay," I said. "I'm just gonna read here for a while, I think." ••• She went down the hall, back to where he was. I understood, but I still missed him, still thought maybe I was missing my last chance to see him, to say good-bye or whatever. The waiting room was all brown carpet and brown overstuffed cloth chairs. I sat in a love seat for a while, my oxygen cart tucked by my feet. I'd worn my Chuck Taylors and my _Ceci n'est pas une pipe_ shirt, the exact outfit I'd been wearing two weeks before on the Late Afternoon of the Venn Diagram, and he wouldn't see it. I started scrolling through the pictures on my phone, a backward flip-book of the last few months, beginning with him and Isaac outside of Monica's house and ending with the first picture I'd taken of him, on the drive to _Funky Bones_. It seemed like forever ago, like we'd had this brief but still infinite forever. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. ••• Two weeks later, I wheeled Gus across the art park toward _Funky Bones_ with one entire bottle of very expensive champagne and my oxygen tank in his lap. The champagne had been donated by one of Gus's doctors—Gus being the kind of person who inspires doctors to give their best bottles of champagne to children. We sat, Gus in his chair and me on the damp grass, as near to _Funky Bones_ as we could get him in the chair. I pointed at the little kids goading each other to jump from rib cage to shoulder and Gus answered just loud enough for me to hear over the din, "Last time, I imagined myself as the kid. This time, the skeleton." We drank from paper Winnie-the-Pooh cups. # **CHAPTER SIXTEEN** **A** typical day with late-stage Gus: I went over to his house about noon, after he had eaten and puked up breakfast. He met me at the door in his wheelchair, no longer the muscular, gorgeous boy who stared at me at Support Group, but still half smiling, still smoking his unlit cigarette, his blue eyes bright and alive. We ate lunch with his parents at the dining room table. Peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and last night's asparagus. Gus didn't eat. I asked how he was feeling. "Grand," he said. "And you?" "Good. What'd you do last night?" "I slept quite a lot. I want to write you a sequel, Hazel Grace, but I'm just so damned tired all the time." "You can just tell it to me," I said. "Well, I stand by my pre–Van Houten analysis of the Dutch Tulip Man. Not a con man, but not as rich as he was letting on." "And what about Anna's mom?" "Haven't settled on an opinion there. Patience, Grasshopper." Augustus smiled. His parents were quiet, watching him, never looking away, like they just wanted to enjoy The Gus Waters Show while it was still in town. "Sometimes I dream that I'm writing a memoir. A memoir would be just the thing to keep me in the hearts and memories of my adoring public." "Why do you need an adoring public when you've got me?" I asked. "Hazel Grace, when you're as charming and physically attractive as myself, it's easy enough to win over people you meet. But getting strangers to love you...now, _that's_ the trick." I rolled my eyes. ••• After lunch, we went outside to the backyard. He was still well enough to push his own wheelchair, pulling miniature wheelies to get the front wheels over the bump in the doorway. Still athletic, in spite of it all, blessed with balance and quick reflexes that even the abundant narcotics could not fully mask. His parents stayed inside, but when I glanced back into the dining room, they were always watching us. We sat out there in silence for a minute and then Gus said, "I wish we had that swing set sometimes." "The one from my backyard?" "Yeah. My nostalgia is so extreme that I am capable of missing a swing my butt never actually touched." "Nostalgia is a side effect of cancer," I told him. "Nah, nostalgia is a side effect of dying," he answered. Above us, the wind blew and the branching shadows rearranged themselves on our skin. Gus squeezed my hand. "It is a good life, Hazel Grace." ••• We went inside when he needed meds, which were pressed into him along with liquid nutrition through his G-tube, a bit of plastic that disappeared into his belly. He was quiet for a while, zoned out. His mom wanted him to take a nap, but he kept shaking his head no when she suggested it, so we just let him sit there half asleep in the chair for a while. His parents watched an old video of Gus with his sisters—they were probably my age and Gus was about five. They were playing basketball in the driveway of a different house, and even though Gus was tiny, he could dribble like he'd been born doing it, running circles around his sisters as they laughed. It was the first time I'd even seen him play basketball. "He was good," I said. "Should've seen him in high school," his dad said. "Started varsity as a freshman." Gus mumbled, "Can I go downstairs?" His mom and dad wheeled the chair downstairs with Gus still in it, bouncing down crazily in a way that would have been dangerous if danger retained its relevance, and then they left us alone. He got into bed and we lay there together under the covers, me on my side and Gus on his back, my head on his bony shoulder, his heat radiating through his polo shirt and into my skin, my feet tangled with his real foot, my hand on his cheek. When I got his face nose-touchingly close so that I could only see his eyes, I couldn't tell he was sick. We kissed for a while and then lay together listening to The Hectic Glow's eponymous album, and eventually we fell asleep like that, a quantum entanglement of tubes and bodies. ••• We woke up later and arranged an armada of pillows so that we could sit comfortably against the edge of the bed and played Counterinsurgence 2: The Price of Dawn. I sucked at it, of course, but my sucking was useful to him: It made it easier for him to die beautifully, to jump in front of a sniper's bullet and sacrifice himself for me, or else to kill a sentry who was just about to shoot me. How he reveled in saving me. He shouted, "You will _not_ kill my girlfriend today, International Terrorist of Ambiguous Nationality!" It crossed my mind to fake a choking incident or something so that he might give me the Heimlich. Maybe then he could rid himself of this fear that his life had been lived and lost for no greater good. But then I imagined him being physically unable to Heimlich, and me having to reveal that it was all a ruse, and the ensuing mutual humiliation. It's hard as hell to hold on to your dignity when the risen sun is too bright in your losing eyes, and that's what I was thinking about as we hunted for bad guys through the ruins of a city that didn't exist. Finally, his dad came down and dragged Gus back upstairs, and in the entryway, beneath an Encouragement telling me that Friends Are Forever, I knelt to kiss him good night. I went home and ate dinner with my parents, leaving Gus to eat (and puke up) his own dinner. After some TV, I went to sleep. I woke up. Around noon, I went over there again. # **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN** **O** ne morning, a month after returning home from Amsterdam, I drove over to his house. His parents told me he was still sleeping downstairs, so I knocked loudly on the basement door before entering, then asked, "Gus?" I found him mumbling in a language of his own creation. He'd pissed the bed. It was awful. I couldn't even look, really. I just shouted for his parents and they came down, and I went upstairs while they cleaned him up. When I came back down, he was slowly waking up out of the narcotics to the excruciating day. I arranged his pillows so we could play Counterinsurgence on the bare sheetless mattress, but he was so tired and out of it that he sucked almost as bad as I did, and we couldn't go five minutes without both getting dead. Not fancy heroic deaths either, just careless ones. I didn't really say anything to him. I almost wanted him to forget I was there, I guess, and I was hoping he didn't remember that I'd found the boy I love deranged in a wide pool of his own piss. I kept kind of hoping that he'd look over at me and say, "Oh, Hazel Grace. How'd you get here?" But unfortunately, he remembered. "With each passing minute, I'm developing a deeper appreciation of the word _mortified_ ," he said finally. "I've pissed the bed, Gus, believe me. It's no big deal." "You used," he said, and then took a sharp breath, "to call me Augustus." ••• "You know," he said after a while, "it's kids' stuff, but I always thought my obituary would be in all the newspapers, that I'd have a story worth telling. I always had this secret suspicion that I was special." "You are," I said. "You know what I mean, though," he said. I did know what he meant. I just didn't agree. "I don't care if the _New York Times_ writes an obituary for me. I just want you to write one," I told him. "You say you're not special because the world doesn't know about you, but that's an insult to me. _I_ know about you." "I don't think I'm gonna make it to write your obituary," he said, instead of apologizing. I was so frustrated with him. "I just want to be enough for you, but I never can be. This can never be enough for you. But this is all you get. You get me, and your family, and this world. This is your life. I'm sorry if it sucks. But you're not going to be the first man on Mars, and you're not going to be an NBA star, and you're not going to hunt Nazis. I mean, look at yourself, Gus." He didn't respond. "I don't mean—" I started. "Oh, you meant it," he interrupted. I started to apologize and he said, "No, I'm sorry. You're right. Let's just play." So we just played. # **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN** **I** woke up to my phone singing a song by The Hectic Glow. Gus's favorite. That meant he was calling—or someone was calling from his phone. I glanced at the alarm clock: 2:35 A.M. _He's gone,_ I thought as everything inside of me collapsed into a singularity. I could barely creak out a _"Hello?"_ I waited for the sound of a parent's annihilated voice. "Hazel Grace," Augustus said weakly. "Oh, thank God it's you. Hi. Hi, I love you." "Hazel Grace, I'm at the gas station. Something's wrong. You gotta help me." "What? Where are you?" "The Speedway at Eighty-sixth and Ditch. I did something wrong with the G-tube and I can't figure it out and—" "I'm calling nine-one-one," I said. "No no no no no, they'll take me to a hospital. Hazel, listen to me. Do not call nine-one-one or my parents I will never forgive you don't please just come please just come and fix my goddamned G-tube. I'm just, God, this is the stupidest thing. I don't want my parents to know I'm gone. Please. I have the medicine with me; I just can't get it in. Please." He was crying. I'd never heard him sob like this except from outside his house before Amsterdam. "Okay," I said. "I'm leaving now." I took the BiPAP off and connected myself to an oxygen tank, lifted the tank into my cart, and put on sneakers to go with my pink cotton pajama pants and a Butler basketball T-shirt, which had originally been Gus's. I grabbed the keys from the kitchen drawer where Mom kept them and wrote a note in case they woke up while I was gone. Went to check on Gus. It's important. Sorry. Love, H As I drove the couple miles to the gas station, I woke up enough to wonder why Gus had left the house in the middle of the night. Maybe he'd been hallucinating, or his martyrdom fantasies had gotten the better of him. I sped up Ditch Road past flashing yellow lights, going too fast partly to reach him and partly in the hopes a cop would pull me over and give me an excuse to tell someone that my dying boyfriend was stuck outside of a gas station with a malfunctioning G-tube. But no cop showed up to make my decision for me. ••• There were only two cars in the lot. I pulled up next to his. I opened the door. The interior lights came on. Augustus sat in the driver's seat, covered in his own vomit, his hands pressed to his belly where the G-tube went in. "Hi," he mumbled. "Oh, God, Augustus, we have to get you to a hospital." "Please just look at it." I gagged from the smell but bent forward to inspect the place above his belly button where they'd surgically installed the tube. The skin of his abdomen was warm and bright red. "Gus, I think something's infected. I can't fix this. Why are you here? Why aren't you at home?" He puked, without even the energy to turn his mouth away from his lap. "Oh, sweetie," I said. "I wanted to buy a pack of cigarettes," he mumbled. "I lost my pack. Or they took it away from me. I don't know. They said they'd get me another one, but I wanted...to do it myself. Do one little thing myself." He was staring straight ahead. Quietly, I pulled out my phone and glanced down to dial 911. "I'm sorry," I told him. _Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?_ "Hi, I'm at the Speedway at Eighty-sixth and Ditch, and I need an ambulance. The great love of my life has a malfunctioning G-tube." ••• He looked up at me. It was horrible. I could hardly look at him. The Augustus Waters of the crooked smiles and unsmoked cigarettes was gone, replaced by this desperate humiliated creature sitting there beneath me. "This is it. I can't even not smoke anymore." "Gus, I love you." "Where is my chance to be somebody's Peter Van Houten?" He hit the steering wheel weakly, the car honking as he cried. He leaned his head back, looking up. "I hate myself I hate myself I hate this I hate this I disgust myself I hate it I hate it I hate it just let me fucking die." According to the conventions of the genre, Augustus Waters kept his sense of humor till the end, did not for a moment waiver in his courage, and his spirit soared like an indomitable eagle until the world itself could not contain his joyous soul. But this was the truth, a pitiful boy who desperately wanted not to be pitiful, screaming and crying, poisoned by an infected G-tube that kept him alive, but not alive enough. I wiped his chin and grabbed his face in my hands and knelt down close to him so that I could see his eyes, which still lived. "I'm sorry. I wish it was like that movie, with the Persians and the Spartans." "Me too," he said. "But it isn't," I said. "I know," he said. "There are no bad guys." "Yeah." "Even cancer isn't a bad guy really: Cancer just wants to be alive." "Yeah." "You're okay," I told him. I could hear the sirens. "Okay," he said. He was losing consciousness. "Gus, you have to promise not to try this again. I'll get you cigarettes, okay?" He looked at me. His eyes swam in their sockets. "You have to promise." He nodded a little and then his eyes closed, his head swiveling on his neck. "Gus," I said. "Stay with me." "Read me something," he said as the goddamned ambulance roared right past us. So while I waited for them to turn around and find us, I recited the only poem I could bring to mind, "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. Williams was a doctor. It seemed to me like a doctor's poem. The poem was over, but the ambulance was still driving away from us, so I kept writing it. ••• And so much depends, I told Augustus, upon a blue sky cut open by the branches of the trees above. So much depends upon the transparent G-tube erupting from the gut of the blue-lipped boy. So much depends upon this observer of the universe. Half conscious, he glanced over at me and mumbled, "And you say you don't write poetry." # **CHAPTER NINETEEN** **H** e came home from the hospital a few days later, finally and irrevocably robbed of his ambitions. It took more medication to remove him from the pain. He moved upstairs permanently, into a hospital bed near the living room window. These were days of pajamas and beard scruff, of mumblings and requests and him endlessly thanking everyone for all they were doing on his behalf. One afternoon, he pointed vaguely toward a laundry basket in a corner of the room and asked me, "What's that?" "That laundry basket?" "No, next to it." "I don't see anything next to it." "It's my last shred of dignity. It's very small." ••• The next day, I let myself in. They didn't like me to ring the doorbell anymore because it might wake him up. His sisters were there with their banker husbands and three kids, all boys, who ran up to me and chanted _who are you who are you who are you_ , running circles around the entryway like lung capacity was a renewable resource. I'd met the sisters before, but never the kids or their dads. "I'm Hazel," I said. "Gus has a _girlfriend_ ," one of the kids said. "I am aware that Gus has a girlfriend," I said. "She's got boobies," another said. "Is that so?" "Why do you have that?" the first one asked, pointing at my oxygen cart. "It helps me breathe," I said. "Is Gus awake?" "No, he's sleeping." "He's dying," said another. "He's dying," the third one confirmed, suddenly serious. It was quiet for a moment, and I wondered what I was supposed to say, but then one of them kicked another and they were off to the races again, falling all over each other in a scrum that migrated toward the kitchen. I made my way to Gus's parents in the living room and met his brothers-in-law, Chris and Dave. I hadn't gotten to know his half sisters, really, but they both hugged me anyway. Julie was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to a sleeping Gus in precisely the same voice that one would use to tell an infant he was adorable, saying, "Oh, Gussy Gussy, our little Gussy Gussy." Our Gussy? Had they acquired him? "What's up, Augustus?" I said, trying to model appropriate behavior. "Our beautiful Gussy," Martha said, leaning in toward him. I began to wonder if he was actually asleep or if he'd just laid a heavy finger on the pain pump to avoid the Attack of the Well-Meaning Sisters. ••• He woke up after a while and the first thing he said was, "Hazel," which I have to admit made me kind of happy, like maybe I was part of his family, too. "Outside," he said quietly. "Can we go?" We went, his mom pushing the wheelchair, sisters and brothers-in-law and dad and nephews and me trailing. It was a cloudy day, still and hot as summer settled in. He wore a long-sleeve navy T-shirt and fleece sweatpants. He was cold all the time for some reason. He wanted some water, so his dad went and got some for him. Martha tried to engage Gus in conversation, kneeling down next to him and saying, "You've always had such beautiful eyes." He nodded a little. One of the husbands put an arm on Gus's shoulder and said, "How's that fresh air feel?" Gus shrugged. "Do you want meds?" his mom asked, joining the circle kneeling around him. I took a step back, watching as the nephews tore through a flower bed on their way to the little patch of grass in Gus's backyard. They immediately commenced to play a game that involved throwing one another to the ground. "Kids!" Julie shouted vaguely. "I can only hope," Julie said, turning back to Gus, "they grow into the kind of thoughtful, intelligent young men you've become." I resisted the urge to audibly gag. "He's not that smart," I said to Julie. "She's right. It's just that most really good-looking people are stupid, so I exceed expectations." "Right, it's primarily his hotness," I said. "It can be sort of blinding," he said. "It actually did blind our friend Isaac," I said. "Terrible tragedy, that. But can I help my own deadly beauty?" "You cannot." "It is my burden, this beautiful face." "Not to mention your body." "Seriously, don't even get me started on my hot bod. You don't want to see me naked, Dave. Seeing me naked actually took Hazel Grace's breath away," he said, nodding toward the oxygen tank. "Okay, enough," Gus's dad said, and then out of nowhere, his dad put an arm around me and kissed the side of my head and whispered, "I thank God for you every day, kid." Anyway, that was the last good day I had with Gus until the Last Good Day. # **CHAPTER TWENTY** **O** ne of the less bullshitty conventions of the cancer kid genre is the Last Good Day convention, wherein the victim of cancer finds herself with some unexpected hours when it seems like the inexorable decline has suddenly plateaued, when the pain is for a moment bearable. The problem, of course, is that there's no way of knowing that your last good day is your Last Good Day. At the time, it is just another good day. I'd taken a day off from visiting Augustus because I was feeling a bit unwell myself: nothing specific, just tired. It had been a lazy day, and when Augustus called just after five P.M., I was already attached to the BiPAP, which we'd dragged out to the living room so I could watch TV with Mom and Dad. "Hi, Augustus," I said. He answered in the voice I'd fallen for. "Good evening, Hazel Grace. Do you suppose you could find your way to the Literal Heart of Jesus around eight P.M.?" "Um, yes?" "Excellent. Also, if it's not too much trouble, please prepare a eulogy." "Um," I said. "I love you," he said. "And I you," I answered. Then the phone clicked off. "Um," I said. "I have to go to Support Group at eight tonight. Emergency session." My mom muted the TV. "Is everything okay?" I looked at her for a second, my eyebrows raised. "I assume that's a rhetorical question." "But why would there—" "Because Gus needs me for some reason. It's fine. I can drive." I fiddled with the BiPAP so Mom would help me take it off, but she didn't. "Hazel," she said, "your dad and I feel like we hardly even _see_ you anymore." "Particularly those of us who work all week," Dad said. "He needs me," I said, finally unfastening the BiPAP myself. "We need you, too, kiddo," my dad said. He took hold of my wrist, like I was a two-year-old about to dart out into the street, and gripped it. "Well, get a terminal disease, Dad, and then I'll stay home more." "Hazel," my mom said. "You were the one who didn't want me to be a homebody," I said to her. Dad was still clutching my arm. "And now you want him to go ahead and die so I'll be back here chained to this place, letting you take care of me like I always used to. But I don't need it, Mom. I don't need you like I used to. Y _ou're_ the one who needs to get a life." "Hazel!" Dad said, squeezing harder. "Apologize to your mother." I was tugging at my arm but he wouldn't let go, and I couldn't get my cannula on with only one hand. It was infuriating. All I wanted was an old-fashioned Teenager Walkout, wherein I stomp out of the room and slam the door to my bedroom and turn up The Hectic Glow and furiously write a eulogy. But I couldn't because I couldn't freaking breathe. "The cannula," I whined. "I need it." My dad immediately let go and rushed to connect me to the oxygen. I could see the guilt in his eyes, but he was still angry. "Hazel, apologize to your mother." "Fine, I'm sorry, just please let me do this." They didn't say anything. Mom just sat there with her arms folded, not even looking at me. After a while, I got up and went to my room to write about Augustus. Both Mom and Dad tried a few times to knock on the door or whatever, but I just told them I was doing something important. It took me forever to figure out what I wanted to say, and even then I wasn't very happy with it. Before I'd technically finished, I noticed it was 7:40, which meant that I would be late even if I _didn't_ change, so in the end I wore baby blue cotton pajama pants, flip-flops, and Gus's Butler shirt. I walked out of the room and tried to go right past them, but my dad said, "You can't leave the house without permission." "Oh, my God, Dad. He wanted me to write him a _eulogy_ , okay? I'll be home every. Freaking. Night. Starting any day now, okay?" That finally shut them up. ••• It took the entire drive to calm down about my parents. I pulled up around the back of the church and parked in the semicircular driveway behind Augustus's car. The back door to the church was held open by a fist-size rock. Inside, I contemplated taking the stairs but decided to wait for the ancient creaking elevator. When the elevator doors unscrolled, I was in the Support Group room, the chairs arranged in the same circle. But now I saw only Gus in a wheelchair, ghoulishly thin. He was facing me from the center of the circle. He'd been waiting for the elevator doors to open. "Hazel Grace," he said, "you look ravishing." "I know, right?" I heard a shuffling in a dark corner of the room. Isaac stood behind a little wooden lectern, clinging to it. "You want to sit?" I asked him. "No, I'm about to eulogize. You're late." "You're...I'm...what?" Gus gestured for me to sit. I pulled a chair into the center of the circle with him as he spun the chair to face Isaac. "I want to attend my funeral," Gus said. "By the way, will you speak at my funeral?" "Um, of course, yeah," I said, letting my head fall onto his shoulder. I reached across his back and hugged both him and the wheelchair. He winced. I let go. "Awesome," he said. "I'm hopeful I'll get to attend as a ghost, but just to make sure, I thought I'd—well, not to put you on the spot, but I just this afternoon thought I could arrange a prefuneral, and I figured since I'm in reasonably good spirits, there's no time like the present." "How did you even get in here?" I asked him. "Would you believe they leave the door open all night?" Gus asked. "Um, no," I said. "As well you shouldn't." Gus smiled. "Anyway, I know it's a bit self-aggrandizing." "Hey, you're stealing my eulogy," Isaac said. "My first bit is about how you were a self-aggrandizing bastard." I laughed. "Okay, okay," Gus said. "At your leisure." Isaac cleared his throat. "Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing bastard. But we forgive him. We forgive him not because he had a heart as figuratively good as his literal one sucked, or because he knew more about how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history, or because he got eighteen years when he should have gotten more." "Seventeen," Gus corrected. "I'm assuming you've got some time, you interrupting bastard. "I'm telling you," Isaac continued, "Augustus Waters talked so much that he'd interrupt you at his own funeral. And he was pretentious: Sweet Jesus Christ, that kid never took a piss without pondering the abundant metaphorical resonances of human waste production. And he was vain: I do not believe I have ever met a more physically attractive person who was more acutely aware of his own physical attractiveness. "But I will say this: When the scientists of the future show up at my house with robot eyes and they tell me to try them on, I will tell the scientists to screw off, because I do not want to see a world without him." I was kind of crying by then. "And then, having made my rhetorical point, I will put my robot eyes on, because I mean, with robot eyes you can probably see through girls' shirts and stuff. Augustus, my friend, Godspeed." Augustus nodded for a while, his lips pursed, and then gave Isaac a thumbs-up. After he'd recovered his composure, he added, "I would cut the bit about seeing through girls' shirts." Isaac was still clinging to the lectern. He started to cry. He pressed his forehead down to the podium and I watched his shoulders shake, and then finally, he said, "Goddamn it, Augustus, editing your own eulogy." "Don't swear in the Literal Heart of Jesus," Gus said. "Goddamn it," Isaac said again. He raised his head and swallowed. "Hazel, can I get a hand here?" I'd forgotten he couldn't make his own way back to the circle. I got up, placed his hand on my arm, and walked him slowly back to the chair next to Gus where I'd been sitting. Then I walked up to the podium and unfolded the piece of paper on which I'd printed my eulogy. "My name is Hazel. Augustus Waters was the great star-crossed love of my life. Ours was an epic love story, and I won't be able to get more than a sentence into it without disappearing into a puddle of tears. Gus knew. Gus knows. I will not tell you our love story, because—like all real love stories—it will die with us, as it should. I'd hoped that he'd be eulogizing me, because there's no one I'd rather have..." I started crying. "Okay, how not to cry. How am I—okay. Okay." I took a few breaths and went back to the page. "I can't talk about our love story, so I will talk about math. I am not a mathematician, but I know this: There are infinite numbers between 0 and 1. There's .1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course, there is a _bigger_ infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. A writer we used to like taught us that. There are days, many of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set. I want more numbers than I'm likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for Augustus Waters than he got. But, Gus, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity. I wouldn't trade it for the world. You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful." # **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE** **A** ugustus Waters died eight days after his prefuneral, at Memorial, in the ICU, when the cancer, which was made of him, finally stopped his heart, which was also made of him. He was with his mom and dad and sisters. His mom called me at three thirty in the morning. I'd known, of course, that he was going. I'd talked to his dad before going to bed, and he told me, "It could be tonight," but still, when I grabbed the phone from the bedside table and saw _Gus's Mom_ on the caller ID, everything inside of me collapsed. She was just crying on the other end of the line, and she told me she was sorry, and I said I was sorry, too, and she told me that he was unconscious for a couple hours before he died. My parents came in then, looking expectant, and I just nodded and they fell into each other, feeling, I'm sure, the harmonic terror that would in time come for them directly. I called Isaac, who cursed life and the universe and God Himself and who said where are the goddamned trophies to break when you need them, and then I realized there was no one else to call, which was the saddest thing. The only person I really wanted to talk to about Augustus Waters's death was Augustus Waters. My parents stayed in my room forever until it was morning and finally Dad said, "Do you want to be alone?" and I nodded and Mom said, "We'll be right outside the door," me thinking, _I don't doubt it_. ••• It was unbearable. The whole thing. Every second worse than the last. I just kept thinking about calling him, wondering what would happen, if anyone would answer. In the last weeks, we'd been reduced to spending our time together in recollection, but that was not nothing: The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we'd done were less real and important than they had been hours before. ••• When you go into the ER, one of the first things they ask you to do is to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, and from there they decide which drugs to use and how quickly to use them. I'd been asked this question hundreds of times over the years, and I remember once early on when I couldn't get my breath and it felt like my chest was on fire, flames licking the inside of my ribs fighting for a way to burn out of my body, my parents took me to the ER. A nurse asked me about the pain, and I couldn't even speak, so I held up nine fingers. Later, after they'd given me something, the nurse came in and she was kind of stroking my hand while she took my blood pressure and she said, "You know how I know you're a fighter? You called a ten a nine." But that wasn't quite right. I called it a nine because I was saving my ten. And here it was, the great and terrible ten, slamming me again and again as I lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me against the rocks then pulling me back out to sea so they could launch me again into the jagged face of the cliff, leaving me floating faceup on the water, undrowned. Finally I did call him. His phone rang five times and then went to voice mail. "You've reached the voice mail of Augustus Waters," he said, the clarion voice I'd fallen for. "Leave a message." It beeped. The dead air on the line was so eerie. I just wanted to go back to that secret post-terrestrial third space with him that we visited when we talked on the phone. I waited for that feeling, but it never came: The dead air on the line was no comfort, and finally I hung up. I got my laptop out from under the bed and fired it up and went onto his wall page, where already the condolences were flooding in. The most recent one said: I love you, bro. See you on the other side. ...Written by someone I'd never heard of. In fact, almost all the wall posts, which arrived nearly as fast as I could read them, were written by people I'd never met and whom he'd never spoken about, people who were extolling his various virtues now that he was dead, even though I knew for a fact they hadn't seen him in months and had made no effort to visit him. I wondered if my wall would look like this if I died, or if I'd been out of school and life long enough to escape widespread memorialization. I kept reading. I miss you already, bro. I love you, Augustus. God bless and keep you. You'll live forever in our hearts, big man. (That particularly galled me, because it implied the immortality of those left behind: You will live forever in my memory, because I will live forever! I AM YOUR GOD NOW, DEAD BOY! I OWN YOU! Thinking you won't die is yet another side effect of dying.) You were always such a great friend I'm sorry I didn't see more of you after you left school, bro. I bet you're already playing ball in heaven. I imagined the Augustus Waters analysis of that comment: If I am playing basketball in heaven, does that imply a physical location of a heaven containing physical basketballs? Who makes the basketballs in question? Are there less fortunate souls in heaven who work in a celestial basketball factory so that I can play? Or did an omnipotent God create the basketballs out of the vacuum of space? Is this heaven in some kind of unobservable universe where the laws of physics don't apply, and if so, why in the hell would I be playing basketball when I could be flying or reading or looking at beautiful people or something else I actually enjoy? It's almost as if the way you imagine my dead self says more about you than it says about either the person I was or the whatever I am now. ••• His parents called around noon to say the funeral would be in five days, on Saturday. I pictured a church packed with people who thought he liked basketball, and I wanted to puke, but I knew I had to go, since I was speaking and everything. When I hung up, I went back to reading his wall: Just heard that Gus Waters died after a lengthy battle with cancer. Rest in peace, buddy. ••• I knew these people were genuinely sad, and that I wasn't really mad at them. I was mad at the universe. Even so, it infuriated me: You get all these friends just when you don't need friends anymore. I wrote a reply to his comment: We live in a universe devoted to the creation, and eradication, of awareness. Augustus Waters did not die after a lengthy battle with cancer. He died after a lengthy battle with human consciousness, a victim—as you will be—of the universe's need to make and unmake all that is possible. I posted it and waited for someone to reply, refreshing over and over again. Nothing. My comment got lost in the blizzard of new posts. Everyone was going to miss him so much. Everyone was praying for his family. I remembered Van Houten's letter: Writing does not resurrect. It buries. ••• After a while, I went out into the living room to sit with my parents and watch TV. I couldn't tell you what the show was, but at some point, my mom said, "Hazel, what can we do for you?" And I just shook my head. I started crying again. "What can we do?" Mom asked again. I shrugged. But she kept asking, as if there were something she could do, until finally I just kind of crawled across the couch into her lap and my dad came over and held my legs really tight and I wrapped my arms all the way around my mom's middle and they held on to me for hours while the tide rolled in. # **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO** **W** hen we first got there, I sat in the back of the visitation room, a little room of exposed stone walls off to the side of the sanctuary in the Literal Heart of Jesus church. There were maybe eighty chairs set up in the room, and it was two-thirds full but felt one-third empty. For a while, I just watched people walk up to the coffin, which was on some kind of cart covered in a purple tablecloth. All these people I'd never seen before would kneel down next to him or stand over him and look at him for a while, maybe crying, maybe saying something, and then all of them would touch the coffin instead of touching him, because no one wants to touch the dead. Gus's mom and dad were standing next to the coffin, hugging everybody as they passed by, but when they noticed me, they smiled and shuffled over. I got up and hugged first his dad and then his mom, who held on to me too tight, like Gus used to, squeezing my shoulder blades. They both looked so old—their eye sockets hollowed, the skin sagging from their exhausted faces. They had reached the end of a hurdling sprint, too. "He loved you so much," Gus's mom said. "He really did. It wasn't—it wasn't puppy love or anything," she added, as if I didn't know that. "He loved you so much, too," I said quietly. It's hard to explain, but talking to them felt like stabbing and being stabbed. "I'm sorry," I said. And then his parents were talking to my parents—the conversation all nodding and tight lips. I looked up at the casket and saw it unattended, so I decided to walk up there. I pulled the oxygen tube from my nostrils and raised the tube up over my head, handing it to Dad. I wanted it to be just me and just him. I grabbed my little clutch and walked up the makeshift aisle between the rows of chairs. The walk felt long, but I kept telling my lungs to shut up, that they were strong, that they could do this. I could see him as I approached: His hair was parted neatly on the left side in a way that he would have found absolutely horrifying, and his face was plasticized. But he was still Gus. My lanky, beautiful Gus. I wanted to wear the little black dress I'd bought for my fifteenth birthday party, my death dress, but I didn't fit into it anymore, so I wore a plain black dress, knee-length. Augustus wore the same thin-lapeled suit he'd worn to Oranjee. As I knelt, I realized they'd closed his eyes—of course they had—and that I would never again see his blue eyes. "I love you present tense," I whispered, and then put my hand on the middle of his chest and said, "It's okay, Gus. It's okay. It is. It's okay, you hear me?" I had—and have—absolutely no confidence that he could hear me. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Okay," I said. "Okay." I suddenly felt conscious that there were all these people watching us, that the last time so many people saw us kiss we were in the Anne Frank House. But there was, properly speaking, no us left to watch. Only a me. I snapped open the clutch, reached in, and pulled out a hard pack of Camel Lights. In a quick motion I hoped no one behind would notice, I snuck them into the space between his side and the coffin's plush silver lining. "You can light these," I whispered to him. "I won't mind." ••• While I was talking to him, Mom and Dad had moved up to the second row with my tank, so I didn't have a long walk back. Dad handed me a tissue as I sat down. I blew my nose, threaded the tubes around my ears, and put the nubbins back in. I thought we'd go into the proper sanctuary for the real funeral, but it all happened in that little side room—the Literal Hand of Jesus, I guess, the part of the cross he'd been nailed to. A minister walked up and stood behind the coffin, almost like the coffin was a pulpit or something, and talked a little bit about how Augustus had a courageous battle and how his heroism in the face of illness was an inspiration to us all, and I was already starting to get pissed off at the minister when he said, "In heaven, Augustus will finally be healed and whole," implying that he had been less whole than other people due to his leglessness, and I kind of could not repress my sigh of disgust. My dad grabbed me just above the knee and cut me a disapproving look, but from the row behind me, someone muttered almost inaudibly near my ear, "What a load of horse crap, eh, kid?" I spun around. Peter Van Houten wore a white linen suit, tailored to account for his rotundity, a powder-blue dress shirt, and a green tie. He looked like he was dressed for a colonial occupation of Panama, not a funeral. The minister said, "Let us pray," but as everyone else bowed their head, I could only stare slack-jawed at the sight of Peter Van Houten. After a moment, he whispered, "We gotta fake pray," and bowed his head. I tried to forget about him and just pray for Augustus. I made a point of listening to the minister and not looking back. The minister called up Isaac, who was much more serious than he'd been at the prefuneral. "Augustus Waters was the Mayor of the Secret City of Cancervania, and he is not replaceable," Isaac began. "Other people will be able to tell you funny stories about Gus, because he was a funny guy, but let me tell you a serious one: A day after I got my eye cut out, Gus showed up at the hospital. I was blind and heartbroken and didn't want to do anything and Gus burst into my room and shouted, 'I have wonderful news!' And I was like, 'I don't really want to hear wonderful news right now,' and Gus said, 'This is wonderful news you want to hear,' and I asked him, 'Fine, what is it?' and he said, 'You are going to live a good and long life filled with great and terrible moments that you cannot even imagine yet!'" Isaac couldn't go on, or maybe that was all he had written. ••• After a high school friend told some stories about Gus's considerable basketball talents and his many qualities as a teammate, the minister said, "We'll now hear a few words from Augustus's special friend, Hazel." _Special friend?_ There were some titters in the audience, so I figured it was safe for me to start out by saying to the minister, "I was his girlfriend." That got a laugh. Then I began reading from the eulogy I'd written. "There's a great quote in Gus's house, one that both he and I found very comforting: _Without pain, we couldn't know joy_." I went on spouting bullshit Encouragements as Gus's parents, arm in arm, hugged each other and nodded at every word. Funerals, I had decided, are for the living. ••• After his sister Julie spoke, the service ended with a prayer about Gus's union with God, and I thought back to what he'd told me at Oranjee, that he didn't believe in mansions and harps, but did believe in capital- _S_ Something, and so I tried to imagine him capital- _S_ Somewhere as we prayed, but even then I could not quite convince myself that he and I would be together again. I already knew too many dead people. I knew that time would now pass for me differently than it would for him—that I, like everyone in that room, would go on accumulating loves and losses while he would not. And for me, that was the final and truly unbearable tragedy: Like all the innumerable dead, he'd once and for all been demoted from haunted to haunter. And then one of Gus's brothers-in-law brought up a boom box and they played this song Gus had picked out—a sad and quiet song by The Hectic Glow called "The New Partner." I just wanted to go home, honestly. I didn't know hardly any of these people, and I felt Peter Van Houten's little eyes boring into my exposed shoulder blades, but after the song was over, everyone had to come up to me and tell me that I'd spoken beautifully, and that it was a lovely service, which was a lie: It was a funeral. It looked like any other funeral. His pallbearers—cousins, his dad, an uncle, friends I'd never seen—came and got him, and they all started walking toward the hearse. When Mom and Dad and I got in the car, I said, "I don't want to go. I'm tired." "Hazel," Mom said. "Mom, there won't be a place to sit and it'll last forever and I'm exhausted." "Hazel, we have to go for Mr. and Mrs. Waters," Mom said. "Just..." I said. I felt so little in the backseat for some reason. I kind of wanted to _be_ little. I wanted to be like six years old or something. "Fine," I said. I just stared out the window awhile. I really didn't want to go. I didn't want to see them lower him into the ground in the spot he'd picked out with his dad, and I didn't want to see his parents sink to their knees in the dew-wet grass and moan in pain, and I didn't want to see Peter Van Houten's alcoholic belly stretched against his linen jacket, and I didn't want to cry in front of a bunch of people, and I didn't want to toss a handful of dirt onto his grave, and I didn't want my parents to have to stand there beneath the clear blue sky with its certain slant of afternoon light, thinking about their day and their kid and my plot and my casket and my dirt. But I did these things. I did all of them and worse, because Mom and Dad felt we should. ••• After it was over, Van Houten walked up to me and put a fat hand on my shoulder and said, "Could I hitch a ride? Left my rental at the bottom of the hill." I shrugged, and he opened the door to the backseat right as my dad unlocked the car. Inside, he leaned between the front seats and said, "Peter Van Houten: Novelist Emeritus and Semiprofessional Disappointer." My parents introduced themselves. He shook their hands. I was pretty surprised that Peter Van Houten had flown halfway across the world to attend a funeral. "How did you even—" I started, but he cut me off. "I used the infernal Internet of yours to follow the Indianapolis obituary notices." He reached into his linen suit and produced a fifth of whiskey. "And you just like bought a ticket and—" He interrupted again while unscrewing the cap. "It was fifteen thousand for a first-class ticket, but I'm sufficiently capitalized to indulge such whims. And the drinks are free on the flight. If you're ambitious, you can almost break even." Van Houten took a swig of the whiskey and then leaned forward to offer it to my dad, who said, "Um, no thanks." Then Van Houten nodded the bottle toward me. I grabbed it. "Hazel," my mom said, but I unscrewed the cap and sipped. It made my stomach feel like my lungs. I handed the bottle back to Van Houten, who took a long slug from it and then said, "So. _Omnis cellula e cellula_." "Huh?" "Your boy Waters and I corresponded a bit, and in his last—" "Wait, you read your fan mail now?" "No, he sent it to my house, not through my publisher. And I'd hardly call him a fan. He despised me. But at any rate he was quite insistent that I'd be absolved for my misbehavior if I attended his funeral and told you what became of Anna's mother. So here I am, and there's your answer: _Omnis cellula e cellula_." "What?" I asked again. _"Omnis cellula e cellula,_ " he said again. "All cells come from cells. Every cell is born of a previous cell, which was born of a previous cell. Life comes from life. Life begets life begets life begets life begets life." We reached the bottom of the hill. "Okay, yeah," I said. I was in no mood for this. Peter Van Houten would not hijack Gus's funeral. I wouldn't allow it. "Thanks," I said. "Well, I guess we're at the bottom of the hill." "You don't want an explanation?" he asked. "No," I said. "I'm good. I think you're a pathetic alcoholic who says fancy things to get attention like a really precocious eleven-year-old and I feel super bad for you. But yeah, no, you're not the guy who wrote _An Imperial Affliction_ anymore, so you couldn't sequel it even if you wanted to. Thanks, though. Have an excellent life." "But—" "Thanks for the booze," I said. "Now get out of the car." He looked scolded. Dad had stopped the car and we just idled there below Gus's grave for a minute until Van Houten opened the door and, finally silent, left. As we drove away, I watched through the back window as he took a drink and raised the bottle in my direction, as if toasting me. His eyes looked so sad. I felt kinda bad for him, to be honest. ••• We finally got home around six, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep, but Mom made me eat some cheesy pasta, although she at least allowed me to eat in bed. I slept with the BiPAP for a couple hours. Waking up was horrible, because for a disoriented moment I felt like everything was fine, and then it crushed me anew. Mom took me off the BiPAP, I tethered myself to a portable tank, and stumbled into my bathroom to brush my teeth. Appraising myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, I kept thinking there were two kinds of adults: There were Peter Van Houtens—miserable creatures who scoured the earth in search of something to hurt. And then there were people like my parents, who walked around zombically, doing whatever they had to do to keep walking around. Neither of these futures struck me as particularly desirable. It seemed to me that I had already seen everything pure and good in the world, and I was beginning to suspect that even if death didn't get in the way, the kind of love that Augustus and I share could never last. _So dawn goes down to day_ , the poet wrote. _Nothing gold can stay_. Someone knocked on the bathroom door. "Occupada," I said. "Hazel," my dad said. "Can I come in?" I didn't answer, but after a while I unlocked the door. I sat down on the closed toilet seat. Why did breathing have to be such work? Dad knelt down next to me. He grabbed my head and pulled it into his collarbone, and he said, "I'm sorry Gus died." I felt kind of suffocated by his T-shirt, but it felt good to be held so hard, pressed into the comfortable smell of my dad. It was almost like he was angry or something, and I liked that, because I was angry, too. "It's total bullshit," he said. "The whole thing. Eighty percent survival rate and he's in the twenty percent? Bullshit. He was such a bright kid. It's bullshit. I hate it. But it was sure a privilege to love him, huh?" I nodded into his shirt. "Gives you an idea how I feel about you," he said. My old man. He always knew just what to say. # **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE** **A** couple days later, I got up around noon and drove over to Isaac's house. He answered the door himself. "My mom took Graham to a movie," he said. "We should go do something," I said. "Can the something be play blind-guy video games while sitting on the couch?" "Yeah, that's just the kind of something I had in mind." So we sat there for a couple hours talking to the screen together, navigating this invisible labyrinthine cave without a single lumen of light. The most entertaining part of the game by far was trying to get the computer to engage us in humorous conversation: Me: "Touch the cave wall." Computer: "You touch the cave wall. It is moist." Isaac: "Lick the cave wall." Computer: "I do not understand. Repeat?" Me: "Hump the moist cave wall." Computer: "You attempt to jump. You hit your head." Isaac: "Not _jump. HUMP_." Computer: "I don't understand." Isaac: "Dude, I've been alone in the dark in this cave for weeks and I need some relief. HUMP THE CAVE WALL." Computer: "You attempt to ju—" Me: "Thrust pelvis against the cave wall." Computer: "I do not—" Isaac: "Make sweet love to the cave." Computer: "I do not—" Me: " _FINE._ Follow left branch." Computer: "You follow the left branch. The passage narrows." Me: "Crawl." Computer: "You crawl for one hundred yards. The passage narrows." Me: "Snake crawl." Computer: "You snake crawl for thirty yards. A trickle of water runs down your body. You reach a mound of small rocks blocking the passageway." Me: "Can I hump the cave now?" Computer: "You cannot jump without standing." Isaac: "I dislike living in a world without Augustus Waters." Computer: "I don't understand—" Isaac: "Me neither. Pause." ••• He dropped the remote onto the couch between us and asked, "Do you know if it hurt or whatever?" "He was really fighting for breath, I guess," I said. "He eventually went unconscious, but it sounds like, yeah, it wasn't great or anything. Dying sucks." "Yeah," Isaac said. And then after a long time, "It just seems so impossible." "Happens all the time," I said. "You seem angry," he said. "Yeah," I said. We just sat there quiet for a long time, which was fine, and I was thinking about way back in the very beginning in the Literal Heart of Jesus when Gus told us that he feared oblivion, and I told him that he was fearing something universal and inevitable, and how really, the problem is not suffering itself or oblivion itself but the depraved meaninglessness of these things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering. I thought of my dad telling me that the universe wants to be noticed. But what we want is to be noticed by the universe, to have the universe give a shit what happens to us—not the collective idea of sentient life but each of us, as individuals. "Gus really loved you, you know," he said. "I know." "He wouldn't shut up about it." "I know," I said. "It was annoying." "I didn't find it that annoying," I said. "Did he ever give you that thing he was writing?" "What thing?" "That sequel or whatever to that book you liked." I turned to Isaac. "What?" "He said he was working on something for you but he wasn't that good of a writer." "When did he say this?" "I don't know. Like, after he got back from Amsterdam at some point." "At which point?" I pressed. Had he not had a chance to finish it? Had he finished it and left it on his computer or something? "Um," Isaac sighed. "Um, I don't know. We talked about it over here once. He was over here, like—uh, we played with my email machine and I'd just gotten an email from my grandmother. I can check on the machine if you—" "Yeah, yeah, where is it?" ••• He'd mentioned it a month before. A month. Not a good month, admittedly, but still—a month. That was enough time for him to have written _something_ , at least. There was still something of him, or by him at least, floating around out there. I needed it. "I'm gonna go to his house," I told Isaac. I hurried out to the minivan and hauled the oxygen cart up and into the passenger seat. I started the car. A hip-hop beat blared from the stereo, and as I reached to change the radio station, someone started rapping. In Swedish. I swiveled around and screamed when I saw Peter Van Houten sitting in the backseat. "I apologize for alarming you," Peter Van Houten said over the rapping. He was still wearing the funeral suit, almost a week later. He smelled like he was sweating alcohol. "You're welcome to keep the CD," he said. "It's Snook, one of the major Swedish—" "Ah ah ah ah GET OUT OF MY CAR." I turned off the stereo. "It's your mother's car, as I understand it," he said. "Also, it wasn't locked." "Oh, my God! Get out of the car or I'll call nine-one-one. Dude, what is your _problem_?" "If only there were just one," he mused. "I am here simply to apologize. You were correct in noting earlier that I am a pathetic little man, dependent upon alcohol. I had one acquaintance who only spent time with me because I paid her to do so—worse, still, she has since quit, leaving me the rare soul who cannot acquire companionship even through bribery. It is all true, Hazel. All that and more." "Okay," I said. It would have been a more moving speech had he not slurred his words. "You remind me of Anna." "I remind a lot of people of a lot of people," I answered. "I really have to go." "So drive," he said. "Get out." "No. You remind me of Anna," he said again. After a second, I put the car in reverse and backed out. I couldn't make him leave, and I didn't have to. I'd drive to Gus's house, and Gus's parents would make him leave. "You are, of course, familiar," Van Houten said, "with Antonietta Meo." "Yeah, no," I said. I turned on the stereo, and the Swedish hip-hop blared, but Van Houten yelled over it. "She may soon be the youngest nonmartyr saint ever beatified by the Catholic Church. She had the same cancer that Mr. Waters had, osteosarcoma. They removed her right leg. The pain was excruciating. As Antonietta Meo lay dying at the ripened age of six from this agonizing cancer, she told her father, 'Pain is like fabric: The stronger it is, the more it's worth.' Is that true, Hazel?" I wasn't looking at him directly but at his reflection in the mirror. "No," I shouted over the music. "That's bullshit." "But don't you wish it were true!" he cried back. I cut the music. "I'm sorry I ruined your trip. You were too young. You were—" He broke down. As if he had a right to cry over Gus. Van Houten was just another of the endless mourners who did not know him, another too-late lamentation on his wall. "You didn't ruin our trip, you self-important bastard. We had an awesome trip." _"I am trying,"_ he said. _"I am trying, I swear."_ It was around then that I realized Peter Van Houten had a dead person in his family. I considered the honesty with which he had written about cancer kids; the fact that he couldn't speak to me in Amsterdam except to ask if I'd dressed like her on purpose; his shittiness around me and Augustus; his aching question about the relationship between pain's extremity and its value. He sat back there drinking, an old man who'd been drunk for years. I thought of a statistic I wish I didn't know: Half of marriages end in the year after a child's death. I looked back at Van Houten. I was driving down College and I pulled over behind a line of parked cars and asked, "You had a kid who died?" "My daughter," he said. "She was eight. Suffered beautifully. Will never be beatified." "She had leukemia?" I asked. He nodded. "Like Anna," I said. "Very much like her, yes." "You were married?" "No. Well, not at the time of her death. I was insufferable long before we lost her. Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you." "Did you live with her?" "No, not primarily, although at the end, we brought her to New York, where I was living, for a series of experimental tortures that increased the misery of her days without increasing the number of them." After a second, I said, "So it's like you gave her this second life where she got to be a teenager." "I suppose that would be a fair assessment," he said, and then quickly added, "I assume you are familiar with Philippa Foot's Trolley Problem thought experiment?" "And then I show up at your house and I'm dressed like the girl you hoped she would live to become and you're, like, all taken aback by it." "There's a trolley running out of control down a track," he said. "I don't care about your stupid thought experiment," I said. "It's Philippa Foot's, actually." "Well, hers either," I said. "She didn't understand why it was happening," he said. "I had to tell her she would die. Her social worker said I had to tell her. I had to tell her she would die, so I told her she was going to heaven. She asked if I would be there, and I said that I would not, not yet. But eventually, she said, and I promised that yes, of course, very soon. And I told her that in the meantime we had great family up there that would take care of her. And she asked me when I would be there, and I told her soon. Twenty-two years ago." "I'm sorry." "So am I." After a while, I asked, "What happened to her mom?" He smiled. "You're still looking for your sequel, you little rat." I smiled back. "You should go home," I told him. "Sober up. Write another novel. Do the thing you're good at. Not many people are lucky enough to be so good at something." He stared at me through the mirror for a long time. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. You're right. You're right." But even as he said it, he pulled out his mostly empty fifth of whiskey. He drank, recapped the bottle, and opened the door. "Good-bye, Hazel." "Take it easy, Van Houten." He sat down on the curb behind the car. As I watched him shrink in the rearview mirror, he pulled out the bottle and for a second it looked like he would leave it on the curb. And then he took a swig. ••• It was a hot afternoon in Indianapolis, the air thick and still like we were inside a cloud. It was the worst kind of air for me, and I told myself it was just the air when the walk from his driveway to his front door felt infinite. I rang the doorbell, and Gus's mom answered. "Oh, Hazel," she said, and kind of enveloped me, crying. She made me eat some eggplant lasagna—I guess a lot of people had brought them food or whatever—with her and Gus's dad. "How are you?" "I miss him." "Yeah." I didn't really know what to say. I just wanted to go downstairs and find whatever he'd written for me. Plus, the silence in the room really bothered me. I wanted them to be talking to each other, comforting or holding hands or whatever. But they just sat there eating very small amounts of lasagna, not even looking at each other. "Heaven needed an angel," his dad said after a while. "I know," I said. Then his sisters and their mess of kids showed up and piled into the kitchen. I got up and hugged both his sisters and then watched the kids run around the kitchen with their sorely needed surplus of noise and movement, excited molecules bouncing against each other and shouting, "You're it no you're it no I was it but then I tagged you you didn't tag me you missed me well I'm tagging you now no dumb butt it's a time-out DANIEL DO NOT CALL YOUR BROTHER A DUMB BUTT Mom if I'm not allowed to use that word how come you just used it dumb butt dumb butt," and then, chorally, _dumb butt dumb butt dumb butt dumb butt_ , and at the table Gus's parents were now holding hands, which made me feel better. "Isaac told me Gus was writing something, something for me," I said. The kids were still singing their dumb-butt song. "We can check his computer," his mom said. "He wasn't on it much the last few weeks," I said. "That's true. I'm not even sure we brought it upstairs. Is it still in the basement, Mark?" "No idea." "Well," I said, "can I..." I nodded toward the basement door. "We're not ready," his dad said. "But of course, yes, Hazel. Of course you can." ••• I walked downstairs, past his unmade bed, past the gaming chairs beneath the TV. His computer was still on. I tapped the mouse to wake it up and then searched for his most recently edited files. Nothing in the last month. The most recent thing was a response paper to Toni Morrison's _The Bluest Eye_. Maybe he'd written something by hand. I walked over to his bookshelves, looking for a journal or a notebook. Nothing. I flipped through his copy of _An Imperial Affliction_. He hadn't left a single mark in it. I walked to his bedside table next. _Infinite Mayhem_ , the ninth sequel to _The Price of Dawn_ , lay atop the table next to his reading lamp, the corner of page 138 turned down. He'd never made it to the end of the book. "Spoiler alert: Mayhem survives," I said out loud to him, just in case he could hear me. And then I crawled into his unmade bed, wrapping myself in his comforter like a cocoon, surrounding myself with his smell. I took out my cannula so I could smell better, breathing him in and breathing him out, the scent fading even as I lay there, my chest burning until I couldn't distinguish among the pains. I sat up in the bed after a while and reinserted my cannula and breathed for a while before going up the stairs. I just shook my head no in response to his parents' expectant looks. The kids raced past me. One of Gus's sisters—I could not tell them apart—said, "Mom, do you want me to take them to the park or something?" "No, no, they're fine." "Is there anywhere he might have put a notebook? Like by his hospital bed or something?" The bed was already gone, reclaimed by hospice. "Hazel," his dad said, "you were there every day with us. You— he wasn't alone much, sweetie. He wouldn't have had time to write anything. I know you want...I want that, too. But the messages he leaves for us now are coming from above, Hazel." He pointed toward the ceiling, as if Gus were hovering just above the house. Maybe he was. I don't know. I didn't feel his presence, though. "Yeah," I said. I promised to visit them again in a few days. I never quite caught his scent again. # **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR** **T** hree days later, on the eleventh day AG, Gus's father called me in the morning. I was still hooked to the BiPAP, so I didn't answer, but I listened to his message the moment it beeped through to my phone. "Hazel, hi, it's Gus's dad. I found a, uh, black Moleskine notebook in the magazine rack that was near his hospital bed, I think near enough that he could have reached it. Unfortunately there's no writing in the notebook. All the pages are blank. But the first—I think three or four—the first few pages are torn out of the notebook. We looked through the house but couldn't find the pages. So I don't know what to make of that. But maybe those pages are what Isaac was referring to? Anyway, I hope that you are doing okay. You're in our prayers every day, Hazel. Okay, bye." Three or four pages ripped from a Moleskine notebook no longer in Augustus Waters's house. Where would he leave them for me? Taped to _Funky Bones_? No, he wasn't well enough to get there. The Literal Heart of Jesus. Maybe he'd left it there for me on his Last Good Day. So I left twenty minutes early for Support Group the next day. I drove over to Isaac's house, picked him up, and then we drove down to the Literal Heart of Jesus with the windows of the minivan down, listening to The Hectic Glow's leaked new album, which Gus would never hear. We took the elevator. I walked Isaac to a seat in the Circle of Trust then slowly worked my way around the Literal Heart. I checked everywhere: under the chairs, around the lectern I'd stood behind while delivering my eulogy, under the treat table, on the bulletin board packed with Sunday school kids' drawings of God's love. Nothing. It was the only place we'd been together in those last days besides his house, and it either wasn't here or I was missing something. Perhaps he'd left it for me in the hospital, but if so, it had almost certainly been thrown away after his death. I was really out of breath by the time I settled into a chair next to Isaac, and I devoted the entirety of Patrick's nutless testimonial to telling my lungs they were okay, that they could breathe, that there was enough oxygen. They'd been drained only a week before Gus died—I watched the amber cancer water dribble out of me through the tube—and yet already they felt full again. I was so focused on telling myself to breathe that I didn't notice Patrick saying my name at first. I snapped to attention. "Yeah?" I asked. "How are you?" "I'm okay, Patrick. I'm a little out of breath." "Would you like to share a memory of Augustus with the group?" "I wish I would just die, Patrick. Do you ever wish you would just die?" "Yes," Patrick said, without his usual pause. "Yes, of course. So why don't you?" I thought about it. My old stock answer was that I wanted to stay alive for my parents, because they would be all gutted and childless in the wake of me, and that was still true kind of, but that wasn't it, exactly. "I don't know." "In the hopes that you'll get better?" "No," I said. "No, it's not that. I really don't know. Isaac?" I asked. I was tired of talking. Isaac started talking about true love. I couldn't tell them what I was thinking because it seemed cheesy to me, but I was thinking about the universe wanting to be noticed, and how I had to notice it as best I could. I felt that I owed a debt to the universe that only my attention could repay, and also that I owed a debt to everybody who didn't get to be a person anymore and everyone who hadn't gotten to be a person yet. What my dad had told me, basically. I stayed quiet for the rest of Support Group, and Patrick said a special prayer for me, and Gus's name was tacked onto the long list of the dead—fourteen of them for every one of us—and we promised to live our best life today, and then I took Isaac to the car. ••• When I got home, Mom and Dad were at the dining room table on their separate laptops, and the moment I walked in the door, Mom slammed her laptop shut. "What's on the computer?" "Just some antioxidant recipes. Ready for BiPAP and _America's Next Top Model_?" she asked. "I'm just going to lie down for a minute." "Are you okay?" "Yeah, just tired." "Well, you've gotta eat before you—" "Mom, I am aggressively unhungry." I took a step toward the door but she cut me off. "Hazel, you have to eat. Just some ch—" "No. I'm going to bed." "No," Mom said. "You're not." I glanced at my dad, who shrugged. "It's my life," I said. "You're not going to starve yourself to death just because Augustus died. You're going to eat dinner." I was really pissed off for some reason. "I can't eat, Mom. I can't. Okay?" I tried to push past her but she grabbed both my shoulders and said, "Hazel, you're eating dinner. You need to stay healthy." "NO!" I shouted. "I'm not eating dinner, and I can't stay healthy, because I'm not healthy. I am dying, Mom. I am going to die and leave you here alone and you won't have a me to hover around and you won't be a mother anymore, and I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it, okay?!" I regretted it as soon as I said it. "You heard me." "What?" "Did you hear me say that to your father?" Her eyes welled up. "Did you?" I nodded. "Oh, God, Hazel. I'm sorry. I was wrong, sweetie. That wasn't true. I said that in a desperate moment. It's not something I believe." She sat down, and I sat down with her. I was thinking that I should have just puked up some pasta for her instead of getting pissed off. "What do you believe, then?" I asked. "As long as either of us is alive, I will be your mother," she said. "Even if you die, I—" "When," I said. She nodded. "Even when you die, I will still be your mom, Hazel. I won't stop being your mom. Have you stopped loving Gus?" I shook my head. "Well, then how could I stop loving you?" "Okay," I said. My dad was crying now. "I want you guys to have a life," I said. "I worry that you won't have a life, that you'll sit around here all day with no me to look after and stare at the walls and want to off yourselves." After a minute, Mom said, "I'm taking some classes. Online, through IU. To get my master's in social work. In fact, I wasn't looking at antioxidant recipes; I was writing a paper." "Seriously?" "I don't want you to think I'm imagining a world without you. But if I get my MSW, I can counsel families in crisis or lead groups dealing with illness in their families or—" "Wait, you're going to become a Patrick?" "Well, not exactly. There are all kinds of social work jobs." Dad said, "We've both been worried that you'll feel abandoned. It's important for you to know that we will _always_ be here for you, Hazel. Your mom isn't going anywhere." "No, this is great. This is fantastic!" I was really smiling. "Mom is going to become a Patrick. She'll be a great Patrick! She'll be so much better at it than Patrick is." "Thank you, Hazel. That means everything to me." I nodded. I was crying. I couldn't get over how happy I was, crying genuine tears of actual happiness for the first time in maybe forever, imagining my mom as a Patrick. It made me think of Anna's mom. She would've been a good social worker, too. After a while we turned on the TV and watched _ANTM_. But I paused it after five seconds because I had all these questions for Mom. "So how close are you to finishing?" "If I go up to Bloomington for a week this summer, I should be able to finish by December." "How long have you been keeping this from me, exactly?" "A year." _"Mom."_ "I didn't want to hurt you, Hazel." Amazing. "So when you're waiting for me outside of MCC or Support Group or whatever, you're always—" "Yes, working or reading." "This is so great. If I'm dead, I want you to know I will be sighing at you from heaven every time you ask someone to share their feelings." My dad laughed. "I'll be right there with ya, kiddo," he assured me. Finally, we watched _ANTM_. Dad tried really hard not to die of boredom, and he kept messing up which girl was which, saying, "We like her?" "No, no. We _revile_ Anastasia. We like _Antonia_ , the other blonde," Mom explained. "They're all tall and horrible," Dad responded. "Forgive me for failing to tell the difference." Dad reached across me for Mom's hand. "Do you think you guys will stay together if I die?" I asked. "Hazel, what? Sweetie." She fumbled for the remote control and paused the TV again. "What's wrong?" "Just, do you think you would?" "Yes, of course. Of course," Dad said. "Your mom and I love each other, and if we lose you, we'll go through it together." "Swear to God," I said. "I swear to God," he said. I looked back at Mom. "Swear to God," she agreed. "Why are you even worrying about this?" "I just don't want to ruin your life or anything." Mom leaned forward and pressed her face into my messy puff of hair and kissed me at the very top of my head. I said to Dad, "I don't want you to become like a miserable unemployed alcoholic or whatever." My mom smiled. "Your father isn't Peter Van Houten, Hazel. You of all people know it is possible to live with pain." "Yeah, okay," I said. Mom hugged me and I let her even though I didn't really want to be hugged. "Okay, you can unpause it," I said. Anastasia got kicked off. She threw a fit. It was awesome. I ate a few bites of dinner—bow-tie pasta with pesto—and managed to keep it down. # **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE** **I** woke up the next morning panicked because I'd dreamed of being alone and boatless in a huge lake. I bolted up, straining against the BiPAP, and felt Mom's arm on me. "Hi, you okay?" My heart raced, but I nodded. Mom said, "Kaitlyn's on the phone for you." I pointed at my BiPAP. She helped me get it off and hooked me up to Philip and then finally I took my cell from Mom and said, "Hey, Kaitlyn." "Just calling to check in," she said. "See how you're doing." "Yeah, thanks," I said. "I'm doing okay." "You've just had the worst luck, darling. It's _unconscionable_." "I guess," I said. I didn't think much about my luck anymore one way or the other. Honestly, I didn't really want to talk with Kaitlyn about anything, but she kept dragging the conversation along. "So what was it like?" she asked. "Having your boyfriend die? Um, it sucks." "No," she said. "Being in love." "Oh," I said. "Oh. It was...it was nice to spend time with someone so interesting. We were very different, and we disagreed about a lot of things, but he was always so interesting, you know?" "Alas, I do not. The boys I'm acquainted with are vastly uninteresting." "He wasn't perfect or anything. He wasn't your fairy-tale Prince Charming or whatever. He tried to be like that sometimes, but I liked him best when that stuff fell away." "Do you have like a scrapbook of pictures and letters he wrote?" "I have some pictures, but he never really wrote me letters. Except, well there are some missing pages from his notebook that might have been something for me, but I guess he threw them away or they got lost or something." "Maybe he mailed them to you," she said. "Nah, they'd've gotten here." "Then maybe they weren't written for you," she said. "Maybe...I mean, not to depress you or anything, but maybe he wrote them for someone else and mailed them—" "VAN HOUTEN!" I shouted. "Are you okay? Was that a cough?" "Kaitlyn, I love you. You are a genius. I have to go." I hung up, rolled over, reached for my laptop, turned it on, and emailed lidewij.vliegenthart. Lidewij, I believe Augustus Waters sent a few pages from a notebook to Peter Van Houten shortly before he (Augustus) died. It is very important to me that someone reads these pages. I want to read them, of course, but maybe they weren't written for me. Regardless, they must be read. They must be. Can you help? Your friend, Hazel Grace Lancaster She responded late that afternoon. Dear Hazel, I did not know that Augustus had died. I am very sad to hear this news. He was such a very charismatic young man. I am so sorry, and so sad. I have not spoken to Peter since I resigned that day we met. It is very late at night here, but I am going over to his house first thing in the morning to find this letter and force him to read it. Mornings were his best time, usually. Your friend, Lidewij Vliegenthart p.s. I am bringing my boyfriend in case we have to physically restrain Peter. I wondered why he'd written Van Houten in those last days instead of me, telling Van Houten that he'd be redeemed if only he gave me my sequel. Maybe the notebook pages had just repeated his request to Van Houten. It made sense, Gus leveraging his terminality to make my dream come true: The sequel was a tiny thing to die for, but it was the biggest thing left at his disposal. I refreshed my email continually that night, slept for a few hours, and then commenced to refreshing around five in the morning. But nothing arrived. I tried to watch TV to distract myself, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Amsterdam, imagining Lidewij Vliegenthart and her boyfriend bicycling around town on this crazy mission to find a dead kid's last correspondence. How fun it would be to bounce on the back of Lidewij Vliegenthart's bike down the brick streets, her curly red hair blowing into my face, the smell of the canals and cigarette smoke, all the people sitting outside the cafés drinking beer, saying their _r_ 's and _g_ 's in a way I'd never learn. I missed the future. Obviously I knew even before his recurrence that I'd never grow old with Augustus Waters. But thinking about Lidewij and her boyfriend, I felt robbed. I would probably never again see the ocean from thirty thousand feet above, so far up that you can't make out the waves or any boats, so that the ocean is a great and endless monolith. I could imagine it. I could remember it. But I couldn't see it again, and it occurred to me that the voracious ambition of humans is never sated by dreams coming true, because there is always the thought that everything might be done better and again. That is probably true even if you live to be ninety—although I'm jealous of the people who get to find out for sure. Then again, I'd already lived twice as long as Van Houten's daughter. What he wouldn't have given to have a kid die at sixteen. Suddenly Mom was standing between the TV and me, her hands folded behind her back. "Hazel," she said. Her voice was so serious I thought something might be wrong. "Yes?" "Do you know what today is?" "It's not my birthday, is it?" She laughed. "Not just yet. It's July fourteenth, Hazel." "Is it _your_ birthday?" "No..." "Is it Harry Houdini's birthday?" "No..." "I am really tired of guessing." "IT IS BASTILLE DAY!" She pulled her arms from behind her back, producing two small plastic French flags and waving them enthusiastically. "That sounds like a fake thing. Like Cholera Awareness Day." "I assure you, Hazel, that there is nothing fake about Bastille Day. Did you know that two hundred and twenty-three years ago today, the people of France stormed the Bastille prison to arm themselves to fight for their freedom?" "Wow," I said. "We should celebrate this momentous anniversary." "It so happens that I have just now scheduled a picnic with your father in Holliday Park." She never stopped trying, my mom. I pushed against the couch and stood up. Together, we cobbled together some sandwich makings and found a dusty picnic basket in the hallway utility closet. ••• It was kind of a beautiful day, finally real summer in Indianapolis, warm and humid—the kind of weather that reminds you after a long winter that while the world wasn't built for humans, we were built for the world. Dad was waiting for us, wearing a tan suit, standing in a handicapped parking spot typing away on his handheld. He waved as we parked and then hugged me. "What a day," he said. "If we lived in California, they'd all be like this." "Yeah, but then you wouldn't enjoy them," my mom said. She was wrong, but I didn't correct her. We ended up putting our blanket down by the Ruins, this weird rectangle of Roman ruins plopped down in the middle of a field in Indianapolis. But they aren't real ruins: They're like a sculptural re-creation of ruins built eighty years ago, but the fake Ruins have been neglected pretty badly, so they have kind of become actual ruins by accident. Van Houten would like the Ruins. Gus, too. So we sat in the shadow of the Ruins and ate a little lunch. "Do you need sunscreen?" Mom asked. "I'm okay," I said. You could hear the wind in the leaves, and on that wind traveled the screams of the kids on the playground in the distance, the little kids figuring out how to be alive, how to navigate a world that was not built for them by navigating a playground that was. Dad saw me watching the kids and said, "You miss running around like that?" "Sometimes, I guess." But that wasn't what I was thinking. I was just trying to notice everything: the light on the ruined Ruins, this little kid who could barely walk discovering a stick at the corner of the playground, my indefatigable mother zigzagging mustard across her turkey sandwich, my dad patting his handheld in his pocket and resisting the urge to check it, a guy throwing a Frisbee that his dog kept running under and catching and returning to him. Who am I to say that these things might not be forever? Who is Peter Van Houten to assert as fact the conjecture that our labor is temporary? All I know of heaven and all I know of death is in this park: an elegant universe in ceaseless motion, teeming with ruined ruins and screaming children. My dad was waving his hand in front of my face. "Tune in, Hazel. Are you there?" "Sorry, yeah, what?" "Mom suggested we go see Gus?" "Oh. Yeah," I said. ••• So after lunch, we drove down to Crown Hill Cemetery, the last and final resting place of three vice presidents, one president, and Augustus Waters. We drove up the hill and parked. Cars roared by behind us on Thirty-eighth Street. It was easy to find his grave: It was the newest. The earth was still mounded above his coffin. No headstone yet. I didn't feel like he was there or anything, but I still took one of Mom's dumb little French flags and stuck it in the ground at the foot of his grave. Maybe passersby would think he was a member of the French Foreign Legion or some heroic mercenary. ••• Lidewij finally wrote back just after six P.M. while I was on the couch watching both TV and videos on my laptop. I saw immediately there were four attachments to the email and I wanted to open them first, but I resisted temptation and read the email. Dear Hazel, Peter was very intoxicated when we arrived at his house this morning, but this made our job somewhat easier. Bas (my boyfriend) distracted him while I searched through the garbage bag Peter keeps with the fan mail in it, but then I realized that Augustus knew Peter's address. There was a large pile of mail on his dining room table, where I found the letter very quickly. I opened it and saw that it was addressed to Peter, so I asked him to read it. He refused. At this point, I became very angry, Hazel, but I did not yell at him. Instead, I told him that he owed it to his dead daughter to read this letter from a dead boy, and I gave him the letter and he read the entire thing and said—I quote him directly—"Send it to the girl and tell her I have nothing to add." I have not read the letter, although my eyes did fall on some phrases while scanning the pages. I have attached them here and then will mail them to you at your home; your address is the same? May God bless and keep you, Hazel. Your friend, Lidewij Vliegenthart I clicked open the four attachments. His handwriting was messy, slanting across the page, the size of the letters varying, the color of the pen changing. He'd written it over many days in varying degrees of consciousness. Van Houten, I'm a good person but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person but a good writer. We'd make a good team. I don't want to ask you any favors, but if you have time—and from what I saw, you have plenty—I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. I've got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently. Here's the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, "They'll remember me now," but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. (Okay, maybe I'm not such a shitty writer. But I can't pull my ideas together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations.) We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless—epically useless in my current state—but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox. After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I really thought she was going to die before I could tell her that I was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren't allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, "She's still taking on water." A desert blessing, an ocean curse. What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers. I do, Augustus. I do. # ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author would like to acknowledge: That disease and its treatment are treated fictitiously in this novel. For example, there is no such thing as Phalanxifor. I made it up, because I would like for it to exist. Anyone seeking an actual history of cancer ought to read _The Emperor of All Maladies_ by Siddhartha Mukherjee. I am also indebted to _The Biology of Cancer_ by Robert A. Weinberg, and to Josh Sundquist, Marshall Urist, and Jonneke Hollanders, who shared their time and expertise with me on medical matters, which I cheerfully ignored when it suited my whims. Esther Earl, whose life was a gift to me and to many. I am grateful also to the Earl family—Lori, Wayne, Abby, Angie, Graham, and Abe—for their generosity and friendship. Inspired by Esther, the Earls have founded a nonprofit, This Star Won't Go Out, in her memory. You can learn more at tswgo.org. The Dutch Literature Foundation, for giving me two months in Amsterdam to write. I'm particularly grateful to Fleur van Koppen, Jean Cristophe Boele van Hensbroek, Janetta de With, Carlijn van Ravenstein, Margje Scheepsma, and the Dutch nerdfighter community. My editor and publisher, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who stuck with this story through many years of twists and turns, as did an extraordinary team at Penguin. Particular thanks to Rosanne Lauer, Deborah Kaplan, Liza Kaplan, Elyse Marshall, Steve Meltzer, Nova Ren Suma, and Irene Vandervoort. Ilene Cooper, my mentor and fairy godmother. My agent, Jodi Reamer, whose sage counsel has saved me from countless disasters. Nerdfighters, for being awesome. Catitude, for wanting nothing more than to make the world suck less. My brother, Hank, who is my best friend and closest collaborator. My wife, Sarah, who is not only the great love of my life but also my first and most trusted reader. Also, the baby, Henry, to whom she gave birth. Furthermore, my own parents, Mike and Sydney Green, and parents-in-law, Connie and Marshall Urist. My friends Chris and Marina Waters, who helped with this story at vital moments, as did Joellen Hosler, Shannon James, Vi Hart, the Venn diagramatically brilliant Karen Kavett, Valerie Barr, Rosianna Halse Rojas, and John Darnielle. **JOHN GREEN** is an award-winning, _New York Times_ –bestselling author whose many accolades include the Printz Medal, a Printz Honor, and the Edgar Award. He has twice been a finalist for the _LA Times_ Book Prize. With his brother, Hank, John is one half of the Vlogbrothers (youtube.com/vlogbrothers), one of the most popular online video projects in the world. You can join John's 1.1 million followers on Twitter (@realjohngreen), or visit him online at johngreenbooks.com. John lives with his wife and son in Indianapolis, Indiana. Click here for more titles by this author ALSO BY JOHN GREEN _Looking for Alaska_ ........................... _An Abundance of Katherines_ .......................................... _Paper Towns_ .................. _Will Grayson, Will Grayson_ WITH DAVID LEVITHAN

May 27, 2015 • Even with cheap rent, the cost of doing business is high. With the nation's highest commercial property taxes, one business mogul says this stunts entrepreneurship in a city that needs more jobs. June 27, 2013 • A report issued Thursday by Ireland's Central Statistics Office found that its GDP had fallen by 0.6 percent. The same report also included newly revised figures for recent quarters. As a result, the negative GDP numbers in two or more quarters satisfies the definition of a recession. After Rising To Pre-recession Levels, Stocks Pause; Will Bulls Resume Running? January 28, 2013 • Though stocks took a breather Monday from their recent rally, there are reasons to think they'll continue their upward move in coming months. Money seems to be moving out of bonds and into stocks, corporate earnings are better than expected and economies overseas are getting back on their feet. November 15, 2012 • Eurostat, the European Union's statistical agency, said Thursday that the bloc contracted 0.1 percent in the third quarter; it shrank 0.2 percent in the second quarter. The eurozone was last in recession in 2009. October 9, 2012 • International Monetary Fund economists also warn that things could get even worse if European leaders don't finally get the euro crisis under control and if U.S. lawmakers let the federal government go over its "fiscal cliff." August 6, 2010 • In a story on state and local cutbacks, the NY Times reports that Hawaii furloughed its kids. The piece provides meaningful examples of how services citizens take for granted are falling to the ax. June 3, 2010 • As a restaurant critic, Ed Murrieta had an expense account and a nice home. Now, he struggles to get by on food stamps, and embraces the challenge. December 15, 2008 • Unintentional Hilarity finds hilarity where you least expect it... the global recession!

/** * Writes an instance of <code>File</code> to a * <code>DataOutput</code>. Note that even though <code>file</code> * may be an instance of a subclass of <code>File</code>, * <code>readFile</code> will always return an instance of * <code>File</code>, <B>not</B> an instance of the subclass. To * preserve the class type of <code>file</code>, * {@link #writeObject(Object, DataOutput)} should be used for data serialization. * This method will handle a * <code>null</code> value and not throw a * <code>NullPointerException</code>. * * @throws IOException * A problem occurs while writing to <code>out</code> * * @see #readFile * @see File#getCanonicalPath */ public static void writeFile(File file, DataOutput out) throws IOException { InternalDataSerializer.checkOut(out); if (DEBUG) { InternalDataSerializer.logger.info( LocalizedStrings.DEBUG, "Writing File " + file); } writeString((file != null) ? file.getCanonicalPath() : null, out); }

Analyst: PS Vita Sold 4.2 Million Units in 2013 We know Michael Pachter’s track record for predicting the future isn’t very good, but looking back at 2013, his “model says the [PlayStation] Vita sold 4.2 million last year.” He told this number to Game Informer as part of an interview about handhelds, saying that Vita “sales are horrible,” while adding, “It’s a pretty small number and I don’t think they are going to build a business selling 4 million a year — and that number could go down.” Going further with that 4.2 million number, it’s the same as what the PS4 had done in all of 2013, and according to Famitsu, the PS Vita had sold 1,197,980 units for all of 2013 in Japan (and is at 2,275,139 lifetime). For comparison, the 3DS moved 4,931,509 units in 2013, with a lifetime Japanese number of 14,694,011. When it comes to worldwide numbers for the fiscal year, we’ll have to wait until Sony reports their results in a few months to find out an exact number, but they were predicting combined PS Vita and PSP sales of 5 million worldwide, with the worldwide Vita + PSP sales at 1.4 million as of their Q2 reporting. If you want to hear Pachter talking about the Vita dying a slow, painful death, here’s some more of his thoughts about the system: Vita is a little bit too elegant and a little too expensive. I always feel like I’m going to break it. But then it has relatively few games because they are complicated to make and the market is so small. Very few publishers are spending money to make them. You had Assassin’s Creed: Liberation, that cost Ubisoft a lot. It’s a whole new adventure. Sony will spend the money with their internal studios, but you’re just going to see [Vita] die a slow, painful death. And here’s what he thinks about Remote Play helping Vita sales: I don’t quite get it. First they were selling it as a controller, which was lame. I would rather just spend $50 on a controller. They were selling it as a controller because… I have to turn off the game on my TV because American Idol is on and I have to continue my session on my Vita? That’s what a DVR is for, you can watch American Idol later. I think most people who have competing concerns about use of the console versus watching TV have their console on a different TV from where their wife is. I agree those are cool features, but it’s limited. Would you be disappointed to learn if the Vita had only sold 4.2 million units in all of 2013? Let us know in the comments below.

/** * Data for the factory. */ private static class FactoryData { private final String factoryName; private final String providerURL; private final String urlPkgPrefixes; private final String securityPrincipalName; private final String securityCredentials; private final String factoryBindingName; private final String queueBindingName; private final String userName; private final String password; public FactoryData(final String factoryName, final String providerURL, final String urlPkgPrefixes, final String securityPrincipalName, final String securityCredentials, final String factoryBindingName, final String queueBindingName, final String userName, final String password) { this.factoryName = factoryName; this.providerURL = providerURL; this.urlPkgPrefixes = urlPkgPrefixes; this.securityPrincipalName = securityPrincipalName; this.securityCredentials = securityCredentials; this.factoryBindingName = factoryBindingName; this.queueBindingName = queueBindingName; this.userName = userName; this.password = password; } }

Determining of migraine prognosis using latent growth mixture models. BACKGROUND This paper presents a retrospective study to classify patients into subtypes of the treatment according to baseline and longitudinally observed values considering heterogenity in migraine prognosis. In the classical prospective clinical studies, participants are classified with respect to baseline status and followed within a certain time period. However, latent growth mixture model is the most suitable method, which considers the population heterogenity and is not affected drop-outs if they are missing at random. Hence, we planned this comprehensive study to identify prognostic factors in migraine. METHODS The study data have been based on a 10-year computer-based follow-up data of Mersin University Headache Outpatient Department. The developmental trajectories within subgroups were described for the severity, frequency, and duration of headache separately and the probabilities of each subgroup were estimated by using latent growth mixture models. SAS PROC TRAJ procedures, semiparametric and group-based mixture modeling approach, were applied to define the developmental trajectories. RESULTS While the three-group model for the severity (mild, moderate, severe) and frequency (low, medium, high) of headache appeared to be appropriate, the four-group model for the duration (low, medium, high, extremely high) was more suitable. The severity of headache increased in the patients with nausea, vomiting, photophobia and phonophobia. The frequency of headache was especially related with increasing age and unilateral pain. Nausea and photophobia were also related with headache duration. CONCLUSIONS Nausea, vomiting and photophobia were the most significant factors to identify developmental trajectories. The remission time was not the same for the severity, frequency, and duration of headache.

HELSINKI (Reuters) - Nokia said it would defend itself vigorously against Apple’s new complaint to the United States International Trade Commission. The two phone giants are in the midst of a major legal battle, which started last October when Nokia charged Apple for using its patented technologies without paying for them. Apple filed the new ITC complaint on Friday. “Nokia will study the complaint when it is received and continue to defend itself vigorously,” said a company spokesman. “However, this does not alter the fact that Apple has failed to agree appropriate terms for using Nokia technology and has been seeking a free ride on Nokia’s innovation since it shipped the first iPhone in 2007,” he said. In late December Nokia also filed a claim with the ITC, alleging Apple infringed seven of its patents in “virtually all of its mobile phones, portable music players, and computers” sold. “The fact that two such prominent companies have now filed complaints will likely mean the ITC will seek to deal with this as a matter of urgency,” said Ben Wood, head of research at British consultancy CCS Insight. “That said, a lengthy legal battle is almost inevitable irrespective of a decision from the trade commission,” he said. The ITC can ban selling products in the United States — a market crucial for Apple, but Nokia makes only a fraction of its sales there. Analysts say it could take years to solve the legal battle. “This dispute is still in its infancy. I don’t think Nokia is finished with evaluating the infringements by Apple, it might be just the surface,” said Steven Nathasingh, chief executive of U.S. research firm Vaxa Inc. Nokia, along with Ericsson and Qualcomm, holds many key patents for making mobile phones. Nokia has stumbled badly in the fast-growing smartphone sector and relative newcomer Apple has gained ground against the market leader thanks to the iPhone, but still trails Nokia in smartphones sales. Related Coverage Factbox: Nokia versus Apple legal battle The legal dispute, potentially involving hundreds of millions of dollars in annual royalties, reflects the shifting balance of power in the mobile industry as cellphones morph into handheld computers that can play video games and surf the Web. Apple, which entered the industry in mid-2007, overtook Nokia in the September quarter as the cellphone maker generating the highest total operating profit.

<reponame>phatblat/macOSPrivateFrameworks<gh_stars>10-100 // // Generated by class-dump 3.5 (64 bit). // // class-dump is Copyright (C) 1997-1998, 2000-2001, 2004-2013 by <NAME>. // #import <CalendarPersistence/CALPropertyValue.h> @interface CALRecurID : CALPropertyValue { } + (id)recurIDWithDate:(id)arg1 withRange:(int)arg2; + (id)recurIDWithDate:(id)arg1; - (int)range; - (id)setRange:(int)arg1; - (id)date; - (id)setDate:(id)arg1; - (id)initWithDate:(id)arg1 withRange:(int)arg2; - (id)initWithDate:(id)arg1; - (id)NSCalendarDate; - (void)setNSCalendarDate:(id)arg1; @end

package gnova.geometry.model; import gnova.core.ReadOnlyIterator; import java.util.NoSuchElementException; public class CoordinateSequenceIterator implements ReadOnlyIterator<Coordinate> { private CoordinateSequence coordinateSequence; private int cursor; public CoordinateSequenceIterator(CoordinateSequence coordinateSequence, int cursor) { this.coordinateSequence = coordinateSequence; this.cursor = cursor; } @Override public boolean hasNext() { return cursor < coordinateSequence.size(); } @Override public Coordinate next() { if (!hasNext()) { throw new NoSuchElementException(); } return coordinateSequence.getCoordinateAt(cursor++); } }

package timus; import java.util.Scanner; /** * Created by sherxon on 12/5/16. */ public class BritishScientistsSavetheWorld1925 { public static void main(String[] args) { Scanner in = new Scanner(System.in); int n=in.nextInt(); int k=in.nextInt(); int sum1=k; int sum2=0; for (int i = 0; i <n; i++) { sum1+=in.nextInt(); sum2+=in.nextInt(); } sum1-=2*(n+1); int res=sum1 - sum2; System.out.println( res >= 0 ? res : "Big Bang!"); } }

Émile Biayenda Birth Émile Biayenda was born in 1927 in Mpangala, Vinza Church career He was ordained to the priesthood in 1958 and was later consecrated a bishop on 17 May 1960 by Cardinal Sergio Pignedoli. Biayenda was known for radical social views throughout his pastoral ministry. This was a contributing factor to his abduction and murder. His views on humanitarian issues were quite critical of his nation's government. This strained relations between the church and state. He spoke out against state injustices and on persecution. He also participated in the Synod of Bishops in 1971 and sent a pastoral letter in Congo on the theme of development and the role of Catholics in the nation. Pope Paul VI created him the Cardinal-Priest of San Marco Agro in Lauretino in the consistory of 5 March 1973. His elevation made him the first cardinal from Congo. Murder He was abducted from his residence next to the Sacred Heart Cathedral of Brazzaville in the afternoon of 22 March 1977 and was killed on the night of 23 March 1977 by a group of soldiers. The real cause for this is still undetermined. Beatification cause A cause for canonization was opened at the behest of Pope John Paul II via the Congregation for the Causes of Saints on 20 March 1995. He was granted the posthumous title of Servant of God as a result of the opening. The diocesan process for the late cardinal's beatification spanned from 21 October 1996 and was finished on 14 June 2003. A historical commission was assigned to the cause and completed its work in 2014. The Congregation later validated the diocesan process on 29 May 2015. The next step would be for him to be declared Venerable with the recognition of his heroic virtues.

It's July, the perfect time to announce with certainty what will happen in the 2016-17 NBA season, which doesn't begin until October. If you're getting carried away with the Lineup Of Death that the Warriors will field with the addition of Kevin Durant, then why not put your money where your mouth is? The betting site 5Dimes (via Cork Gaines at Business Insider) is taking bets on if the Warriors will go undefeated -- as in 82-0, plus no losses in the playoffs. That's a mighty feat, considering that a 73-win Warriors' team lost to Milwaukee on the road this past season, and barely beat the Bucks at home. Want even longer odds? You can bet on the Warriors not going undefeated. It's not like the Warriors have Kareem or Bill Russell at center -- they're still an outside shooting team, and sometimes shots don't go in. Plus, the Spurs and Cavaliers still play Golden State five times. But if you're one of those folks who paid $20,000 for an NBA Finals seat at Oracle, then you can afford to plunk down $200 for a chance to win $44,000 if the Warriors go unbeaten. Why not?

Oleksiy Skrypnyk Biography Born March 8, 1964 in Lviv in the family of energy researchers. In 1986 Skrypnyk graduated with honors from the Faculty of Electricity (department of electrical systems and networks) of the Lviv Polytechnic Institute. Skrypnyk participated in the training program of the US government ''SABIT'' — ''Management of Software Companies". In 1986-2000 he worked in "Lvivenergo" (since 1995 at the Western Regional Dispatch Center, since 1998 at the Western Power System). Skrypnyk used to be Engineer of the Central Dispatcher Service (CDS), then — the deputy chief of CDS on ASDC at the West regional control center Lvivenergo. In 1991, with his father and mother, Oleksiy Skrypnyck and Evgeniia Skrypnyk founded the company LLC "ELEKS". From November 1991 to May 2000 he held the position of Technical Director at ELEKS. From June 2000 to 2010 he was the Director of ELEKS. From 2010 to 2014 Oleksiy served as a CEO of ELEKS. In 2014 he resigned from this position following his election to the Parliament of Ukraine. Career in academia Since 2008 Skrypnyk worked as a senior lecturer at the Institute of Computer Science and Information Technology of the National University "Lviv Polytechnic". He teaches Project management of software development and Project Workshop. He teaches Project Management at the Kyiv Mohyla Business School [kmbs]. His research interests include the technology of programming and creating software. Civic activities Skrypnyk is a member of the Entrepreneurs Committee and the Association "IT Ukraine". He was included to the Supervisory Board Association "Lviv cluster of IT and business services". He participated in the development strategy of the economic development of the city based on a cluster of economic development. Member of the Board of the National University "Lviv Polytechnic" and the Council on Competitiveness in the Lviv region. Political activities In 2014 Skrypnyk participated in the parliamentary election campaign. He was third on the party list of Union ''Self Reliance''. Since November 27, 2014 he is Member of Ukrainian parliament with the parliamentary fraction Union ''Self Reliance''. On April 22, 2015, he became the Chairman of the Interim Verkhovna Rada "Commission on the future". IT and new technologies Oleksiy Skrypnyk has built one of the largest and most successful software companies in Ukraine — «ELEKS» Today the company «ELEKS» employs about 1,000 people with an average age of 25. The firm's main office is in Lviv, with a network of development centers throughout Ukraine (Kyiv, Lviv, Ivano-Frankivsk, Ternopil), and abroad. ELEKS has an office in Poland as well as representative offices in the US and UK. The company has its own educational center, the ELEKS Academy, where young specialists receive high-quality training before their employment to the company. ELEKS is known for cinema production, having collaborated with Hollywood on blockbusters Quantum of Solace and Spider-Man. Additionally, the company produces applications for automation and medical establishments (e.g. information system Doctor ELEKS). The company's activity is aimed at the international market: 95% of ELEKS customers come from abroad. Oleksiy Skrypnyk initiated modernization of legislative procedure of the Ukrainian parliament, computerization and introduction of e-governance. He is also concerned with cyber security of the state. National Security As Deputy Chairman of the Permanent Delegation to the NATO Parliamentary Assembly and a member of the Ukrainian Inter-parliamentary NATO-Ukraine Council, Oleksiy Skrypnyk is avidly lobbying the USA and other Western countries to supply lethal weapons to Ukraine in the course of its anti-terrorist operation in the East. Also, he supports the prospect of NATO membership for Ukraine. He is collaborating with experts and with a group of MPs on military doctrine and laws on public-private partnerships in the military sphere. Energetics Skrypnyk specializes in the energy sector, where he worked for more than 14 years. Science and education As deputy chairman of the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine on Science and Education, Skrypnyk is concerned with IT education and science issues in general. In particular, he proposed educational reform, which would abolish Computer Literacy lessons, introducing instead courses on programming for high school students. Commission for the Future Temporary special "Commission for the Future" of the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine was established on April 22, 2015. The Commission was created "to develop and promote innovative development strategy for Ukraine based on public and social priorities, of science and technology, and assessment of their impact on the harmonious development of the state". Oleksiy Skrypnyk, MP is the chairman of the "Commission for the Future". The commission also includes: Victor Vovk ("Radical Party of Oleh Lyashko"); Victor Galasyuk ("Radical Party Oleg Lyashko"); Victoria Voytsitska ("Samopomich Union"); Alexander Dombrowski ("Petro Poroshenko Bloc"); Svetlana Zalishchuk ("Petro Poroshenko Bloc"); Oleksiy Mushak ("Petro Poroshenko Bloc") Lily Grinevich ("Narodnyi Front"); George Lohvynskyy ("Narodnyi Front"); Ivan Kyrylenko (VO "Fatherland"). The Commission in total has 11 members, representatives of all coalition factions. Every six months the Commission will prepare a report and announce it at the session of Parliament. Similar commissions exist in most parliaments of European countries. Personal life Skrypnyk's father, Oleksiy Ivanovich, is a professor, programmer with 40 years of experience, co-founder of ELEKS. Mother, Skrypnyk Evgeniia is an electrical engineer, co-founder of ELEKS. Oleksiy Skrypnyk is married and has four sons. In his spare time, he enjoys running, swimming, yachting and cycling.

Beauty of Life in Dynamical Systems: An Aesthetic Viewpoint of Life This submission emphasizes the beauty of mathematics and dynamical systems especially in questions around origin of life. Our conception of life is shaped by what we see around us on Earth. What life forms might we expect to see on alien planets? Would they be carbon-based like us or can they be even more exotic? Answering questions like these mean we must come up with an objective definition of life. We have previously hypothesized that an objective definition of life is that it should be capable of information processing.Our work also suggests that we may need an aesthetic sense to recognize life we have never seen before. Such aesthetic versions of life-like systems can be generated using the computational framework presented here. Our computational framework combines dynamical systems with deep learning to generate aesthetically appealing forms of life-like systems.

def add_mapping_strategy(self, new_column: str, mapper: Callable[[pd.Index], pd.Series]) -> None: self._manager.add_mapping_strategy(new_column, mapper)

/** * This function is called once each time the robot enters autonomous mode. */ public void autonomous() { stop(); final int POSITION_LEFT_SWITCH = 1; final int POSITION_RIGHT_SWITCH = 2; final int COLLECT_SWITCH = 3; final int FIRST_DENSE_SWITCH = 4; final int SECOND_DENSE_SWITCH = 5; final int SHOOTING_DELAY_ANALOG = 1; final int NO_AUTONOMOUS = 0; final int KEY_LEFT = 1; final int KEY_RIGHT = 2; final int KEY_MIDDLE = 3; final int DELAY_MULTIPLIER = 1; Components parts = Components.getInstance(); CypressComponents cypress = parts.cypress; final double LEFT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED = KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED_RPM; final double RIGHT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED = KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED_RPM; final double MIDDLE_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED = KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED_RPM; final double DENSE_BALL_MODIFIER = -110; double shootingDelayValue = 1; boolean driveToCollect = false; int keyPosition = KEY_MIDDLE; shootingDelayValue = cypress.getAnalog(SHOOTING_DELAY_ANALOG); driveToCollect = cypress.getDigital(COLLECT_SWITCH); keyPosition = ((cypress.getDigital(POSITION_RIGHT_SWITCH)?1:0)<<1)+ (cypress.getDigital(POSITION_LEFT_SWITCH)?1:0); boolean isFirstDense = cypress.getDigital(FIRST_DENSE_SWITCH); boolean isSecondDense = cypress.getDigital(SECOND_DENSE_SWITCH); AutonomousStepFactory stepFactory = new AutonomousStepFactory(this); AutonomousStep shootDelayStep = new IdleWaitStep(shootingDelayValue, this); double[] shootingPowers = new double[2]; AutonomousStep shootStep; switch(keyPosition){ case KEY_LEFT: shootingPowers[0] = LEFT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; shootingPowers[1] = LEFT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; break; case KEY_RIGHT: shootingPowers[0] = RIGHT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; shootingPowers[1] = RIGHT_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; break; case KEY_MIDDLE: shootingPowers[0] = MIDDLE_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; shootingPowers[1] = MIDDLE_KEY_SHOOTER_SPEED; break; default: shootingPowers[0] = 0; shootingPowers[0] = 0; break; } if(isFirstDense){ shootingPowers[0] += DENSE_BALL_MODIFIER; } if(isSecondDense){ shootingPowers[1] += DENSE_BALL_MODIFIER; } shootStep = stepFactory.getMultipleShotStep(shootingPowers); String positionString = ""; if(keyPosition == KEY_LEFT){ positionString = "left"; } else if(keyPosition == KEY_MIDDLE){ positionString = "middle"; } else if(keyPosition == KEY_RIGHT){ positionString = "right"; } else{ positionString = "no autonomous"; } System.out.println("Autonomous Configuration:"); System.out.println("Position: "+positionString); System.out.println("Delay: "+shootingDelayValue); System.out.println("Collect?: "+driveToCollect); AutonomousStep[] steps = new AutonomousStep[3]; steps[0] = shootDelayStep; steps[1] = shootStep; steps[2] = new IdleStopStep(this); AutonomousManager manager = new AutonomousManager(steps, this); getWatchdog().setEnabled(true); manager.start(); stop(); }

Prednisone and T-cell subpopulations. Alteration of T-cell subset relationships may cause many of the anti-inflammatory and immunoregulatory effects of glucocorticosteroids. The effect of oral administration of lactose or 60 mg of prednisone on peripheral blood T-lymphocyte subset profile and total eosinophil count (TEC) was examined. A purified T-cell peripheral blood population was obtained and the proportion of T cells with T3, T4, T8, M1, and la surface antigens was determined before and five hours after ingestion of lactose or prednisone. Lactose caused no change of any of the measured values. Prednisone caused a large (72%) decrease of the total lymphocyte number and the TEC (97%) but no change of the proportion of T cells with the previously mentioned antigens. Administration of 60 mg of prednisone does not acutely selectively deplete subclasses of T lymphocytes from peripheral blood.

/** * Class used by registration wizard to for toggle view * @author aduncan * @since 1.8.0 */ public class Repository { private String organization; private String repositoryName; private SourceControl gitRegistry; private boolean isPresent; private boolean canDelete; public Repository(String organization, String repositoryName, SourceControl gitRegistry, boolean isPresent, boolean canDelete) { this.organization = organization; this.repositoryName = repositoryName; this.gitRegistry = gitRegistry; this.isPresent = isPresent; this.canDelete = canDelete; } public String getOrganization() { return organization; } public void setOrganization(String organization) { this.organization = organization; } public String getRepositoryName() { return repositoryName; } public void setRepositoryName(String repositoryName) { this.repositoryName = repositoryName; } public SourceControl getGitRegistry() { return gitRegistry; } public void setGitRegistry(SourceControl gitRegistry) { this.gitRegistry = gitRegistry; } public boolean isPresent() { return isPresent; } public void setPresent(boolean present) { isPresent = present; } public String getPath() { return String.format("%s/%s", organization, repositoryName); } public boolean isCanDelete() { return canDelete; } public void setCanDelete(boolean canDelete) { this.canDelete = canDelete; } }

In many large IT environments, requirements exist for transporting data in and out of individual systems (e.g., data bridges) as a form of integration. Tools used to transport data generally fall into the category of ETL (extract, transform, load) tools. ETL is a process in data warehousing that involves extracting data from outside sources, transforming the data in accordance with particular business needs, and loading the data into a data warehouse. An ETL process typically begins with a user defining a data flow that defines data transformation activities that extract data from, e.g., flat files or relational tables, transform the data, and load the data into a data warehouse, data mart, or staging table(s). A data flow, therefore, typically includes a sequence of operations modeled as data flowing from various types of sources, through various transformations, and finally ending in one or more targets. Prior art ETL approaches require the creation of multiple redundant processes, e.g., one for each table or data set. This is especially true when using GUI tools of ETL products. The GUI tools make it very easy to move data between systems. However, when there are complex requirements, such as the need to identify what has changed between the source and the target, the ETL tools, and even custom scripts, require a lot of modification. This results in the exponential growth of the code base (or process nodes). Therefore, when developing a data bridge between two information systems, one of the biggest challenges is the handling of individual elements. Most ETL tools or batch frameworks provide powerful functions, yet a developer still has to code individually on each data object to perform common tasks such as data validation, record comparison, etc. The process is error prone due to typos, changes in requirements (e.g., go back and adjust every object), etc. Accordingly, what is needed is a solution that solves at least one of the above-identified deficiencies.

fn build_grid(input: &Vec<Vec<i32>>) -> [[u8;1000];1000]{ let mut t: [[u8;1000];1000]=[[0;1000];1000]; for i in input { for x in (i[1] as usize)..((i[1]+i[3]) as usize){ for y in (i[2] as usize)..((i[2]+i[4]) as usize){ t[x][y]+=1; } } } t } pub fn process(input : &Vec<Vec<i32>>) -> i32{ let t = build_grid(input); let mut c = 0; for i in t.iter(){ i.iter().for_each(|x| if *x>1 {c+=1;}); } c } pub fn process_2(input : &Vec<Vec<i32>>) -> i32{ let t = build_grid(input); 'main: for i in input { for x in (i[1] as usize)..((i[1]+i[3]) as usize){ for y in (i[2] as usize)..((i[2]+i[4]) as usize){ if t[x][y] != 1 {continue 'main;}; } } return i[0]; } 9999 }

Published: Dec. 13, 2018 at 10:15 p.m. Updated: Dec. 14, 2018 at 03:56 p.m. Coming off their first loss since late-September, the Texans now have to travel to meet the Jets on a semi-short week. Even though they are in the middle of a re-build, the Jets are a formidable foe for the Texans' offense. Deshaun Watson is having an incredible season -- especially considering he's just over a year removed from tearing his ACL -- but he's having major issues against pressure. Per Next Gen Stats, Watson has the NFL's lowest passer rating (32.7) when under duress. Watson's -87.7 point drop in passer rating against pressure is the steepest in the league while his 1:6 TD-to-INT ratio is also dead last. While the Texans offensive line has struggled to keep Watson clean -- he's faced the seventh-most pressures on his dropbacks -- they are in another tough spot in Week 15. New York's defense is predicated on forcing pressure as they're fifth in the NFL in both pressure rate (29.1 percent) and blitz percentage (34 percent). The Jets may not have a standout member of their front-seven like the Texans' J.J. Watt, but they have four defenders with 20 or more pressures. They could cause fits for Houston. Key matchup: Can Nick Chubb continue his streak? Since the Browns traded Carlos Hyde, rookie runner Nick Chubb has been one of the most valuable players in fantasy football. Since Week 7, Chubb is among the top-five running backs in carries (128), team share of rush attempts (78 percent), yards after contact (3.8), and PPR fantasy points per game (19.6; RB5). In this span, Chubb has finished as a top-20 fantasy scorer in 6-of-7 games and has compiled five top-12 (RB1) weeks. Chubb has been on an incredible, league-winning pace. However, he faces his toughest test yet in Week 15. Over their last six games, Denver has committed eight or more defenders in the box on 33 percent of their rush attempts, the highest rate in the NFL per Next Gen Stats. The Broncos' insistence on loading the box has, unsurprisingly, mitigated opposing rushing offenses. In this span, Denver has allowed the fifth-fewest yards per carry (3.5) while they are the only defense to not allow a rushing score to a running back. Meanwhile, Nick Chubb has recorded a rushing score in five-straight games and he's third in YPC (5.8) when facing eight or more defenders in the box. It's on. One of the main reasons the Packers needed to move on from former HC Mike McCarthy was due to his failure to innovate in a changing in NFL. As the game has evolved over the last few seasons, offenses are shying away from throwing outside the numbers in favor of more attempts up the seam and in the slot. For example, the Packers' lead the NFL in percentage of attempts outside the numbers (54 percent) while the league average is only around 38 percent. It helps to have Aaron Rodgers, though. Even in a down year for the Pack attack, Aaron Rodgers has been stellar throwing outside of the numbers. Per Next Gen Stats, Rodgers has a 14:0 TD-to-INT ratio when throwing outside the number markers while the Bears route-jumping secondary leads the NFL in interceptions (13) on throws located on that part of the field. While Rodgers' stellar ball placement covers up the Packers' lack of creativity on offense, Chicago is cleaning up on throws outside the numbers (64.7 passer rating allowed; lowest in NFL). Somehow, Green Bay is still alive in the NFC Wild Card hunt and they must beat Chicago on the road if they stand any chance at the No. 6 seed. Rodgers must continue to be perfect and precise on the boundary. Key matchup: Can the Lions muster offense against the stingy Bills? Over the last month without Golden Tate (traded) and Marvin Jones (knee), Matthew Stafford has thrown just two passing scores and averaged an abysmal 6.1 YPA. In this span, Detroit is ninth-from-last in yards per drive and fifth-from-last in drives ending a score. Now, the low-ceiling Lions are in another brutal road spot in Week 15 against a Bills' secondary that owns the second-lowest YPA allowed (6.4) and rank fourth-best in completion rate below expectation (2.5 percent) per Next Gen Stats. This is not a contest for fantasy football goodness. After throwing 10 interceptions in his first four starts (Weeks 4-8) this year, Jameis Winston has quietly balled out over his last four. In Weeks 11-14, Winston has an 8:2 TD-to-INT ratio and a 104.3 passer rating all while averaging 10.7 air yards per attempt, the second-highest clip in this span. Much of Winston's success has come on third-down, where he has been both aggressive and efficient. Per Next Gen Stats, Winston is completing 8.1 percent of his passes above expectation (second-best) and averaging 3.4 air yards past the sticks (third-highest) on third-downs this season. In fact, no quarterback has a higher passer rating on third-down than Winston (119.9). Of course, while Winston has turned his season around against the Giants, 49ers, Panthers, and Saints secondaries over the last month -- they pale in comparison to the Ravens. Baltimore is arguably the stingiest secondary on third-downs, too. Per Next Gen, the Ravens have allowed the third-lowest completion rate below expectation (-7.9 percent) and have held opposing quarterbacks to the third-lowest passer rating (66.1) on third-downs. Jameis Winston is making a case for himself in his 2019 free agency bid, and he could further re-cement himself in the Bucs' plans with an efficient outing against the NFL's No. 1 defense. Fresh off compiling 155, 95, and 138 yards from scrimmage over his last three games, Joe Mixon enters Week 15 in a fantasy league-winning matchup against the Raiders. Oakland has been completely gashed on the ground this year, allowing the league's fourth-most yards per carry (5.0) and the third-most carries in which the ball carrier exceeded 15 MPH (60) per Next Gen Stats. Coming off a season-high 31 touch performance last week, Mixon should absolutely smash against an Oakland side allowing the third-most carries per game to opposing running backs (24.8). Key matchup: Can Saquon push for Eric Dickerson's record? Saquon Barkley is officially having the best fantasy season ever for a rookie running back. His 25.6 PPR points per game are most for a rookie back all-time while his current scoring pace is good enough for the 14th-highest scoring RB season ever. At his current clip, Saquon Barkley is on pace to hit an absurd 2,158 yards from scrimmage putting him only 53 yards shy of Eric Dickerson's all-time record set in the 1983 season (2,212 yards from scrimmage). While the Titans played stiff run defense in their opening seven games (4.2 YPC; 48 percent success rate allowed), they've sprung a bit of a leak across their last six contests (4.6 YPC; 54 percent success rate allowed). Barkley's push for the record books will be a close one. Key matchup: Do the Vikings actually need to run more? With long time QBs coach Kevin Stefanski taking over at offensive coordinator for the final three weeks of the season, it will be interesting to see if the Vikes' sharply increase their run rate. If nothing else, Minnesota's defunct rush attack is in a fantastic matchup against a Miami front seven that has allowed a monster 139.0 rushing yards per game on the road this season, fifth-most in the NFL. Key matchup: Can Redskins slow Leonard Fournette? After playing stout run defense in their first seven games (3.74 YPC allowed), the Redskins front-seven has sprung a leak over their last six. In this span, Washington has allowed a massive 5.34 YPC while Texans backs (28/132), Ezekiel Elliott (26/121/1), Eagles backs (29/134/1), and Saquon Barkley (14/170/1) have rolled up monster stat lines over the last month. Since Week 9, Washington has allowed 25 runs of 10 or more yards (third-most) and stopped just 14.6 percent of attempts at or behind the line of scrimmage (fourth-lowest rate) per Next Gen Stats. Obviously, Leonard Fournette's sophomore season has not gone to plan and he's coming off a horrendous game last week (16 touches, 41 yards from scrimmage), but he should eat in one of the most advantageous matchups possible in Week 15. At long last, the Cowboys have finally unleashed Ezekiel Elliott as a receiver. In 13 contests this season, Zeke has recorded a gargantuan 81 targets after seeing only 77 passing looks in his prior 25 games. In addition to leading the NFL in rushing yards per game for three-straight seasons, the Cowboys have also given Elliott a voluminous receiving role. Per Next Gen Stats, Elliott (24.9) trails only Saquon Barkley (27.8), Christian McCaffrey (27.8), James Conner (27.0), and Todd Gurley (26.8) in routes run per game among running backs. Indianapolis' front seven has stiffened since their bye -- they've allowed the eighth-lowest rushing success rate in this span -- but they are quietly getting whacked by RBs through the air. Per Next Gen Stats, no team is allowing more passing yards per game to receivers aligned out of the backfield than the Colts (58.5). In fact, 23 percent of the Colts passing output allowed has come out of the backfield, the highest allocation in the NFL. Considering he's coming off a torn Achilles and is now on the wrong side of 30, Richard Sherman is having a fantastic season. Per Next Gen Stats, Sherman has held opposing receivers to a 5.0 catch rate below expectation (25th-best out of 105 CBs) this year. Sherman isn't shadowing receivers any more -- he strictly plays on the left side of the field on 87 percent of his snaps -- but he'll have a tough task against Russell Wilson when he throws into his former teammate's coverage. This year, Wilson has the league's second-best passer rating (131.8) when throwing to the defensive left side of the field while Sherman's lone touchdown allowed came back in Week 13... when Seattle played San Francisco. For most of the season, JuJu Smith-Schuster was the Steelers primary slot receiver. That has changed over the past month as Smith-Schuster has shifted from a full-time interior role to a predominantly wide alignment. Per Next Gen Stats, Smith-Schuster has run 60 percent of his routes out wide on the boundary in Weeks 11-14 and his role change has led to more passing looks. In fact, Smith-Schuster has out-targeted (48 to 46) teammate Antonio Brown and sharply out-gained him (472 to 373) in this span. Now, the Steelers dynamic duo has an intriguing matchup against the Patriots and Bill Belichick's constantly evolving scheme. In past meetings, Belichick has traveled a single cornerback with Antonio Brown on the perimeter and it's likely Stephon Gilmore is tasked with shadow coverage in Week 15. However, the way to beat New England remains through the interior part of the field. New England has allowed 123.6 YPG to receivers aligned out of the slot or in tight to the formation this season, eighth-most in the league. The Pats' shaky slot coverage has continued recently, too, as they've coughed up the fourth-most PPR points to interior receivers over their last four games. Pittsburgh should routinely shift both Smith-Schuster and Brown in the slot often to take advantage of New England's main deficiency. After a rough two-game stretch in which Jared Goff completed 48 percent of his passes in road draws against the Lions and Bears, it's natural to search for reasons for the Rams' first tough stretch of the season. However, while Chicago has limited passing output all year and they are easily one of the three best all-around defenses in the league, Jared Goff has incredibly stark home/road splits. It's possible Goff and Co. immediately get back on track by simply going home. In six home games this year, Jared Goff's completion rate is 7.2 percent above expectation while his passer rating in L.A. is an efficient 124.5. Both of those figures would be top-two among qualified quarterbacks over the full season. On the road, Goff's completion rate actually dips 2.7 points below expectation and his passer rating is a near league-average 92.8. Now, the Rams get a home gift against a completely decimated Eagles' secondary. Over the last six weeks, Philadelphia has surrendered a 101.0 passer rating (11th-worst) and allowed a wide open throw (five or more yards of receiver separation) on 27 percent of passes (third-most). Goff and Co. are in a near perfect spot to go off in Week 15. There's no place like home. Key matchup: Can Cam get back on track? Clearly laboring through a sore shoulder, Cam Newton is not playing anywhere near 100 percent health. In fact, Newton has completed just 12 of his 27 passes that have traveled more than 10 yards in air over the last two weeks. Four of Newton's 5 INTs in this span have come on throws traveling 10-plus yards, too. Unsurprisingly, Newton's balky shoulder has crushed his confidence against pressure over his last two starts as his 27.0 passer rating under duress in Weeks 12-13 is better than only Mark Sanchez (6.8 passer rating) and Josh McCown (13.1). Yikes. With the Panthers playoff hopes on the line on Monday Night, Cam will have to muster up a masterful performance against a Saints' secondary that is quickly strengthening. In fact, New Orleans owns a 63.3 passer rating on all throws that travel over 10 yards in the air over their last five games. That's fourth-lowest in the league. For more context, the Saints have forced a tight window throw (less than one yard of separation) on 41 percent of attempts in Weeks 10-14. Only Minnesota (42 percent) has forced more tight throws in this span.

/** * Write a description of class 7raph6 here. * * @author (your name) * @version (a version number or a date) */ public class Graph6 extends BaseGraph { public Graph6(int numPlayers) { //Create a new world super(985,700, 1); createGraph(); desiredPlayers = numPlayers; if (numPlayers > 1){ GraphClient.getInstance().setDelegate(this); } } private void createGraph() { GreenfootImage bg = getBackground(); bg.setColor(Color.white); bg.fill(); Set<Integer> h1 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h1.add(2); h1.add(6); h1.add(10); connectedMap.put(1, h1); Set<Integer> h2 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h2.add(1); h2.add(3); h2.add(7); h2.add(8); h2.add(10); connectedMap.put(2, h2); Set<Integer> h3 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h3.add(2); h3.add(4); h3.add(8); connectedMap.put(3, h3); Set<Integer> h4 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h4.add(3); h4.add(5); h4.add(9); connectedMap.put(4, h4); Set<Integer> h5 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h5.add(4); connectedMap.put(5, h5); Set<Integer> h6 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h6.add(1); h6.add(7); h6.add(10); connectedMap.put(6, h6); Set<Integer> h7 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h7.add(2); h7.add(6); h7.add(8); h7.add(10); connectedMap.put(7, h7); Set<Integer> h8 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h8.add(2); h8.add(3); h8.add(7); h8.add(9); connectedMap.put(8, h8); Set<Integer> h9 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h9.add(4); h9.add(8); connectedMap.put(9, h9); Set<Integer> h10 = new HashSet<Integer>(); h10.add(1); h10.add(2); h10.add(6); h10.add(7); connectedMap.put(10, h10); addObject(new Node(1), 50, 300); addObject(new Node(2), 200, 300); addObject(new Node(3), 350, 300); addObject(new Node(4), 500, 300); addObject(new Node(5), 650, 300); addObject(new Node(6), 50, 600); addObject(new Node(7), 200, 600); addObject(new Node(8), 350, 600); addObject(new Node(9), 500, 600); addObject(new Node(10), 125, 450); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 125,300); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 275,300); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 425,300); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 575,300); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 125,600); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 275,600); addObject(new Edge(5, 100, 90), 425,600); addObject(new Edge(5, 250, 0), 50, 450); addObject(new Edge(5, 250, 0), 200, 450); addObject(new Edge(5, 250, 0), 350, 450); addObject(new Edge(5, 250, 0), 500, 450); addObject(new Edge(5, 120, -30), 90,375); addObject(new Edge(5, 290, -25), 267,454); addObject(new Edge(5, 120, 30), 90, 525); addObject(new Edge(5, 120, 30), 158,375); addObject(new Edge(5, 120, -30), 158,525); colorPicker = new ColorPicker(300, 65, 4); addObject (colorPicker, 150, 50); turnLabel = new Label("Select a Color", 25); addObject(turnLabel, 190, 111); validLabel = new Label("", 20); addObject(validLabel, 550, 50); colorSelectLabel = new Label("Color Selected: ", 20); addObject(colorSelectLabel, 190, 150); Greenfoot.start(); } }

BENGALURU, Oct 5 (Reuters) - Gold rose slightly on Friday as the dollar softened after data showed U.S. job growth slowed in September, easing concerns about a large run-up in inflation. Spot gold was half a percent higher at $1,204.75 an ounce at 1416 GMT. The metal has gained 0.9 percent so far this week and is on track to mark its biggest weekly gain in six. U.S. gold futures were up 0.5 percent at $1,207.50 an ounce. “The weaker-than-expected jobs data is supporting the overall current mood but the numbers were not ‘disappointing enough’ to trigger fresh buying,” said Heraeus precious metals trader Alexander Zumpfe. U.S. nonfarm payrolls increased by 134,000 jobs last month, the fewest in a year, as the retail and leisure and hospitality sectors shed employment, something the Labor Department said could have been caused by Hurricane Florence. However, the unemployment rate fell to near a 49-year low of 3.7 percent, pointing to a further tightening in labour market conditions. Meanwhile, world markets steadied, as a four-year high in oil prices and the biggest weekly jump in Treasury yields since February left investors wondering where to go next. Rising U.S. government bond yields typically weigh on precious metals, as they make Treasuries attractive to investors seeking assets that earn a return as opposed to gold, which earns nothing and costs money to store and insure. “The labour market report is another hint that the Fed is going for a rate hike in December and further into 2019,” said Peter Fertig, analyst at Quantitative Commodity Research.

Gina Grain Racing career Grain started her professional road cycling career as part of her mountain bike fitness training program with the British Columbia Provincial Team. She rapidly began excel at it and later received an invitation to join the 800.com pro cycling teams in 2001, following her short stints on Atlanta Velo and Victory Brewing for the next two seasons. Grain flourished her first career success at the Grand Montreal Cycling Tour (French: Le Tour du Grand Montréal), where she officially earned a first stage triumph. In 2004, Grain emerged as one of the world's top road sprinters, and mounted consistent podium finishes and a limited number of triumphs to earn the U.S. Pro Tour Championships titles and other cycling tournaments. On that same year, she turned her sights to and took up seriously in track cycling. When the Victory Brewing folded out after the 2004 season, Grain left herself with no contract and instead, set up her short retirement to concentrate on her full-time job as a registered kinesiologist in exercise therapy and rehab programs at Saanich Commonwealth Place. At the start of the 2006 season, Grain returned to her professional cycling career when she signed an exclusive contract with Hong Kong's Giant Pro Cycling. She capped a successful season by taking home the silver medal in the women's elite 8 km scratch race at the UCI World Championships in Bordeaux, France, and mounted top-four finishes in both road and points race at the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne, Australia, moving her up to top ten places in the UCI world rankings. Reaching the peak of her sporting career, Grain burst again into the road cycling scene by defending her Tour de Gastown title on that same year, the first being done in 2005. In 2007, Grain granted license by the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) for the Canadian women's pro cycling team, racing under the Expresscopy.com banner. She rounded out another successful season by capturing her first ever and only women's elite road race title at the Canadian Championships in Saint-Georges, Quebec. By the end of 2007 season, Grain joined her teammates Erinne Willock, Alex Wrubleski, and 2004 U.S. Olympian Christine Thorburn as part of the official roster for the Webcor Builders Cycling Team. In July 2008, Grain thrilled again to a sprint finish by claiming her third title at the Tour de Gastown in Vancouver, British Columbia. Grain qualified for her first Canadian squad, as a 34-year-old, in the women's points race at the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing by receiving an invitational berth from the Canadian Cycling Association, based on her top-ten performance in the UCI Track World Rankings. Grain escaped from an early crash (which she fondly called it a "high-speed chess match") that eliminated three other riders off the track to take the ninth spot successfully in a grueling 25-km race, earning a total score of six points in three of the ten sprints. Shortly after the Olympics, Grain was stunned in a major upset from her inexperienced rival Tara Whitten by taking home the silver in the women's points race at the Canadian Track Cycling Championships in Burnaby, British Columbia. Upon returning to Webcor Builders Cycling Team for another season in 2009, Grain started her stint by edging out New Zealand rider and 2008 Olympian Catherine Cheatley on a blazing sprint road race to score a second stage triumph at the Tour of the Gila in southwestern United States.

<reponame>Aman-Lal-Woodside/aws-ops-metrics<filename>src/stateChangeHandler.ts import { StateChangeCapture } from './stateChangeCapture'; import { CloudwatchStateChangeEvent } from "./common"; export async function handler(event: CloudwatchStateChangeEvent) { await new StateChangeCapture().run(event); }

Humber Premier League History The league was formed in 2000. It began as a single division and expanded to include a Division One for the 2005–06 season. Reckitts won the league five times in the first six seasons of its existence. The league started with only the one division back in 2000 but had since grown and now has two divisions, the Premier Division, which sits at the 11th tier of the English football pyramid, and feeds the Northern Counties East League, and Division One. So far only two clubs – Hull United in 2015 (their stay in the NCEFL was just a single season) and East Yorkshire Carnegie two years later – have taken the step up from this league due to its status as a relatively new league and the general lack of hierarchical football structure in the Yorkshire area. Barton Town joined the league when it was formed in 2000 but only stayed for one season before they joined the Central Midlands Football League the following season. Barton’s Reserves team joined the league’s first division for the 2017-18 season. Cleethorpes Town had a three-season stint in the Humber Premier League, from 2006 to 2009-10. In their first season, they won promotion from the first division after finishing 3rd and after two further seasons, playing in the Premier Division, they decided to rejoin the Lincolnshire Football League for the 2010-11 season.

// ===================================================================================================================== // Builds an NOP PM4 packet with the ASCII string comment embedded inside. The comment is preceeded by a signature // that analysis tools can use to tell that this is a comment. size_t CmdUtil::BuildCommentString( const char* pComment, void* pBuffer) const { const size_t stringLength = strlen(pComment) + 1; const size_t packetSize = PM4_CMD_NOP_DWORDS + 3 + (stringLength + 3) / sizeof(uint32); auto*const pPacket = static_cast<PM4CMDNOP*>(pBuffer); uint32* pData = reinterpret_cast<uint32*>(pPacket + 1); PAL_ASSERT(stringLength < CmdBuffer::MaxCommentStringLength); pPacket->header.u32All = Type3Header(IT_NOP, static_cast<uint32>(packetSize)); pData[0] = CmdBuffer::CommentSignature; pData[1] = static_cast<uint32>(packetSize); pData[2] = static_cast<uint32>(CmdBufferCommentType::String); memcpy(pData + 3, pComment, stringLength); return packetSize; }

<filename>Data-structures-Algorithms-course/Sorting-Algorithms/Sorting-Algorithms/selection_sort.h #pragma once void swapif(int& a, int& b); void selection_sort(int* pArr, int size); void swapif(int& a, int& b) { if (b < a) { int temp(a); a = b; b = temp; } } void selection_sort(int* pArr, int size) { if (!pArr || size == 0) return; for (int i = 0; i < size - 1; i++) { int min = i; for (int j = i + 1; j < size; j++) { if (pArr[j] < pArr[min]) min = j; } swapif(pArr[i], pArr[min]); } }

Q: How do you make paneer? I've seen the ingredient list of a brand of paneer with an ingredient list of: Milk, Citric Acid. Ok, so what is the process from there? I have a few specific questions: What kind of milk do you need? Can you use pasteurized & homogenized vitamin D milk (whole milk)? Where do you get citric acid? I've seen some suggestions to use crushed children's aspirin. Is there a better, easily accessible source? Are there regional variances in paneer? The paneer I am used to, and love, states that it's from the Rajasthan region of India. How do you actually make it? A: This is a recipe that we used for the concierge lounge when I was a chef in the main kitchen of the Disney's Grand Floridian Resort & Spa: Paneer 5 cups whole milk 2 tablespoons lemon juice Bring the milk to a boil, add the lemon juice so that the milk separates into the curds and whey. Add a bit more lemon juice if necessary. Let set for approx. 5 mins. Line a strainer with a cheesecloth and strain the milk. Reserve the whey to use in curries instead of water. Squeeze the excess whey out of the curd and fold the cloth around the paneer to form a 4-inch square. Place the paneer on a plate and place a heavy weight on top to squeeze out excess whey. Leave for about 4 hours to set. A: Any kind of milk should be good. Homogenized milk doesn't make any difference; you make curds because you add a food acid. Citric acid is contained in lemons; you can also use vinegar or even yoghurt. Paneer is typical of countries like India (northern India), Pakistan, and Bangladesh. All those countries use different methods to obtain paneer. For example, in some countries, the curds are kept under a heavy weight for less time, and the paneer becomes fluffier. I forgot the main question, which was how to make paneer. Heat the milk, and add the food acid to make curds. Dry the curds in cheesecloth, and press out the excess of liquid. Put the paneer in chilled water for 1 − 2 hours. A: I use whole milk, which usually is vitamin D fortified. Ordinary whole milk also works. I bring about 2.5 litres ("liters" in the US) milk to a boil, switch off the flame, and then add about 2–3 tbsp ordinary vinegar. As soon as milk curdles, I pour the contents into a cheese cloth-lined colander. Next, I squeeze out all the water from the curdled solids and put a heavy weight on top of the paneer. The paneer is hard enough after about an hour. Regarding queso fresco and queso blanco, they may be made like paneer, but they melt when heated, because they are not acid-set cheese. I have tried substituting those two Mexican cheese varieties for paneer but the end result was not satisfactory.

The use of smartphone and chemometric analysis for determination of tetracyclines in natural water by sensitized solid phase fluorescence of Eu on europium hydroxide The possibility of identification and determination of tetracycline antibiotics (tetracycline, doxycycline, oxytetracycline, demeclocycline, metacycline and chlortetracycline) in natural water using digital colorimetry based on sensitized fluorescence of Eu (III) on europium hydroxide is studied. It is shown that complexes of Eu (III) with tetracyclines in an alkaline medium are adsorbed on europium hydroxide with preservation of their fluorescent properties. When the precipitate is irradiated with monochromatic ultraviolet light, pink fluorescence is observed. The colorimetric parameters of the precipitate in the RGB additive system after centrifugation were measured using a smartphone. The use of chemometric analysis provides shortening of the analysis procedure and visualizing of data obtained. The data set was processed using principal component analysis (PCA), hierarchical cluster analysis (HCA), and k-means method with XLSTAT software. The additional use of chemometric methods for processing of the analytical signal contributes to an increase in the reliability of the analyte identification. The methods used in the study make it possible to quantify the content of antibiotics in water bodies. The calibration dependences in the methods of principal components and k-means have a logarithmic form and are linear in the ranges of the determined contents 0.005 0.1 g/ml (R2 ≥ 0.99). The developed method for determining the total content of tetracycline antibiotics in natural waters is easy to use and is characterized by the availability of instrumentation. The environmental friendliness of this approach is attributed to a small set of inorganic salts required for concentration of the chelate complexes of tetracyclines with Eu (III) ions on europium hydroxide. The use of mobile digital technology (smartphones) and modern software products for data processing contributes to the development of rapid analysis. The approbation of the method was carried out using a sample of river water, the correctness of the analysis was proved by the spike test. The relative error of the analysis results does not exceed 15%.

/* ======================================================================== * PlantUML : a free UML diagram generator * ======================================================================== * * (C) Copyright 2009-2020, <NAME> * * Project Info: https://plantuml.com * * If you like this project or if you find it useful, you can support us at: * * https://plantuml.com/patreon (only 1$ per month!) * https://plantuml.com/paypal * * This file is part of PlantUML. * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. * * * Original Author: <NAME> */ package net.sourceforge.plantuml.project.core; public enum PrintScale { DAILY(1), WEEKLY(4), MONTHLY(15), QUARTERLY(40), YEARLY(60); private final double defaultScale; private PrintScale(int compress) { this.defaultScale = 1.0 / compress; } public final double getDefaultScale() { return defaultScale; } static public PrintScale fromString(String value) { if (value.startsWith("w")) { return WEEKLY; } if (value.startsWith("m")) { return MONTHLY; } if (value.startsWith("q")) { return QUARTERLY; } if (value.startsWith("y")) { return YEARLY; } return DAILY; } }

Get the biggest soaps stories by email Subscribe Thank you for subscribing See our privacy notice Could not subscribe, try again later Invalid Email It is one of soapland's biggest storylines. So it's reassuring that Coronation Street actor Chris Harper says he's glad that his role as sex abuser Nathan Curtis has "made an impact". Viewers have been gripped by the grooming plot, which has seen 16-year-old Bethany Platt (played by Lucy Fallon) being groomed and abused by her boyfriend Nathan and his friends over a number of weeks. Harper told the Press Association: "It's clearly made an impact. It's been wonderful how many people have come up and talked to me... People who've had abuse in their life or their families' lives. (Image: ITV) "The role has opened my eyes to how much of it exists and how much great work there is to try to combat it." He said his alter-ego Nathan had "to reach a sticky end" for justice to be served - but admitted the writers still haven't decided how to finish things. "He's going to have to go down. It's not been written yet but we're doing it with full responsibility and awareness," the actor said of the storyline. Harper was speaking after visiting Heathfield Nursery and Infant School, in Twickenham, to see the NSPCC's Speak Out Stay Safe service in action. It aims to educate children, through interactive assemblies, about the different forms of abuse and where to get help. "It's one of the reasons I've embraced the role," the soap star said. (Image: ITV) (Image: ITV) EastEnders in chaos after show boss Sean O’Connor leaves job after just a year amid ratings slump "I think what the NSPCC are doing to create an entire generation of kids, hopefully, who are able to spot key signals and stay safe and keep their friends safe, is really important. The whole crime revolves around secrecy and shame and keeping things under wraps." On-screen, he said that the "next turn of the story" would focus on Bethany. Video Loading Video Unavailable Click to play Tap to play The video will start in 8 Cancel Play now (Image: ITV) "It's so hard to discover, for Bethany, that someone she thinks she loves is being cruel. That's going to be the next turn of the story, following Bethany's strength and courage in discovering and then facing what's happened to her. "We'll see him go to trial, that's a really important thing to see."

package geek_exercicios.secao03; public class E36 { public static void main(String[] args) { float altura = 5.10f; float raio = 10f; float pi = 3.141592f; float volume = (float) (pi * Math.pow(raio, 2) * altura); System.out.println(volume); } }

LIMA (Reuters) - Peruvian Finance Minister David Tuesta resigned on Monday as truck and bus drivers called off plans for a major protest against his fuel tax hikes and the president promised to shift the focus on collecting taxes owed by big companies. The finance minister’s resignation marks the biggest setback yet for President Martin Vizcarra since he became president in late March to replace Pedro Pablo Kuczynski, a former Wall Street investor who stepped down in a graft scandal. Tuesta’s decision to hike excise taxes on diesel and other fuels as oil prices climbed on global markets prompted protests in southern Peru last month and organizers had threatened to stage larger and indefinite protests starting on Tuesday. In a late-night televised address, Vizcarra said he had accepted Tuesta’s resignation as part of a shift in tax policy. “The country’s growth will be obtained on the back of investments and better (tax) collection, not on raising tax rates,” he said. However, Vizcarra did not say whether his government would reverse the higher fuel taxes. Instead, he shifted the focus of his tax drive to large companies. “Large companies have been identified that owe the state the equivalent of more than 1 percent of GDP, revenues needed for the development of public works and policies that benefit all Peruvians,” Vizcarra said. Vizcarra did not name any of the companies but promised to establish an ad-hoc commission to tackle the issue. Earlier on Monday, representatives of truck and bus drivers announced they had agreed to call off plans for an indefinite strike against the higher fuel taxes after reaching a deal with officials in Vizcarra’s government. It was not clear if Tuesta’s resignation was part of this deal. The finance ministry was not immediately available for comment. In neighboring Brazil, a recent truckers’ strike over higher diesel prices virtually paralyzed the country for nearly two weeks. Vizcarra did not say who he would appoint to replace Tuesta, but he is widely expected to keep Peru’s decades-old free-market economic model in place through 2021, when his term ends. Critics warned that Tuesta’s resignation risked sending the message that Vizcarra, formerly the country’s vice president, could be easily swayed. Last month, responding to an uproar from fishermen, coastal residents and environmentalists, Vizcarra repealed decrees Kuczynski had signed authorizing offshore oil exploration by London-based Tullow Oil. Vizcarra said he had been forced to form a cabinet in “record time” to stabilize Peru after its worst political crisis since the turn of the century, and urged Peruvians to be patient. “We’ve been in the government for a little over two months, and the results of this arduous work are starting to show,” Vizcarra said, listing upcoming private investments. But Vizcarra’s approval rating has slipped amid growing criticism in recent weeks as teachers pushed for a bigger budget for education and feminists protested his lackluster initial response to a wave of gruesome killings of women.

The present invention relates to methods of fluid treatment that use ion exchange processes or filtering processes to treat the fluids. In particular, the present invention relates to methods and systems that may provide alternate or modified exchange processes within the same system. The alternate or modified exchange processes are a function of past use, predicted future use and/or system load factors. The present invention also relates to methods and systems that provide a fluid release cycle that precedes a selected cycle in the regeneration of a fluid treatment device or system. Fluid filtering and fluid softening processes are becoming more and more common processes and are used in all different situations and environments, from industrial and municipal installations, to individual water filtration systems for homes and houses. Fluid filtering and fluid softening processes are becoming more and more common processes and are used in all different situations and environments, from industrial and municipal installations, to individual water filtration systems for homes and houses. Many of the softening fluid treatment processes are ion exchange processes that regenerate ion exchange media and media beds used during the fluid treatment. Regeneration fluids are passed through the bed of depleted ion exchange media during which ions are exchanged between the regenerate solution and the depleted media. In the case of filter media, regeneration fluids are passed through filter media to precipitate the contaminants or to filter out turbidity. As used herein, the terms “on exchange media” and/or “filter media” and/or “media” are defined broadly to include, as examples, resins, and zeolites, natural and synthetic types of both, carbon and activate carbon, activated alumina, and any other amorphous or microcrystalline structures commonly used in exchange and/or filtering processes. Regenerates for the ion exchange media also cover a broad spectrum of compounds, including potassium permanganate, potassium chloride, hydrogen peroxide, sodium chloride, or any other chemical or compound used to recharge, reactivate, oxidize, or rejuvenated a material bed. A common ion exchange media includes high capacity ion exchange resin. Current processes and systems allow for basic programming of a regeneration cycle to be undertaken during an ion exchange or media regeneration process. Generally, a regeneration cycle will include one or more steps of backwashing the ion exchange or filter media, regenerating the media, rinsing the media, and servicing the media. Current systems and devices allow for individual cycles to be programmed into the system or device. It is known in the art that the duration of the regenerating step or brining step may be modified in an ion exchange device such as a water softener. For example, U.S. Pat. No. 4,472,797 (Gauer et al.) discloses a method and apparatus for selecting the quantity of salt to be used during each regeneration of a water softener system. Similarly, U.S. Pat. No. 7,556,738 (Premathilake et al.) discloses an alternate method of measuring the strength of the regenerant or brine (salt) solution during service and measuring the strength again during regeneration is disclosed. In both prior art patents, the disclosed methods maximize the efficient use of salt during regeneration step. Many of these fluid treatment processes are air chamber, ion exchange and/or micronizer processes that regenerate ion exchange media and/or filter media beds used during the fluid treatment. In some environments, the fluid to be treated contains gas that is released during the treatment process. Regeneration fluids are passed through the bed of ion exchange media or saturated filter media during which ions may be exchanged in the case of a water softener or precipitated in the case of a filter media. As used herein, the terms “ion exchange media” and/or “filter media” and/or “media” are defined broadly to include, as examples, resins, and zeolites, natural and synthetic types of both, carbon and activated carbon, activated alumina, and any other amorphous or microcrystalline structures commonly used in exchange and/or filtering processes. Regenerates for the media also cover a broad spectrum of compounds, including potassium permanganate, potassium chloride, hydrogen peroxide, sodium chloride, or any other chemical or compound used to recharge, reactivate, oxidize, or rejuvenated a media bed. A common ion exchange media includes high capacity ion exchange resin. Current processes and systems for use allow for basic programming of a regeneration cycle to be undertaken during an ion exchange or media regeneration process. Generally, a regeneration cycle will include one or more steps of backwashing the ion exchange or filter media, regenerating the media, rinsing the media, and servicing the media. Current systems and devices allow for individual cycles to be programmed into the system or device. However, there are no known devices in the prior art that allow for alternate or modified regeneration cycles to be programmed and operated within a water treatment system, and especially within a residential treatment system. Such a method and system will save resources, such as water. For example, if a regeneration cycle is needed before the capacity of the system has been depleted, the present system will modify steps of the regeneration cycle including the steps of backwashing the ion exchange or filter media, and rinsing the media to a shorter time period. Alternatively, if the amount of water consumed exceeds the capacity of the system, the present system will modify each step of the regeneration cycle to a longer time period. Also, there are no known devices in the prior art that allow for a fluid release cycle to be programmed and operated independently of the backwashing cycle of a water treatment system, and especially within a residential treatment system. Such a system, with the fluid release backwashing cycle, would be an advantage over the prior art. Such a system, especially for a residential application, would be an advantage over the prior art.

# VM instructions INSTRUCTION_SET = [ 'PASS', 'LABEL', 'CALL', 'BT', 'BF', 'BEQ', 'BNE', 'JMP', 'RET', 'SET', 'ADDI', 'SUBI', 'MULI', 'DIVI', 'ADD', 'SUB', 'MUL', 'DIV', 'EQ', 'NEQ', 'GT', 'LT', 'GTE', 'LTE', 'SQRT', 'LEN', 'EXIT', 'WRITEI', 'WRITEO', 'WRITENL', 'LIST_NEW', 'LIST_ADD', 'LIST_REM', 'LIST_POP', ] # dict of instructions to their int codes: INST = {} # reverse dict of strings to ints INST_STRS = {} for i, inst in enumerate(INSTRUCTION_SET): globals()[inst] = i INST[inst] = i INST_STRS[i] = inst OPERATOR_MAP = { ADD: "+", SUB: "-", MUL: "*", DIV: "/", EQ: "==", NEQ: "!=", GT: ">", LT: "<", GTE: ">=", LTE: "<=", } class BytecodeAnnotation(object): def __init__(self, filename, source, comment=""): self.filename = filename self.source = source self.comment = comment

<filename>app/src/main/java/com/zeus/hello/moiveapp/MyUtil/MeiziList.java<gh_stars>0 package com.zeus.hello.moiveapp.MyUtil; import android.util.Log; import org.jsoup.Jsoup; import org.jsoup.nodes.Document; import org.jsoup.nodes.Element; import org.jsoup.select.Elements; import java.io.IOException; import java.util.ArrayList; import java.util.List; /** * Created by zhou on 2017/4/19. */ public class MeiziList { private final static String pageUrl="http://www.mzitu.com/zipai/"; private final static String TAG="MeiziList"; private static String previousUrl="0"; private static int num=0; public final static List<Meizi> list=new ArrayList<Meizi>(); public static void getPageInfo(){ Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: start get,num:"+num); num++; if (num>4) return; String url; if (previousUrl.equals("0")){ list.clear(); url=pageUrl; }else { url=previousUrl; } try { Document doc = Jsoup.connect(url).userAgent("Mozilla").timeout(3000).get(); Element div=doc.getElementById("comments"); Elements lus=div.getElementsByTag("ul"); Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: ...num:"+lus.size()); for (Element ul:lus) { for (Element li:ul.getElementsByTag("li")) { // Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: li num:"); Element img=li.getElementsByTag("img").first(); Element time=li.getElementsByTag("a").first(); Meizi m=new Meizi("自拍",img.attr("src"),time.ownText(),"自拍"); // Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: img:"+time.ownText()); list.add(m); } } Element nav=div.getElementsByClass("pagenavi-cm").get(0); Element previous=nav.getElementsByTag("a").last(); if (previous.ownText().equals("下一页 »")){ previousUrl=previous.attr("href"); Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: going to next..."); getPageInfo(); }else { previousUrl="0"; } } catch (IOException e) { // Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: A exception happened"); Log.d(TAG, "getPageInfo: exception:"+e.getLocalizedMessage()); } } }

So far most commentary on Ahmet Davutoglu's selection as Turkey's new prime minister has been focused on what his relationship will be with the country's new president, Recep Teyyip Erdogan. Opponents of the Justice and Development Party (AKP) tend to portray Davutoglu as certain to play second fiddle to Erdogan who is both fiercely resented and feared, and regarded by his enemies as a "Turkish Putin". I believe that Davutoglu's record in foreign policy gives assurances that he will be a strong and effective prime minister. Starting out in 2003 as chief advisor to the foreign minister, and later to the prime minister, Davutoglu's role as a highly influential and respected expert was quickly recognised. Long before Davutoglu became foreign minister in 2009, he was widely respected in Turkey as the creative force behind its energetic and effective foreign policy, which was causing a stir in the region and around the world. Davutoglu's contributions were particularly notable in three domains of foreign policy. First, he understood and clearly articulated the importance for Turkey to adapt to the new regional setting created by the end of the Cold War, appreciating that it was now possible and desirable for Turkey to act more independently in the Middle East and beyond without disrupting its primary security ties with the United States and NATO. Secondly, Davutoglu from almost the beginning of his role in government became Ankara's chief emissary seeking to clear the path to Turkish membership in the European Union, helping devise the "Copenhagen Criteria" that turned out to be more useful as a roadmap for desired domestic reform than to achieve their stated purpose of paving the way to EU membership. Satisfying the EU requirements gave Prime Minister Erdogan the justification he needed for impressively strengthening the civilian control of government. Thirdly, these moves to civilianise the Turkish government removed altogether the earlier role played by the Turkish armed forces as custodian of the republic through the medium of coups against elected political leaders. In retrospect, substantially removing the armed forces from the political life was a great step forward in democratising Turkey, even if this momentous development has never been acknowledged in Brussels, and not even often in Turkey. Turkey has almost alone in the region played a principled and constructive role by challenging the Israeli blockade of Gaza and seeking to end the collective punishment and humanitarian ordeal of the Palestinian population. This role was resented in the centres of Western power and even in most Arab capitals, but it has endeared Turkey and its leaders to the peoples of the region and beyond. It also illustrated Davutoglu's insistence that a successful Turkish foreign policy should be as principled as possible while at the same time being creatively opportunistic, promoting national interests and values, and above all seeking engagement rather than confrontation. More famously, and controversially, Davutoglu saw the opportunities for Turkish outreach in the Arab world, and beyond. The AKP effectively expanded trade, investment, and cultural exchanges throughout the region, an approach labelled "zero problems with neighbours" by Davutoglu. ZPN seemed a brilliant diplomatic stroke, a dramatic effort to rest Turkey's ambitions on the dynamics of "soft power geopolitics", that is, providing benefits, attracting others, and not depending for influence on military prowess or coercive diplomacy. Then in early 2011 came the Arab Spring that surprised everyone, including Turkey. It created excitement and turbulence throughout the region, but also the promise of more democratic patterns of governance. Davutoglu as much as any statesman welcomed these Arab anti-authoritarian upheavals as benevolent happenings, especially the extraordinary events in Tunisia and Egypt in early 2011 that overthrew two long serving authoritarian and corrupt leaders as a result of largely nonviolent mass mobilisations. This optimism did not last long. Developments in Libya, Syria, Bahrain, and Yemen made it clear that there was not going to take place a series of smooth and quick transitions throughout the region. Turkey would have to choose sides as between the authoritarian old order seeking to hold onto or restore its power and its populist challengers. Syria posed this challenge in its severest form. The Assad regime in Damascus had earlier been the poster child of ZPN, and now was committing one atrocity after another against its own people. Turkey abruptly switched sides, losing trust in Assad, and aligning itself with rebel forces. Both pro and anti-Assad postures proved controversial in Turkey. Critics accused the government of playing sectarian politics by supporting an insurgency that was increasingly dominated by Sunni militants associated with the Syrian version of the Muslim Brotherhood. Davutoglu skilfully and reasonably reformulated his ZPN by asserting that when a government shoots its own citizens in large numbers, Turkey will side with the people, not the governmental leadership, which lost its legitimacy through its actions. From now on the doctrine associated with his outlook could be more accurately understood as "zero problems with people", or ZPP. The mass mobilisation against the elected Morsi government in Egypt illustrated another kind of difficulty, leading Turkey to stand out in the region, joined only by Qatar, in its refusal to give its blessings to the military coup that brought General Abdel Fattah el-Sisi to power in July 2013. The touchstone of Davutoglu's approach to foreign policy is the effort to blend principle and pragmatism in relation to shifting policy contexts, doing what is right ethically while at the same time exploring every opportunity to promote Turkish national interests. These include enhancing Turkey's international reputation as a responsible and strategic player. This blend of goals was well-illustrated by the seemingly frantic Davutoglu diplomacy in many settings, including the Balkans, Crimea, Armenia, Myanmar, Africa, and Latin America, wherever possible seeking to resolve regional conflicts while lending support to humanitarian goals. The most impressive example of such an approach was undoubtedly the major initiative starting in mid-2011 to help crisis-ridden Somalia when the rest of the world abandoned the country as a "failed state". From this bold humanitarian gesture of solidarity came a major opening to Africa for Turkey. This produced an immediate rise in Turkish prestige that brought with it major opportunities throughout the continent. Despite an extraordinary record of achievements, the Davutoglu foreign policy experience also has its share of blemishes, even taking into account the difficulties that all governments faced in adapting to the abrupt sequence of unexpected changes in the Middle East during the last several years. Perhaps because his plate was so full with an array of diverse undertakings, Davutoglu didn't sufficiently focus on the daunting complexities of the aftermath of the Arab Spring. The most serious of these blunders concerned Syria, not the underlying impulses, but the lack of nuance. Ankara acted as if the Assad regime would quickly collapse if pushed even slightly by the uprising. Turkey seemed continuously surprised by Assad's resilience and by the internal, regional, and international support Syria was receiving. Turkish policy seemed mistaken, embroiling Turkey in an unwinnable foreign civil war, and tarnishing its image as a prudent and calming diplomatic influence throughout the region. A similar line of criticism applies to Davutoglu's overall response to the Arab Spring and its aftermath. It was consistent with the principled side of the foreign policy approach he was pioneering to welcome the events of 2011 in Tunisia and Egypt. It was premature to consider these developments as irreversible, and to presuppose their continuous deepening and regional spread. It soon became evident that Davutoglu did not appreciate the political will or capabilities of counter-revolutionary forces in the region, and did not seem to take account of the impact of an anti-democratic preoccupation that pervaded the dynastic politics of the well-endowed monarchies in the region. All in all, Ahmet Davutoglu has had a remarkable run as a foreign minister, and as Turkey's new prime minister, is almost certain to embellish further his many notable contributions to the success of post-Kemalist Turkey. His thoughtfulness about policymaking combined with his personal integrity and decency while operating at the highest levels of professional competence make him a rarity among politicians. Turkey is poised to play a crucial role as a force for peace and justice in the roiled waters of the Middle East, in surrounding regions and sub-regions, and even in the world. Editor's note: A version of this article was previously published on Al Jazeera Turk.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - The following are highlights of Federal Reserve Chair Janet Yellen’s question-and-answer session on Wednesday before the U.S. House Financial Services Committee, where she delivered the central bank’s semi-annual monetary policy report to Congress. Federal Reserve Board Chairwoman Janet Yellen arrives to testify before a House Financial Services committee hearing on "Monetary Policy and the State of the Economy" on Capitol Hill in Washington July 15, 2015. REUTERS/Yuri Gripas YELLEN ON HOW THE ECONOMY NOW “NEEDS” HIGHER RATES: “I would say ... our economy is in a much better state. Low interest rates have facilitated it, and a decision on our part to raise rates will say, ‘No, the economy doesn’t stink.’ We’re close to where we want to be, and we now think the economy can not only tolerate but needs higher rates. So there have been headwinds, and we’ve tried to use monetary policy to overcome them.” YELLEN ON COMMUNITY BANKS: “Community banks are really vital to local economies. It is something we are very focused on at the Federal Reserve. We want to see community banks thrive and know that for many different reasons, this is a very difficult environment for community banks. “The slow pace of economic growth and recovery that we have had, the low interest environment is squeezing their margins and the regulatory burdens that they face have been really quite high and they’re struggling with it. “We are looking at the way that we supervise community banks to do everything within our power to reduce the regulatory burdens and I could give you a list of things that we are doing to try to minimize the burden- more offsite exams, more special tailoring of our exams to the risk profile of the banks.” YELLEN ON CONSEQUENCES OF GROWING FEDERAL DEBT: “In the years ahead if deficits aren’t addressed and become very large they will put pressure on the economy that - not right now, but in future years - likely will cause us to have higher levels of interest rates than we otherwise would have, diminished levels of investment and productivity growth in this economy. We will have to offset those forces by having a tighter monetary policy. But we’re not in that situation now.” YELLEN ON LONG-TERM OUTLOOK FOR NATION’S DEBT: “Like my predecessor, I believe the nation faces a very serious debt problem in the years ahead. At the moment... mainly because of congressional actions and those by the administration (we) have succeeded in lowering deficits to the point where over the next several years the debt-to-GDP ratio is stable. But over time, under CBO projections as the population ages and especially as health-care costs rise above trend, as has been historically typical, the country will face an unsustainable debt path in which the debt-to-GDP ratio rises. That requires further action - that’s mainly related to retirement programs, to Social Security and even more importantly, to Medicare and health care cost trends. “We’ve known about this for decades and there remains a need for action on this front.” YELLEN ON PUERTO RICO: “This isn’t a matter in which I have an opinion. It’s something the Federal Reserve can’t and shouldn’t be involved in. I think it’s appropriate for Congress to consider what’s best to do in this case. What we have been doing is obviously monitoring developments in Puerto Rico, which economically are very difficult. We are looking to see, are there risks that are being transmitted to the broader municipal market and we are not seeing signs of contagion.” YELLEN ON FOMC’S ROLE IN INVESTIGATION OF LEAK: “We’ve said that we plan to give (the documents) to you as soon as we’re able to do so and not compromise an open criminal investigation. We want to see this investigation succeed. “The FOMC has in place a clear set of rules for their part to be followed when there are allegations of a leak. They call for a review of the incident by the general counsel and the FOMC secretary who have described to you how that review took place. “Before his review was complete he (the general counsel) was informed by the IG that the IG had undertaken his own investigation and therefore the IG was already looking at it before it was necessary for him to make a decision... The IG was already involved.” YELLEN ON INTEREST RATES: We are not going to raise rates if we think it is going to tip the economy into a recession. We will raise rates because we believe the economy is strong enough that it is appropriate to have higher rates to meet the objectives that have been assigned by Congress. YELLEN ON LABOR MARKET PROGRESS, ‘TENTATIVE’ WAGE GROWTH: “Monetary policy has been aimed at trying to achieve a strong recovery in the job market. And while we are not there yet, I believe we’ve made substantial progress. As the economy improves and the labor market gets stronger, I would expect to see the growth of wages pick up over time, and at this point I think we’re seeing at least some first tentative signs that wage growth is increasing.” YELLEN ON SYSTEMICALLY IMPORTANT FINANCIAL INSTITUTION (SIFI) DESIGNATION: “FSOC reviews every single year, the designations of firms and considers whether or not they are appropriate or if they are no longer appropriate. And firms that are designated are given very detailed material to enable them to understand the basis of the designation.” YELLEN ON WAITING LONGER TO HIKE RATES: “If we wait longer (to raise rates) it certainly could mean that when we begin to raise rates we might have to do so more rapidly. So an advantage to beginning a little bit earlier is that we might have a more gradual path of rate increases.” YELLEN: NO DECISION ON TIMING OF RATE HIKE: “We have no judgment at this point about the appropriate date to raise the federal funds rate. Our judgment about this will depend on the unfolding economic developments and how they affect our forecasts.” YELLEN ON EFFECTS OF GREECE, OTHER INTERNATIONAL DEVELOPMENTS: “Of course we continue to watch these global developments unfold and we will in the coming months. Were we to judge that these developments did create substantial risks or were changing the outlook in some notable way, then the change in the outlook is something that would affect monetary policy.” YELLEN ON PROBE INTO OCT. 15, 2014 MARKET MOVES: “We just don’t have a conclusion on what happened in the Treasury market at this point. Regulation could have contributed in some way to this, but there are many other things going on as well.” YELLEN ON INCOME INEQUALITY: “The predatory pricing, rising inequality...the impact it has on African Americans and disadvantaged groups is something that greatly concerns me and I think it is of tremendous concern to all Americans... “We are responsible for supervision of financial institutions to make sure that they adhere to fair lending practices and we test regularly in our consumer compliance exams to make sure that the firms that we supervise are abiding by Congress’s rule pertaining to equal credit opportunity and to make sure that there are no unfair credit practices that are being directed toward minorities or toward any Americans...” “We don’t have the tools to be able to address the structural unemployment across groups, but a stronger economy generally really does tend to be beneficial to all Americans and that’s what we are working toward.” YELLEN ON WHETHER DODD-FRANK ENSHRINED ‘TOO BIG TO FAIL’: I don’t believe that Dodd-Frank enshrined ‘too big to fail.’ First of all, it directed us to increase the safety and soundness of financial institutions, and particularly those that are most systemic. So it gave us tools to raise capital and liquidity, to impose capital surcharges on those firms it would deem most systemic, to use stress-testing as a methodology, to make these firms much less likely to fail, and the amount of capital and liquidity has increased massively since the crisis. YELLEN ON RESISTANCE TO RULES-BASED MONETARY POLICY: “I don’t agree that a rules-based policy is a better way to go. There’s not a single central bank in the world that follows a rule that would rely on only two variables.” “I think we need a systematic policy. But I would strongly resist agreeing to follow any rule where the stance of monetary policy depends on only the current readings of two economic variables, which is what your reference rule relies on.”

Desire and Disaster in New Orleans: Tourism, Race, and Historical Memory. By Lynnell L. Thomas. (MECC). A concluding chapter sketches out links between this postwar computing industry and the medical devices industry, which from the latter decades of the twentieth century forward has had a significant presence in the area. Misa consulted a variety of archival and secondary sources in writing Digital State, and these sources are listed in the bibliography. The literature is current and includes both books and articles. Annotated endnotes provide additional information. The sources also include more than fifty oral history interviews with significant personalities, the majority of which were conducted in the 1980s. Misa uses this oral history evidence throughout the book, relying heavily on interviews in the construction of the narratives in each chapter. Generally the author paraphrases these interviews, though, as opposed to quoting directly. When he does include passages from interviews, these are brief and integrated into the body of the narrative. Overall, this is a very good example of how oral history can be used in historical research. Digital State is wonderfully illustrated, too, with dozens of period photographs, diagrams, and posters that give these interesting accounts even more life. Some of the technology discussed could be difficult for a nonspecialist to visualize; Misas inclusion of many images helps in this respect. How might an instructor use this book? Specialized and detailed, this is an ideal text for courses on the history of technology or twentieth century economic history, as the accounts related here have significance far beyond Minnesota. Instructors requiring a source for lectures could also benefit from reading Digital State. And both undergraduate and graduate students conducting research would find this an excellent text. Larger university libraries will also want to add this to their collections. In sum, this carefully researched and clearly written volume provides an excellent example of how oral history can be integrated into scholarship. Misas readable book will be an important source for students of technology and the computing industry. I highly recommend it.

The FINANCIAL -- Despite a shrinking and ageing population, Japan is continuing to add to its workforce through greater female and older worker employment. PwC’s latest Global Economy Watch explores how Japan is counteracting its challenging demographics and whether this can continue. Japan has continued to grow its workforce despite a shrinking and ageing population. Japan’s population is contracting, since its peak at 128 million in 2010, it has declined by 1.3 million people. Additionally, its population is old: 28% are over 65, compared with 18% in the UK and 15% in the US. Yet the number of people working in Japan continues to rise, up by 1.7% in 2018. This growth was not enabled by a reduction in high unemployment; joblessness has been low and falling for years. Japan’s female employment rate is a key contributor. In 2002, there was a ten percentage point gap between female employment rates in the US and Japan, but Japan has now overtaken the US. A higher proportion of women are also returning to work sooner after having children than they were previously. Government policy in Japan has aided this, by increasing the number of nursery places and making provision for all 3-5 year olds free by 2021. A law passed in 2015 demands that larger firms set targets for hiring and promoting women. Other legislation caps overtime at 100 hours a month, a move designed to both prevent over-work and generate new roles where demand clearly exists. The Japanese government is also aiming to push up the retirement age for state workers from 60 to 65 and boost the public pension for those that opt to defer drawing from it. Japan is already leading the world by retaining so many older workers; its rate of around 25% is higher than that in the US (18%) and the UK (10%). “Japan’s already strong labour market has found a way to strengthen further despite it’s unfavourable demographics. Former barriers to entry, such as a culture of long office hours, entrenched gender roles and a lack of flexibility have shifted thanks to government intervention. This has enabled parts of the population previously deterred from working, such as women and older people, to participate”, Mike Jakeman, senior economist at PwC, comments. “There’s a reluctance to embrace higher immigration in Japan, but parliament has approved the creation of two new visas, which could see immigration increase. If Japan’s decline in unemployment rate continues at its average rate of the past eight years, the economy would hit zero unemployment in 2027. It is possible that this date could be deferred if the labour force continued to grow, but the eventual impediment to this will be its shrinking population.

# Copyright (C) 2018-2021 Intel Corporation # SPDX-License-Identifier: Apache-2.0 import numpy as np from mo.front.common.partial_infer.utils import tf_window_op_pad_infer, int64_array, float_array, shape_array, \ dynamic_dimension_value, dynamic_dimension from mo.front.onnx.extractors.utils import get_backend_pad from mo.graph.graph import Node, Graph from mo.ops.op import Op, PermuteAttrs from mo.utils.error import Error from mo.front.extractor import bool_to_str class PoolingV2(Op): """ TensorFlow MaxPoolV2 and AvgPoolV2 operations expect windows_size and strides values from inputs not from attributes. This internal operation is introduced to handle that. Only constant windows_size and strides values are supported. Eventually will be replaced with the standard pooling operations from the opset. """ op = 'PoolingV2' enabled = False def __init__(self, graph: Graph, attrs: dict): super().__init__(graph, { 'type': None, 'op': self.op, 'version': None, 'infer': self.infer, 'in_ports_count': 3, 'out_ports_count': 1, }, attrs) @staticmethod def infer(node: Node): assert (len(node.in_nodes()) == 3), 'MaxPoolV2 node {} from must have only 3 inputs: input, window size, and strides ' \ 'but instead got {} inputs'.format(node.soft_get('name', node.id), len(node.in_nodes())) node['window'] = node.in_port(1).data.get_value() node['stride'] = node.in_port(2).data.get_value() if node['window'] is None: raise Error('The non-constant window size for MaxPoolV2 node {} is not supported'.format(node.soft_get('name', node.id))) if node['stride'] is None: raise Error('The non-constant strides for MaxPoolV2 node {} is not supported'.format(node.soft_get('name', node.id))) Pooling.pool_infer(node) class Pooling(Op): op = 'Pooling' def __init__(self, graph: Graph, attrs: dict): super().__init__(graph, { 'type': self.op, 'op': self.op, 'version': 'opset1', 'infer': self.infer, 'in_ports_count': 1, 'out_ports_count': 1, }, attrs) def backend_attrs(self): return [ ('strides', lambda node: ','.join(map(str, node['stride'][node.spatial_dims]))), ('kernel', lambda node: ','.join(map(str, node['window'][node.spatial_dims]))), ('pads_begin', lambda node: ','.join(map(str, get_backend_pad(node.pad, node.spatial_dims, 0)))), ('pads_end', lambda node: ','.join(map(str, get_backend_pad(node.pad, node.spatial_dims, 1)))), ('exclude-pad', lambda node: bool_to_str(node, 'exclude_pad')), 'rounding_type', ('auto_pad', lambda node: node.auto_pad if node.has_valid('auto_pad') else 'explicit'), ] @staticmethod def infer(node: Node): assert (len(node.in_nodes()) == 1), 'MaxPool node {} from must have only one input but instead got ' \ '{} inputs'.format(node.soft_get('name', node.id), len(node.in_nodes())) Pooling.pool_infer(node) @staticmethod def pool_infer(node: Node): input_shape = node.in_node(0).shape if input_shape is None: return if not node.has_valid('spatial_dims'): node['spatial_dims'] = np.delete([x for x in range(len(input_shape))], [node.batch_dims[0], node.channel_dims[0]]) input_spatial_shape = input_shape[node.spatial_dims] # Setting default pad and stride attrs in case if None specified if not node.has_valid('pad'): node['pad'] = int64_array([[0, 0] for x in range(len(input_shape))]) if not node.has_valid('pad_spatial_shape'): node['pad_spatial_shape'] = node.pad[node.spatial_dims] if not node.has_valid('stride'): node['stride'] = int64_array([1 for x in range(len(input_shape))]) if node.has_and_set('global_pool'): node['window'] = np.zeros(len(input_shape), dtype=np.int64) node.window[node.spatial_dims] = input_spatial_shape window_spatial_shape = node.window[node.spatial_dims] stride_spatial = node.stride[node.spatial_dims] assert any(stride_spatial), 'Stride can not be zero in node {}'.format(node.id) if node.has_valid('auto_pad') and node.auto_pad != 'explicit': node.pad_spatial_shape, node.output_spatial_shape = tf_window_op_pad_infer(input_spatial_shape, window_spatial_shape, stride_spatial, node.auto_pad) pad = np.zeros((len(input_shape), 2), dtype=np.int64) pad[node.spatial_dims] = node.pad_spatial_shape node.pad = pad else: pad_spatial_shape = np.add.reduce(node.pad_spatial_shape, axis=1) rounding = np.floor if node.soft_get('pooling_convention') == 'full' or node.soft_get('rounding_type') == 'ceil': rounding = np.ceil padded_spatial_shape = input_spatial_shape + pad_spatial_shape - window_spatial_shape if np.any(padded_spatial_shape < 0): raise Error("Data after padding has dimension less than window size. " + "Possible reason of error is incorrectly specified model input shape(s).") output_spatial_shape = shape_array([dynamic_dimension_value for _ in range(len(padded_spatial_shape))]) for idx in range(len(padded_spatial_shape)): if padded_spatial_shape[idx] is not dynamic_dimension and stride_spatial[idx] is not dynamic_dimension: output_spatial_shape[idx] = int(rounding(padded_spatial_shape[idx] / stride_spatial[idx])) + 1 original_pads = np.array([i[1] for i in node.pad_spatial_shape]) for i in range(len(input_spatial_shape)): if original_pads[i] and (output_spatial_shape[i] - 1) * stride_spatial[i] >= \ input_spatial_shape[i] + original_pads[i]: output_spatial_shape[i] -= 1 node['output_spatial_shape'] = output_spatial_shape output_shape = input_shape.copy() output_shape[node.spatial_dims] = node.output_spatial_shape node.out_port(0).data.set_shape(output_shape) # Add permute_attrs PermuteAttrs.create_permute_attrs(node, attrs=[('pad', 'input:0'), ('stride', 'input:0'), ('window', 'input:0'), ('spatial_dims', 'input:0')])

The Wall Street Journal and its publisher Rupert Murdoch appear to be using President Donald Trump’s national security adviser H.R. McMaster as their latest weapon in their continuing battle against Trump’s America-first agenda and movement that enabled Trump to shock the world on election night. After Trump won the White House, Democrats, the Deep State, and the legacy media have often worked together to delegitimize Trump, which is something Trump has every reason to be angry about. But the Journal, by mimicking Joe Scarborough and attempting to marginalize Trump’s nationalist advisers, is subtly trying to take over Trump’s presidency for the GOP establishment that Trump resoundingly defeated over and over and over again. In its latest editorial on Wednesday, the paper of choice for Republican globalists hopes that there is more “clean-up duty to be done” for new White House Chief of Staff John Kelly. The paper targets White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon for opposing McMaster’s “favoring more troops” in Afghanistan and McMaster’s insistence on not getting out of the Iran Deal. The Journal laments that the “policy brawls” in a White House in which it often seems like Bannon is the lone America-first nationalist in a cage match with a team of globalists who have never understood Trump’s agenda cause “dysfunction.” To the Journal, it is a problem that Bannon, whom former Chief of Staff Reince Priebus described as someone who worked 24 hours a day for Trump’s nationalist agenda, is a street fighter for the working-class Americans who elected Trump and whom the Journal views as mere commodities. In March, the Journal, as Breitbart News noted, criticized Bannon’s “signature issues of economic nationalism and border security” as unacceptable positions that were responsible for “polarization” even though those issues united working-class Democrats and Republicans in the Rust Belt to deliver Trump his election-night win. The Journal has always been right in this sense—the greatest divide between Wall Street and Main Street has been on issues like amnesty for illegal immigrants that put internationalist-first globalists against America-first nationalists. And in 2016, the Journal was consistently on the wrong side of this divide. When former Florida Governor Jeb Bush was resoundingly criticized for his “act of love” remarks about illegal immigrants during the 2016 election cycle, it was the Wall Street Journal that rushed in with a flurry of pro-Jeb! articles, with one editorial suggesting that Tea Partiers and America-first nationalists were racists. Desperately hoping Bush could win the nomination without abandoning his support for open borders, the Journal egged on Bush to not waver from his pro-amnesty views, saying at one point that Bush’s stance on illegal immigration was not an “insuperable barrier to the nomination.” Bannon so often has to throw haymakers for Trump’s voters because nearly all of Trump’s top advisers in the White House are Democrats or GOP globalists. Democrat Jared Kushner, whose personal taxpayer-funded spokesperson reportedly donated to Hillary Clinton as late as October of 2016, already committed political malpractice by foolishly convincing Trump that Democrats would greet FBI director James Comey’s firing like many in the Republican establishment were convinced that Iraqis would greet American troops with “sweets” and “flowers.” Democrat and Hillary Clinton donor Gary Cohn has been trying to push Trump to adopt more globalist policies that Wall Street and Davos elites favor. Internationalist H.R. McMaster, who may be allergic to saying “radical Islamic terrorism,” seems to have spent more energy in the first months of his job purging Trump’s loyalists from national security posts and trying his best to convince Trump that radical Islamic terrorism, to use the words of Trump’s adviser Dr. Sebastian Gorka, is just the “flu” as opposed to a “cancer” that needs to be annihilated. Then there is McMaster’s globalist deputy Dina Powell, the Scarborough ally who the Journal knows will get even more influence if Bannon, as Scarborough begged Trump Chief of Staff John Kelly to do, is sidelined. Trump essentially put a stake in the heart of Bushism in 2016, but Powell is the one in Trump’s White House who carries whatever flickering flame is left of Bushism—the disastrous combination of neoconservatism abroad and corporate cronyism at home that made the nation hate Republicans. But as Vogue noted in a glowing profile, Powell “also is good friends with [former President Barack] Obama’s former senior advisor, Valerie Jarrett,” who persuaded Murdoch to go even more all-in on comprehensive amnesty legislation while Obama was in the White House. The day after Murdoch reportedly requested to sit next Jarrett at a dinner in 2014, he penned an op-ed in his Wall Street Journal in which Murdoch declared that amnesty for illegal immigrants and an unlimited number of high-tech visas for Silicon Valley just “can’t wait.” The Associated Press reported this week that the dispute between McMaster’s more interventionist approach in Afghanistan and Bannon’s non-nation building strategy represents a greater tension between the Republican establishment that McMaster represents and Trump’s movement of “America-first” voters, whose views Bannon best embodies in Trump’s White House. Murdoch–as Joshua Green reported in his book Devil’s Bargain: Steve Bannon, Donald Trump and the Storming of the Presidency–seems to have always held those working-class nationalists in contempt. Trump’s daughter Ivanka reportedly wanted to break the news that her dad was going to enter the presidential race to Murdoch at a lunch. But Murdoch had so much disdain for Trump’s pro-nationalist platform and was so dismissive of Trump’s potential candidacy and chances of winning that he royally dissed Trump and his daughter right to their faces: Soon after the three of them were seated and the waiter brought their soup, Ivanka spoke up: “My father has something to tell you.” “What’s that?” Murdoch said. “He’s going to run for president.” “He’s not running for president,” Murdoch replied without looking up from his soup. “No, he is!” she insisted. Murdoch changed the subject. Trump nursed the slight for months. “He didn’t even look up from his soup!” he’d complain. The Journal is trying to get the best of both worlds by attempting yet again to marginalize Bannon. They want Trump to turn into globalist George H.W. Bush and move away from the pro-nationalist and America-first agenda that won Trump his historic election. Murdoch’s establishment Republican paper is trying to convince Trump to chase the mythical and overhyped “No Labels” voters (there may be more dead armadillos than these “No Labels” middle-of-the-road voters). So long as Trump adopts the Journal’s globalist agenda, the paper of record for the GOP permanent political class seems like it would be perfectly fine if Trump is booted out of office in 2020 and branded as one of history’s biggest losers. That would actually be a win-win for the Journal and a lose-lose for Trump and his historic movement.

It's not 'The Crown,' but it there are longing glances and smoldering looks a-plenty. Plus, what her 'Doctor Who' co-star Peter Capaldi taught her. In the meantime, be sure to catch her as Queen Victoria on PBS' 'Victoria' later this year. By the end, there’s a sense of having lived through the ordeal along with the characters and well as the filmmakers.

import express from 'express'; import { hash, compare } from 'bcrypt'; import { ObjectId } from 'mongodb'; import { Coach, ICoach } from '../models/coach.model'; import auth from '../middleware/auth'; import errorHandler from './error'; import { generateAccessToken, generateRefreshToken, validateRefreshToken, } from './coach.util'; import { CoachMeRequest } from '../types/coach_me_request'; const router = express.Router(); const saltRounds = 10; // create new coach router.post('/signup', auth, async (req, res) => { const { firstName } = req.body; const { lastName } = req.body; const emailRaw = req.body.email; const emailLower = emailRaw.toLowerCase(); const { password } = req.body; if (await Coach.findOne({ email: emailLower })) { return errorHandler(res, 'User already exists.'); } // hash + salt password return hash(password, saltRounds, (err, hashedPassword) => { if (err) { return errorHandler(res, err.message); } const newCoach = new Coach({ firstName, lastName, email: emailLower, password: <PASSWORD>, }); return newCoach .save() .then(() => res.status(200).json({ success: true })) .catch((e) => errorHandler(res, e.message)); }); }); // login coach router.post('/login', async (req, res) => { const emailAdress = req.body.email.toLowerCase(); const { password } = req.body; const coach = await Coach.findOne({ email: emailAdress }); if (!coach) return errorHandler(res, 'Email or password is incorrect.'); if (await compare(password, coach.password)) { const accessToken = generateAccessToken(coach); const refreshToken = generateRefreshToken(coach); const tokens = await Promise.all([accessToken, refreshToken]); return res.status(200).json({ success: true, accessToken: tokens[0], refreshToken: tokens[1], }); } // wrong password return errorHandler(res, 'Email or password is incorrect.'); }); // refresh token router.post('/refreshToken', (req, res) => { const { refreshToken } = req.body; if (!refreshToken) { return errorHandler(res, 'No token provided.'); } return validateRefreshToken(refreshToken) .then((tokenResponse: ICoach) => generateAccessToken(tokenResponse)) .then((accessToken: string) => { res.status(200).json({ success: true, accessToken, }); }) .catch((err: { code: string; message: string }) => { if (err.code) { return errorHandler(res, err.message, err.code); } return errorHandler(res, err.message); }); }); // get me // protected route router.get('/me', auth, (req: CoachMeRequest, res) => { const { userId } = req; return Coach.findById(new ObjectId(userId)) .select('firstName lastName email _id') .then((coach) => { if (!coach) return errorHandler(res, 'User does not exist.'); return res.status(200).json({ success: true, data: coach }); }) .catch((err) => errorHandler(res, err.message)); }); export default router;

<reponame>roderickmackenzie/gpvdm // // General-purpose Photovoltaic Device Model gpvdm.com - a drift diffusion // base/Shockley-Read-Hall model for 1st, 2nd and 3rd generation solarcells. // The model can simulate OLEDs, Perovskite cells, and OFETs. // // Copyright 2008-2022 <NAME> https://www.gpvdm.com // r.c.i.mackenzie at googlemail.com // // Permission is hereby granted, free of charge, to any person obtaining a // copy of this software and associated documentation files (the "Software"), // to deal in the Software without restriction, including without limitation // the rights to use, copy, modify, merge, publish, distribute, sublicense, // and/or sell copies of the Software, and to permit persons to whom the // Software is furnished to do so, subject to the following conditions: // // The above copyright notice and this permission notice shall be included // in all copies or substantial portions of the Software. // // THE SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED "AS IS", WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS // OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY, // FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE AND NONINFRINGEMENT. IN NO EVENT SHALL // THE AUTHORS OR COPYRIGHT HOLDERS BE LIABLE FOR ANY CLAIM, DAMAGES OR OTHER // LIABILITY, WHETHER IN AN ACTION OF CONTRACT, TORT OR OTHERWISE, ARISING FROM, // OUT OF OR IN CONNECTION WITH THE SOFTWARE OR THE USE OR OTHER DEALINGS IN THE // SOFTWARE. // /** @file kill_pid.c @brief code to kill a job, bit complex still needs work */ #include <stdio.h> #include <stdlib.h> #include <string.h> #include <zip.h> #include <unistd.h> #include <fcntl.h> #include <dirent.h> #include <stdarg.h> #include "inp.h" #include "util.h" #include <linux/limits.h> #include <sys/stat.h> int add_pid_list(int *list,int *list_len,int want_id) { int i; for (i=0;i<*list_len;i++) { if (list[i]==want_id) { return 0; } } list[*list_len]=want_id; *list_len=*list_len+1; return -1; } int update_pids(int *list, int *list_len,int want_id) { int added=0; int i=0; FILE *in; struct dirent *next_file; DIR *theFolder; char filepath[256]; char line[1000]; int ppid; int pid; add_pid_list(list,list_len,want_id); theFolder = opendir("/proc/"); if (theFolder!=NULL) { while((next_file=readdir(theFolder))!=NULL) { join_path(3, filepath ,"/proc/",next_file->d_name,"status"); in=fopen(filepath,"r"); if (in!=NULL) { i=0; while ((fgets(line, 1000, in) != NULL)) { if (cmpstr_min(line,"PPid:")==0) { sscanf(line,"PPid: %d",&ppid); sscanf(next_file->d_name,"%d",&pid); if (ppid==want_id) { if (add_pid_list(list,list_len,pid)==-1) { added=added+1; } //printf("%d %d\n", ppid,pid); } break; } i=i+1; } fclose(in); } } closedir (theFolder); } return added; } void kill_all(int want_id) { int i; int list[100]; int list_len=1; list[0]=want_id; int pos=0; int added=0; int cur_len=0; while(1) { cur_len=list_len; for (i=0;i<cur_len;i++) { added+=update_pids(list, &list_len,list[i]); } if (added==0) { break; } pos=pos+1; added=0; } int status; for (i=list_len-1;i>0;i--) { printf("killing %d\n",list[i]); sleep(0.1); kill(list[i], SIGQUIT); wait(&status); } }

#import <UIKit/UIKit.h> #import "PSHMetrics.h" @interface PSHMetrics (PSHSDKMetrics) - (void)sendReceivedCampaignMetricWithId:(NSString *)campaignId; - (void)sendOpenCampaignMetricWithId:(NSString *)campaignId; - (void)sendInternalMetrics; - (void)setupMetricNotifications; @end @interface PSHMetrics () @property (nonatomic) BOOL notificationsConfigured; @property (nonatomic, strong) NSDate *startSessionDate; @property (nonatomic, strong) NSDate *stopSessionDate; + (instancetype)sharedInstance; - (NSString *)valueTypeForValue:(id)value; @end

Ligament repair in the knee with preservation of the meniscus. In early surgical repair of forty acute ruptures of the medial ligament of the knee in patients sixteen to twenty-four years old, the meniscus was resutured when it was avulsed from the bone and was excised only when there was central disruption (three knees). Follow-up of one to six years in thirty-six patients whose menisci were preserved showed that thirty-three had no limitations due to knee impairment. Twenty-six patients were re-examined; sixteen had no medial instability and twenty-one had no anterior rotatory instability. We concluded that in the absence of significant advantage from meniscectomy, an intact meniscus should not be removed.

Self-Efficacy in Cybersecurity Tasks and Its Relationship with Cybersecurity Competition and Work-Related Outcomes Research on cybersecurity competitions is still in its nascent state, and many questions remain unanswered, including how effective these competitions actually are at influencing career decisions and attracting a diverse participant base. The present research aims to address these questions through surveying a sample of excybersecurity competition participants from New York Universitys Cyber-Security Awareness Week (CSAW). 195 survey respondents reported on their self-esteem, general self-efficacy, and perceived efficacy in cybersecurity-related tasks, along with important competitionand career-related variables such as reasons for participating, competition performance, appeal and effectiveness of competitions, job satisfaction, and perceived organizational fit. Correlational analyses showed that confidence in cybersecurity-related tasks was positively related to interest in cybersecurity, performance within the competition, job satisfaction within a cybersecurity job, and perceived organizational fit within cybersecurity organizations. Specific self-efficacy was better at predicting competition performance than general self-efficacy or self-esteem, but was unrelated to participants positive image of competitions and whether or not the cybersecurity competitions influenced their career decisions. Instead, general self-efficacy was a better predictor of positive competition experience even more-so than performance within the competition. Overall, the results show that participants with selfconfidence in their cybersecurity-relevant skills are more likely to do well in the competition and be satisfied when entering a cybersecurity career, but any participant with high general self-efficacy will likely still have a positive experience when participating in competitions.

The British automaker has developed an EV conversion solution compatible with the firm's heritage models. The technology was demoed on a 1970 DB6 MkII Volante in a bid to mitigate potential legislation restricting classic car use by offering a zero-emission conversion. The idea for Aston Martin is to ensure that enthusiasts can continue to enjoy its prestigious heritage vehicles by transforming them into models that are sustainable and suited to modern needs, while also respecting the integrity of the original car. Indeed, the EV powertrain conversion can be reversed at any time if the owner wishes. This electrification concept has been led by Aston Martin Works. Developed around a so-called "cassette" EV powertrain, the aim is to future-proof the firm's classic cars in the event of any legislation restricting their use. The first car converted with the EV cassette is an original 1970 DB6 MkII Volante. Sitting on the original engine and gearbox mountings, this cassette is enclosed within its own self-contained cell, which explains why it is relatively easy to replace. Power management is controlled via a dedicated screen fitted to the car's interior. After this demonstration, the EV conversion solution should progressively be made available to owners of the firm's historic vehicles, starting 2019.

<gh_stars>0 #pragma once #include "../CogShape.hpp" #include "../Ship.hpp" #include <SFML/Graphics/ConvexShape.hpp> namespace Game { namespace Ships { class Asteroids : public Ship { public: Asteroids(); virtual float getRadius() const override; virtual void update(float aDt) override; private: void drawShape(sf::RenderTarget& aTarget, sf::RenderStates aStates) const override; sf::ConvexShape m_shipShape; CogShape m_centerCog; CogShape m_frontCog; }; } }

def assign_termini(self, chain, neutraln=False, neutralc=False): if len(chain.residues) == 0: text = f'Error: chain "{chain.chain_id}" has 0 residues!' raise IndexError(text) res0 = chain.residues[0] if isinstance(res0, aa.Amino): res0.is_n_term = True if isinstance(res0, aa.PRO) or neutraln: self.apply_patch("NEUTRAL-NTERM", res0) else: self.apply_patch("NTERM", res0) elif isinstance(res0, na.Nucleic): res0.is5term = True self.apply_patch("5TERM", res0) reslast = chain.residues[-1] if isinstance(reslast, aa.Amino): reslast.is_c_term = True if neutralc: self.apply_patch("NEUTRAL-CTERM", reslast) else: self.apply_patch("CTERM", reslast) elif isinstance(reslast, na.Nucleic): reslast.is3term = True self.apply_patch("3TERM", reslast) else: for i in range(len(chain.residues)): resthis = chain.residues[-1 - i] if isinstance(resthis, aa.Amino): resthis.is_c_term = True if neutralc: self.apply_patch("NEUTRAL-CTERM", resthis) else: self.apply_patch("CTERM", resthis) break elif resthis.name in ["NH2", "NME"]: break elif isinstance(resthis, na.Nucleic): resthis.is3term = True self.apply_patch("3TERM", resthis) break

Simulation of the CDMM-P paradigm-driven meta-modeling process Abstract This article presents a simulation of the process of meta-model creation. The meta-model (modeling language) is created according to the Context-Driven Meta-Modeling Paradigm (CDMM-P) with the help of its implementation Context-Driven Meta-Modeling Framework (CDMM-F). The simulation process may be applied to meta-model creation in an evolutionary approach to meta-modeling or may be used to check correctness of the meta-model, or to test the CDMM-F framework. This paper is focused on the verification and testing mentioned above.

package uniandes.reuters.job; import java.io.IOException; import org.apache.hadoop.conf.Configuration; import org.apache.hadoop.fs.Path; import org.apache.hadoop.io.IntWritable; import org.apache.hadoop.io.Text; import org.apache.hadoop.mapreduce.Job; import org.apache.hadoop.mapreduce.lib.input.FileInputFormat; import org.apache.hadoop.mapreduce.lib.output.TextOutputFormat; import uniandes.reuters.mapreduce.CReducer; import uniandes.reuters.mapreduce.NewsDateCMapper; public class NewsDateWCounter { public static void main(String[] args) { if(args.length<2){ System.out.println("Se necesitan las carpetas de entrada y salida"); System.exit(-1); } String entrada = args[0]; //carpeta de entrada String salida = args[1]; //La carpeta de salida no puede existir try { ejecutarJob(entrada, salida); } catch (IOException | ClassNotFoundException | InterruptedException e) {} } public static void ejecutarJob(String entrada, String salida) throws IOException,ClassNotFoundException, InterruptedException { Configuration conf = new Configuration(); conf.set("START_TAG_KEY", "<REUTERS>"); conf.set("END_TAG_KEY", "</REUTERS>"); Job job = Job.getInstance(conf, "XML Processing Processing"); job.setJarByClass(NewsDateWCounter.class); // Mapper job.setMapperClass(NewsDateCMapper.class); job.setMapOutputKeyClass(Text.class); job.setMapOutputValueClass(IntWritable.class); // Reducer job.setReducerClass(CReducer.class); job.setOutputKeyClass(Text.class); job.setOutputValueClass(IntWritable.class); // Input FileInputFormat.addInputPath(job, new Path(entrada)); job.setInputFormatClass(XmlInputFormat.class); // Output TextOutputFormat.setOutputPath(job, new Path(salida)); job.setOutputFormatClass(TextOutputFormat.class); job.waitForCompletion(true); System.out.println(job.toString()); } }

The no-commitment carrier begins offering a second entry-level Android smartphone with the LG Optimus Q. TracFone's Straight Talk service has added its second Android smartphone today, putting the LG Optimus Q on sale for $179.99. The no-commitment price gives consumers an Android 2.3 Gingerbread handset with a 3.2-inch display and sliding QWERTY keyboard. Specifications are definitely on the low-end, however they are a slight step up from those of the Samsung Galaxy Precedent announced in August. Additional details for the Optimus Q include a 3-megapixel camera, a 4GB MicroSD card, and support for Wi-Fi, GPS, Bluetooth, and 3G connectivity. Like the Galaxy Precedent, the LG smartphone can be paired only with Straight Talk's $45 monthly plan, which includes unlimited talk, text, data, e-mail, and Web. I'm a big fan of no-commitment Android offerings, even if the hardware typically skews towards entry-level devices. Hopefully we'll get more midrange and high-end products in 2012 as players like Boost Mobile and MetroPCS continue to grow their Android rosters.

Examination of Anterior Leaflet Pseudoprolapse Causing Severe Mitral Regurgitation and Its Ideal Surgical Procedure Background: The aim of this study is to evaluate severe mitral regurgitation caused by so called atrial leaflet pseudoprolapse and verify the effect of simple annular stabilization. Methods: One-hundred-twenty-two patients underwent surgery for severe mitral regurgitation at our institute between January 2015 to July 2018. Of those, 32 cases diagnosed as anterior leaflet prolapse that underwent mitral repair were analyzed. Ten cases with pseudoprolapse, which is defined as anterior leaflet prolapse without dropping into the left atrium beyond the annular line causing eccentric regurgitation flow directed to the posterior atrium, were classified as the Pseudoprolapse Group. The other 22 cases had obvious anterior leaflet prolapse dropping into the left atrium; these cases were classified as the True Prolapse Group. We compared clinical findings between the 2 groups and reviewed pseudoprolapse cases. Results: Patients in the Pseudoprolapse Group had lower ejection fraction and lower regurgitation volume than those in the True Prolapse Group. A2 lesion as main inflow of regurgitation was more included in the Pseudoprolapse Group. All but one patient in the Pseudoprolapse Group received only simple annuloplasty, and all patients in the True Prolapse Group received leaflet repair and annuloplasty. In both groups, mid-term regurgitation grade and the reoperation rate were satisfactory. In the Pseudoprolapse Group, 6 cases were clarified as atrial functional mitral regurgitation, and 4 cases were considered to have focal posterior leaflet tethering. Conclusions: Pseudoprolapse cases could be characterized by low ejection fraction, low regurgitation volume, and A2 prolapse. For most cases with pseudoprolapse, simple annuloplasty may be enough, however further study is needed. INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION Anterior mitral leaflet (AML) prolapse causes eccentric mitral regurgitation (MR) flow directed to the posterior atrium, due to the gap created by the leaflets. However, the AML prolapse without anterior chordal rupture or elongation does not always need mitral valve reconstruction. We speculated these cases could be considered as "pseudoprolapse," which is defined by the gap created by the leaflets without dropping into the left atrium (LA) beyond the anteroposterior annular line with eccentric MR flow directed to the posterior atrium. Berdeio et al and Hashim et al coined the term "pseudoprolapse" for such cases regarding the ischemic functional MR . Pseudoprolapse might include atrial functional MR (AFMR), Figure 1. A) Echocardiographic finding of pseudoprolapse of AML. The mitral leaflets create gap each other without dropping into the LA beyond the anteroposterior annular line, which is indicated by the yellow line. The PML causes tethering (as indicated by yellow delta) and results in the AML seeming to be prolapsed; B) MR grade preoperatively, postoperatively, and in the mid-term period. MR grades of the PP Group and the TP Group were improved after surgery, and they were satisfactory in the mid-term; C) The rate of reoperation and cardio-related death were analyzed by Kaplan-Meier survival estimate. They were not significantly different between the PP and TP groups. which first was reported in 2011 and increasingly has been recognized . Nevertheless, the features and etiology of pseudoprolapse is not fully recognized, and the ideal surgical procedure for pseudoprolapse cases has not yet been determined. The present study conducted to investigate the clinical findings of pseudoprolapse comparing with true AML prolapse, classify the etiology of pseudoprolapse, and evaluate the effect of simple annular stabilization. MATERIALS AND METHODS Definition of pseudoprolapse and true prolapse of the AML: In the present study, pseudoprolapse is defined by the gap created by the leaflets without dropping into the left atrium (LA) beyond the anteroposterior annular line with eccentric MR flow directed to the posterior atrium ( Figure 1A). True leaflet prolapse was diagnosed confirming the gap, which was created by the leaflets and the prolapsed leaflet dropping into the LA beyond the anteroposterior annular line. Study population: One-hundred-twenty-two consecutive patients underwent surgery for severe MR at our institute between January 2015 to July 2018. Of those, 74 patients with AML prolapse with or without posterior mitral leaflet (PML) prolapse were included. Regarding the Carpentier's classification , Type I (normal leaflet with annular dilatation) and Type III (restricted leaflet motion) cases were excluded in the present study. Additionally, patients who underwent concomitant operations of mitral valve replacement, active infectious endocarditis, and severe aortic regurgitation also were also excluded. Among the residual 32 cases, 10 were diagnosed as pseudoprolapse and classified as the Pseudoprolapse (PP) Group. The other 22 cases had obvious leaflet abnormalities and were classified as the True Prolapse (TP) Group. Pre-and postoperative parameters retrospectively were compared between the 2 groups. Echocardiography: All patients underwent transthoracic echocardiography (TTE) preoperatively, postoperatively, and in the mid-term period. MR grade was assessed by measuring the color Doppler jet. MR grade is defined as 0; non/trivial, 1; mild, 2; moderate, 3; moderate-severe, and 4; severe. The diameters of the mitral annulus were measured between A2 and P2 (anteroposterior diameter) annulus in both short and long axis view. Intercommissural diameter also was measured in short axis view. The leaflet angles of the AML and PML were measured between the annular line and coaptation point in the mid-systolic period. The AFMR were defined by chronical atrial fibrillation (AF), the large LA, and 'hamstring' which is bending of the posterior wall inward toward the left ventricle (LV) cavity caused by mass effect exerted by the enlarged atrium . We also found the focal tethering of the posterior leaflet by the accessary papillary muscle, which we call "focal tethering." Operative procedures: A minimally invasive approach through the fourth intercostal space was done in 25 cases. Median sternotomy also was done for the cases with complicated mitral lesion or concomitant with other procedures. Surgery was carried out under cardiac arrest with mild hypothermic cardiopulmonary bypass. The mitral valve was exposed through the incision in the right side of the LA. Simple annuloplasty procedure only was considered if it was diagnosed preoperatively as pseudoprolapse without evidence of abnormalities of the chordae tendineae or the papillary muscle. Full ring (Physio Annuloplasty Ring I; Edwards Lifesciences, CA, USA) annuloplasty was performed in all cases with the same size ring measured by the AML area. For the true AML prolapse, which had rupture or obvious elongation of chordae, the artificial chordae reconstruction was established followed by the annuloplasty. Saline injection testing was done several times during operation. Intraoperative transesophageal echocardiography (TEE) was performed to confirm the postoperative MR grade. Statistical analysis: Continuous data are presented as the mean ± SD. Mann Whitney test, Kruskal Wallis test, Friedman test, and Kaplan-Meier method were used for comparing variables. P value of less than 0.05 was considered to be significant. All data were analyzed using SPSS (version 23; SAS Institute Inc, Cary, NC). RESULTS Patient characteristics and echocardiographic measurements: Patient characteristics and preoperative echocardiographic data are shown in Table 1. Age, gender, rate of hypertension, chronical renal failure, chronic AF, and NYHA classification were not significantly different. Body mass index was greater in the TP Group. Patients in the PP Group had lower ejection fraction (EF) and lower regurgitant volume (RVol). Mitral annular diameter was not different between the 2 groups. The posterior leaflet angle of the PP Group tended to be bigger than those of the TP Group. Mean observation periods were 611 ± 406 and 574 ± 380 days in the PP and TP group, respectively. Operative outcomes: Operative findings are shown in Table 1. All cases in the PP Group had eccentric jet originated from central regurgitation at A2 lesion as the main cause of MR. On the other hand, only half of the TP Group had A2 lesion. A3 lesion was much fewer in the PP Group than those in the TP Group. Around 80% of cases underwent minimally invasive cardiac surgery in both groups. The average size of artificial rings for the annuloplasty was not different significantly between the groups. Concomitant procedures were aortic replacement (3 cases), aortic repair (1 case), coronary artery bypass grafting (2 cases), tricuspid annuloplasty (16 cases), pulmonary vein isolation (6 cases), Maze procedure (5 cases), ascending aortic replacement (1 case), aortic root remodeling (1 case), and atrial septal defect closure (4 cases). In both groups, MR grade were improved postoperatively, and maintained to be trivial by the mid-term ( Figure 1B). One case in the PP Group needed edge-to-edge technique as an additional procedure on secondary cardiopulmonary bypass (CPB). The rates of the reoperation and cardio-related death were not significantly different between the 2 groups ( Figure 1C). Detailed characteristics of the Pseudoprolapse Group: All 10 cases in the PP Group are described in Table 2. Six cases were clarified as AFMR (Nos. 1-6) and had a large atrium (49-67 mm, 61 mm on average). All of cases of AFMR had atrial fibrillation and "hamstring." The annular diameter and angles of the AML and PML were not affected by AFMR. In Figure 2, panels A and B are the echocardiographic findings of AFMR case (No. 1 in Table 2), which show the large LA and MR going toward the posterior wall of the LA ( Figure 2 technique after the primary simple annuloplasty because of insufficient coaptation due to the small, stiff, and shortened PML. Four cases were considered to have focal PML tethering by accessary papillary muscle with short chordae directly from the posterior wall of the LV, which contributed severe MR (Nos. 7-10 in Table 2). EF was relatively low and the posterior leaflet angle was relatively high in the focal tethering cases than those in the AFMR cases. DISCUSSION The present study demonstrated that pseudoprolapse of the AML was characterized by having an eccentric jet directed to the posterior atrium, which originated from central regurgitation at A2 lesion as the main cause of MR, low EF, and low RVol, and could be treated with simple annuloplasty in most cases. Pseudoprolapse cases with AFMR: Six cases in the PP Group were classified as AFMR defined by chronic AF, a large LA, and hamstring, which is bending of the posterior wall inward toward the LV cavity . MR due to mitral annular dilatation induced by LA enlargement is called AFMR, according to several reports . The mechanism of AFMR are complex, including dilatation of the mitral annulus, flattening of the annular saddle shape, and greater leaflet tethering . Ring et al have demonstrated using 3D TEE that the mechanism of regurgitation in AFMR ultimately results in a loss of mitral leaflet apposition . The 4D analysis showed that the extremely dilated annulus in the patient with severe AFMR scarcely changed its area, during the cardiac cycle and annulus contraction . Typically, AFMR has a huge LA that causes the mounting of the posterior mitral annulus to the bended posterior inlet of the LV , which is known as hamstring . Therefore, A2 of the AML is likely to be recognized as the main lesion of prolapse (pseudoprolapse) in AFMR cases. Also, it is considered that the posterior segment is less stiff than its anterior counterpart due to the fact that the posterior annulus is not a continuity of fibrous connective tissue, but fat tissue . In our cases, the hamstring was seen in all AFMR cases (Nos. 1-6 in Table 2). Hamstring caused the bent PML and prolapse of A2 lesion in the end-systolic period, which might be the reason why RVol was low in AFMR patients in the present study. On the other hand, El Sabbagh et al reported that AFMR is regarded as secondary MR and classified into Carpentier's classification Type I, which is defined as normal leaflet and position . In AFMR, the mitral leaflet is normal in most cases, however, the basal position of the leaflet changes with the cardiac cycle because of the large LA and hamstring. The counterpart movement of the PML, which shows displacement of the basal leaflet position is similar to the leaflet movement of cases in Carpentier's Type II, which is defined as excess leaflet motion. AFMR cases may be difficult to be classified properly regarding Carpentier's classification. Further accumulation of publications about AFMR are needed for better understanding of this new defined disease. Posterior leaflet angle in AFMR cases: AFMR is caused by mitral annular dilatation, but also by multiple factors, including the PML tethering. Associated with MR deterioration, the leaflet angle of PML became greater, however, the AML angle did not. Although the AML enlarged when the mitral annulus dilated, the PML failed to increase its area sufficiently . In the present study, the PML angle (50.8±22.0) tended to be large compared with a normal leaflet angle of 34.4±5 . Annular diameter of AFMR were not significantly different from others. Surgical procedure for AFMR: The prevalence with AFMR was reported to be 15.9% in hospitalized heart failure patients with AF . In the present study, 9.5% (7 of 74 cases) of severe MR patients who underwent mitral repair were considered to have AFMR. AFMR patients were associated with a higher rate of a composite of cardiac death and readmission for heart failure compared with patients without MR , therefore we recommend AFMR patients with severe MR to undergo mitral surgery. The leaflets of AFMR cases are usually smooth as normal, therefore, stabilization of the mitral annulus which excessively moves is the most important procedure. However, Takahashi et al reported a case of small size of the PML with AFMR . In the present study, we experienced a case (No. 2 in Table 2) of small height of P2 lesion that was thicker than other lesions as shown in panel G in Figure 2. The case had an extremely huge LA and was thought to have long suffered from AFMR. Silbiger reported that AFMR has anatomical changes of the LA, due to longstanding alterations to the PML from the LA pressure and Table 2 that shows the large LA; B) Echocardiographic findings of case No. 1 in Table 2; the regurgitation went toward the posterior wall; C) Surgical findings of case No. 1 in Table 2; the height of the AML and PML were satisfactory and almost the same; D) Echocardiographic findings of case No. 2 in Table 2, which shows the extremely large LA; E) Echocardiographic findings of case No. 2 in Table 2; the regurgitation went toward the posterior wall; F) Surgical findings of case No. 2 in Table 2; the surface of the AML was smooth, and the height was maintained; G) Surgical findings of case No.2 in Table 2. The PML was thicken and shortened. The Heart Surgery Forum #2020-2895 E210 volume , and which may change the PML to thicken and shorten. As the previous study, leaflet augmentation may serve as a useful adjunct to ring annuloplasty for the patients with marked leaflet tethering and a small PML . In the present study, simple annuloplasty was not able to restore the MR with a small PML; it required leaflet repair including edge-to-edge technique or leaflet patch augmentation. Kawazoe et al reported that the expanded LA compresses the posterobasal wall of the LV resulting in it bending inward, and the paradoxical movement of this segment causes lowoutput syndrome in MR cases with giant LA. Additionally, they suggested the plication technique for huge LA . However, whether a huge LA needs to be resected is still controversial in AFMR cases with hamstring. Further study is needed. The antiarrhythmic surgical procedure is necessary in almost all AFMR cases. In patients with successful AF ablation who remained in sinus rhythm at follow up, improvement in severity of MR was seen along with decreased LA size and mitral annular dimensions . However, in patients with a significantly enlarged LA diameter of more than 55 mm, concomitant surgical ablation provided freedom from AF of 64.4% one year after the surgery. AF patients with a huge LA are likely to need additional catheter-based ablation to achieve satisfactory long-term results . Pseudoprolapse cases caused by focal tethering: Four cases in the Pseudoprolapse Group were diagnosed as focal tethering of the posterior wall of the LV rather than AFMR because the motion of the posterior wall was slightly decreased compared with the other portion. The cases preoperatively were not considered Carpentier's classification Type III because the posterior wall, which caused tethering, was partially limited. Eccentric regurgitation jet caused by asymmetric coaptation is the reason of the AML pseudoprolapse as previously reported . These cases tended to have low EF compared with the cases of AFMR; this may affect the result as the PP Group had low EF in total. Otsuji et al reported that gradual deleterious LV remodeling leads to dilatation of the mitral annulus as well as the posterior displacement of the subvalvular apparatus, resulting in excessive valvular tenting and malcoaptation . In the present study, the posterior leaflet angle of the focal tethering cases tended to be large, however, they had normal LV size, which is different from Carpentier's Type IIIb MR. Mitral leaflet is typically intact in the focal tethering cases, therefore, annular stabilization by ring is important. However, further remodeling following the LV dilatation has the possibilities of MR recurrence , so that additional techniques including leaflet patch augmentation can be considered. In addition, subvalvular structures should be observed taking variation of papillary muscle or chordae tendineae into account. LIMITATIONS The present study has several limitations. First, it was conducted as a single-center, retrospective, observational study with a small number of patients. However, this is the first report that focuses on evaluating and classifying pseudoprolapse cases, and verifies the ideal surgical procedure. Further study is needed with a large number of cases. Second, the TTE and TEE were not done by a single operator. Third, we could not show the details about the subvalvular structures, such as chordae tendineae and papillary muscles. CONCLUSION AML prolapse without dropping into the LA beyond the anteroposterior annular line could be defined as pseudoprolapse. This was characterized by an eccentric jet directed to the posterior atrium that originated from the central regurgitation at A2 lesion, low EF, and low RVol, and it classified mainly into AFMR and focal tethering. Almost all cases could be treated by simple annuloplasty, but one case needed an additional leaflet technique.

<filename>polygenesis-commons/src/main/java/io/polygenesis/commons/text/PastTense.java<gh_stars>1-10 /*- * ==========================LICENSE_START================================= * PolyGenesis Platform * ======================================================================== * Copyright (C) 2015 - 2019 <NAME>, OREGOR LTD * ======================================================================== * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. * ===========================LICENSE_END================================== */ package io.polygenesis.commons.text; import java.util.Arrays; import java.util.LinkedHashSet; import java.util.Set; /** * The type Past tense. * * @author <NAME> */ public final class PastTense { // =============================================================================================== // STATIC // =============================================================================================== private static final Set<String> pastTenseBlacklist = new LinkedHashSet<>(Arrays.asList("data")); // =============================================================================================== // CONSTRUCTOR(S) // =============================================================================================== private PastTense() { throw new IllegalStateException("Utility class"); } // =============================================================================================== // FUNCTIONALITY // =============================================================================================== /** * Make string. * * @param input the input * @return the string */ public static String make(String input) { if (pastTenseBlacklist.contains(input.toLowerCase())) { return input; } String pastTense = input; if (input.endsWith("e")) { pastTense = pastTense + "d"; } else { pastTense = pastTense + "ed"; } if (pastTense.endsWith("yed")) { pastTense = pastTense.replace("yed", "ied"); } return pastTense; } }

Direct display of hematopoietic tyrosine kinase receptor expression profiles in KG1 cells by PCR using degenerate primers. Hematopoietic tyrosine kinase receptors (HGF-TKRs or class III TKRs) are essential for the growth and differentiation of hematopoietic cells. In this report we present a novel method that generates expression profiles of these receptors. The method was tested and optimized using the myeloblastic/ promyelocytic cell line KG1. The method involves PCR of cDNA using class III-specific degenerate primers and subsequent restriction enzyme digests of the 147 bp amplicons followed by fractionation on denaturing poly-acrylamide gels. This primary fingerprint of KG1 revealed equal expression of c-kit and flt3 and to a lesser extent PDGF-R alpha and c-fms. One residual band of unknown origin was seen and appeared to be the proto-oncogene RET following cloning and sequence analysis. This tyrosine kinase receptor is known to play an important role in neural development. In order to detect less abundantly expressed sequences, a secondary fingerprint was generated by pre-digestion of the receptors present in the primary expression profile and subsequent amplification of the residual band. No other tyrosine kinase receptors were observed in KG1. In conclusion, this method allows direct visualization of expression of the HGF-TKRs and has the potential to detect novel homologous receptors.

def time_label(s): if s > BIG_VALUE: return 'inf' elif s < SMALL_VALUE: return '-inf' isNegative = s < 0 s = abs(s) if s <= 1: return "%4d%s" % (s, 'us') product = 1 sizes = (('us', 1), ('ms', 10000), ('s', 1000), ('m', 60)) sizeMap = [] for l, sz in sizes: product = sz * product sizeMap.insert(0, (l, product)) lbl, factor = next(itertools.dropwhile(lambda x: x[1] >= s, sizeMap)) if lbl == 'm': factor = factor / 10 mins = s / factor secs = (s % factor) / (factor / 60) result = '%d%s:%02ds' % (mins, lbl, secs) else: if lbl == 'us': result = "%4d%s" % (s, lbl) else: factor /= 10 result = "%4d%s" % (s / factor, lbl) return ("-" if isNegative else "") + result

Factors Associated with Readmission of Patients at a University Hospital Psychiatric Ward in Iran Objectives. Readmission has a major role in the reduction of the quality of life and the increase in the years of lost life. The main objectives of this study were to answer to the following research questions. (a) What was the readmission rate? (b) What were the social, demographic, and clinical characteristics of patients admitted to the Psychiatric Emergency Service at Nour University Hospital, affiliated to Isfahan University of Medical Sciences, Isfahan, Iran? (c) What were the effective factors on readmission? Method. This cross-sectional study was conducted on a total number of 3935 patients who were admitted to Isfahan University Hospital Psychiatric Ward in Isfahan, Iran, from 2004 to 2010. Gender, age, marital status, education, self-report history of previous admission, type of psychiatric disorder, substance misuse, suicide, and the length of the current psychiatric disorder were collected from the registered medical files of patients. The data were analysed using the negative binomial regression model. Results. We found that factors such as psychiatric anxiety disorder, bipolar I, bipolar II, psychotic disorder, depression, and self report history of previous admission were statistically significant in the number of readmissions using the negative binomial model. Conclusion. Readmission to the psychiatric ward is mainly predictable by the type of diagnosis and psychosocial supports. Introduction During the last three decades, the deinstitutionalization of mental health services led to faster transitions from psychiatric hospitals to the community. However, a signi�cant number of patients have had serious problems aer being discharged from hospitals which resulted in an increase in the number of psychiatric emergency referrals and readmissions. e greater the number of readmissions, the greater the pressure on hospitals psychiatric wards and their limited resources. Readmission of inpatients has been one of the most important problems in the �eld of psychiatry for the last decades. e problem has a major role in reducing the quality of life and increasing the years of lost life. About one-third of patients admitted to psychiatric services will probably be readmitted within a year. In previous studies, the rate of readmitted patients has proven to be 22% in America in psychiatric patients aged over 65 years, 19% of children admitted at the emergency ward in Baltimore were aged 4-18, 14% of patients admitted at the psychological ward of the army in Washington, 33.7% of patients diagnosed with schizophrenia in Turkey, and 43% of teenage patients admitted for psychological reasons in Northern Carolina. e readmission period has been de�ned controversially in different studies, for example, readmission in a period of 90 days, readmission in a period of 3 years, admission of three or more times in a period of 30 months, readmission in a period of 6 months, and admittance of 3 or more times in a period of 2.5 years. is, in turn, resulted in different rates of readmission in different studies as 14%, 16%, 20-30%, and 45-53%. Studying the characteristics related to readmission may help to improve management programs. e factors such as demographics, social, and clinical factors have been studied for more than three decades. In addition, poor adherence to treatment [8,, nonvoluntary �rst admission, substance, alcohol, and drug abuse have been mentioned as related factors to the readmission of patients to psychiatric wards. Some studies have illustrated that diagnoses are related to readmission. For example, the diagnosis of schizophrenia has been reported as a major factor on readmission [4,15,. �ength of stay at hospital has also been noti�ed as a highly related factor. e shorter the length of the stay at a hospital, due to the lack of empty beds, the more readmission of psychiatric patients. is could decrease the quality of care and de�nitely increase the costs. In some studies, the history of admission in elderly people has been pointed as a related factor. e diagnosis of bipolar disorder, psychotic disorders, and mood disorders is also mentioned as an effective factors on readmission. From the demographic characteristics marital status, unemployment, retirement, and gender are the most relevant factors to readmission. In some studies, being diagnosed with more psychiatric comorbidities was also a factor associated with readmission. Suicide, history of psychological problems in childhood, and �rst episode of the psychiatric disorder under age of 18 years have been revealed as related factors to readmission. Regarding the mentioned �ndings, we need a better understanding of the factors related to readmission to help better management and early intervention. Understanding these factors will decrease the number of readmissions and hospital costs. It seems that those inpatients who are seeking rehospitalisation tend to repeat some of these treatmentseeking behaviors and may assist nurses in planning care. In more detail, we had the following research questions. (a) What was the readmission rate ? (b) What were the social, demographic, and clinical characteristics of patients admitted to Psychiatric Emergency Service at Nour University Hospital, affiliated to Isfahan University of Medical Sciences, Isfahan, Iran? (c) What were the effective factors on readmission? We try to answer these three questions in Section 3. Material and Method In this cross-sectional study, data were collected from the medical �les of 3935 patients with psychiatric disorders who were admitted to the Nour Hospital Psychiatric Ward affiliated to Isfahan University of Medical Sciences, Isfahan, Iran, from September 2004 to September 2010. e patients were diagnosed to have at least one major psychiatric disorder based on Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the fourth edition (DSM-IV) criteria. e major diagnoses were bipolar one disorder (BID), bipolar two disorder (BIID), bipolar disorder not otherwise speci�ed (BD-NOS), psychotic disorders (not mood related), anxiety disorders (all types were considered as one category diagnosis), major depressive disorder (MDD), substance induced mental disorders, and cognitive disorders. All data were gathered through a semistructured interview, which was done by a board of certi�ed attending psychiatrists and psychiatric residents. Readmitted patients were taken as the independent variable which was numeric, but for descriptive goals the number of admissions were categorised into three groups of one admission, two admissions, and three or more admissions based on the above-mentioned major diagnoses. It has been assumed that there is no possibility for the patient to change diagnosis between two admissions. Demographic characteristics such as sex, age, marital status (single, married or widowed, and divorced), and education (illiterate, primary school, high school, and higher) were also analysed. Variables such as length of the current episode before hospitalization, current substance misuse, smoking, alcohol consumption, history of admission, and history of attempt to suicide, based on the patients' self reports, were also applied. e presence or absence of each of the diagnoses, smoking, substance misuse, alcohol consumption, history of admission, and history of suicide was binary. Patients might simultaneously be diagnosed with more than one psychiatric disorder. Because the response variable (number of readmissions) was numeric without normal distribution and small spread within data, the negative binomial regression model was used to analyze the data set to determine the factors related to readmission. A value of less than 0.05 was considered as signi�cant. Results Out of the 3935 inpatients, 2158 (54.8%) were male. e age mean and median were 33.1 and 30 years, respectively, with a range of 14-86 years. e 95% con�dence interval (CI) of the age of the patients was 32.7-33.5. e mean (95% CI) of age in male and female patients were 33.8 (33.2-34.4) and 32.5 (31.9-33.1), respectively. ere was a statistically signi�cant difference between males and females' mean of age ( value = 0.002) (results not shown). e readmission rate of inpatients varied between 1 and 10 times in the number of previous admissions. Of the total number of inpatients, 3235 (82.3%) had only one admission, 501 (12.7%) were admitted two times, 126 (3.2%) had three times, and 75 (1.9%) were admitted four or more times. Table 2 which is referred to the second research question. Negative binomial regression models were used to determine the variables related to the number of times of readmission which referred to the last research question. e results showed that being divorced had a statistically signi�cant correlation with a higher readmission count. e mean of the number of times of admissions for divorced patients was 1.47 times and 1.56 times more than the mean for single patients and married patients, respectively. e education status of the patients had no statistically signi�cant correlation with the readmission rate. Regarding diagnoses, BID, BIID, psychotic disorders (not mood related), MDD, and anxiety disorders showed to be signi�cantly related to the number of times of readmission. However, BID-NOS, cognitive disorders or misusing drug was not signi�cantly related to the number of times of readmission. e mean of the number of times of readmission in patients who misused opium was about 1.3 times more than in patients who did not (. e results showed a signi�cant relationship between self report history of a previous admission and the current admission of patients. e mean of the number of times of a current admission in patients with positive history of admission was about 2.2 times more than patients without self report of previous history of admission ( <. e results indicate that there was no statistically signi�cant relationship between the number of times of readmission and the length of the current episode before hospitalization. More information about the results of �tting the negative binomial regression model is illustrated in Table 3. Discussion e reported factors related to the readmission of patients with psychiatric disorders were various due to objective limitations, type of studies, or type of models used for analyzing the data. is study showed that the type of diagnosis was signi�cantly associated with the number of readmissions and all types of the above-mentioned psychiatric disorders, except bipolar NOS and cognitive disorders. Some studies indicated a relationship between schizophrenia and the number of readmissions [4,15,. In our study, schizophrenia was also mentioned as a subcategory of psychotic disorders (not mood related). Other studies revealed that bipolar disorder increases the number readmissions. In the current work, BID and BIID, but not bipolar disorder NOS, were signi�cantly related to readmission. e length of the current episode was not identi�ed as a statistically signi�cant factor for conse�uent rehospitalization. However, in one study, length of stay at hospital was a predictor of referral to the aercare in patients who had been diagnosed for schizophrenia. Some studies showed that the history of previous admission may lead to an increase in the number of readmissions. In one study, patients with history of previous admission had a greater number of readmissions in comparison to patients without such history. Our study revealed the same results. In conclusion, the readmission to the psychiatric ward is mainly predictable by the type of diagnosis and psychosocial supports. e results of this study could be taken into account Psychiatry Journal 5 to help better manage the admission of patients seeking rehospitalisation. It may also lead to a better understanding of early intervention and may assist nurses in planning care. e �rst weaknesses of our study was that the Global Assessment Functioning (GAF), as one the important predictors of outcome measures, was not determined. e second, was not being able to assess accurately the outof-network hospitalization experience in the community. It means this could lead to a selection bias, and as a result it may affect the outcome of this sample. erefore, the generalization of our �ndings to other groups or communities is uncertain. As a limitation, we assumed that there is no possibility for the patient to change diagnosis between two admissions.

<gh_stars>10-100 /*! * Copyright 2013-2014 <NAME> * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. * * This file is part of the Tiny Home Area Network stack. * * http://www.tinyhan.co.uk/ * * tinyhan_platform.h * * Example platform definitions for an ATMEGA328 based board * */ #ifndef TINYHAN_PLATFORM_H_ #define TINYHAN_PLATFORM_H_ #include <avr/io.h> #include <avr/io.h> #include <avr/interrupt.h> #include <avr/pgmspace.h> #include <util/delay.h> /* Undefine debug for radio modules if we are using OTA syslog */ #undef DEBUG #include <stdint.h> #include "common.h" #include "board.h" /********************************/ /* BOARD SPECIFIC CONFIGURATION */ /********************************/ /*! Port definition for SPI select pin */ #define nSELECT nTRX_SEL /*! Port definition for interrupt pin */ #define nIRQ nTRX_IRQ /***********************************/ /* PLATFORM SPECIFIC CONFIGURATION */ /***********************************/ /*! Delay for specified number of ms */ #define DELAY_MS(a) _delay_ms(a) /*! Wait for a transceiver interrupt (may be empty for * platforms which rely on polling) */ #define WAIT_EVENT() /*! Qualifier for tables stored in ROM */ #define TABLE PROGMEM /*! Access macro for tables stored in ROM */ #define TABLE_READ(a) pgm_read_byte(a) /*******************/ /* Platform extras */ /*******************/ /*! Additional platform specific storage declarations */ #define PLATFORM_STORE /*! * Additional platform-specific initialisation, called during * \see phy_init */ #define PLATFORM_INIT() /*******/ /* SPI */ /*******/ /*! Function to assert SPI select */ #define SELECT() CLEARP(nSELECT) /*! Function to release SPI select */ #define DESELECT() SETP(nSELECT) /*! Initialise SPI device */ #define SPI_INIT() { \ SPCR = 0; \ SPSR = 0; \ SPCR = _BV(SPE) | _BV(MSTR); /* 2 MHz clock (/4) */ \ } /*! Perform single byte transfer on SPI device */ #define SPI_IO(a) spi_io(a) static inline uint8_t spi_io(uint8_t data) { SPDR = data; while (!(SPSR & _BV(SPIF))); return SPDR; } /********************/ /* Power management */ /********************/ /*! Function to enter shutdown */ #define POWER_DOWN() SETP(TRX_SDN) /*! Function to release shutdown */ #define POWER_UP() CLEARP(TRX_SDN) #endif /* TINYHAN_PLATFORM_H_ */

A Meta-analysis of the Effects of Presenting Treatment Benefits in Different Formats Purpose. The purpose of this article is to examine the effects of presenting treatment benefits in different formats on the decisions of both patients and health professionals. Three formats were investigated: relative risk reductions, absolute risk reductions, and number needed to treat or screen. Methods. A systematic review of the published literature was conducted. Articles were retrieved by searching a variety of databases and screened for inclusion by 2 reviewers. Data were extracted on characteristics of the subjects and methodologies used. Log-odds ratios were calculated to estimate effect sizes. Results. A total of 24 articles were retrieved that reported on 31 unique experiments. The meta-analysis showed that treatments were evaluated more favorably when the relative risk format was used rather than the absolute risk or number needed to treat format. However, a significant amount of heterogeneity was found between studies, the sources of which were explored using subgroup analyses and metaregression. Although the subgroup analyses revealed smaller effect sizes in the studies conducted on physicians, the metaregression showed that these differences were largely accounted for by other features of the study design. Most notably, variations in effect sizes were explained by the particular wordings that the studies had chosen to use for the relative risk and absolute risk reductions. Conclusions. The published literature has consistently demonstrated that relative risk formats produce more favorable evaluations of treatments than absolute risk or number needed to treat formats. However, the effects are heterogeneous and seem to be moderated by key differences between the methodologies used.

package pt.lsts.imc4j.msg; import java.io.ByteArrayOutputStream; import java.io.DataOutputStream; import java.io.IOException; import java.lang.Exception; import java.lang.String; import java.nio.ByteBuffer; import pt.lsts.imc4j.annotations.FieldType; import pt.lsts.imc4j.annotations.IMCField; /** * This message contains information, collected using USBL, about the * bearing and elevation of a target. */ public class UsblAngles extends Message { public static final int ID_STATIC = 890; /** * Target's IMC address. */ @FieldType( type = IMCField.TYPE_UINT16 ) public int target = 0; /** * Target's bearing. */ @FieldType( type = IMCField.TYPE_FP32, units = "rad" ) public float bearing = 0f; /** * Target's elevation. */ @FieldType( type = IMCField.TYPE_FP32, units = "rad" ) public float elevation = 0f; public String abbrev() { return "UsblAngles"; } public int mgid() { return 890; } public byte[] serializeFields() { try { ByteArrayOutputStream _data = new ByteArrayOutputStream(); DataOutputStream _out = new DataOutputStream(_data); _out.writeShort(target); _out.writeFloat(bearing); _out.writeFloat(elevation); return _data.toByteArray(); } catch (IOException e) { e.printStackTrace(); return new byte[0]; } } public void deserializeFields(ByteBuffer buf) throws IOException { try { target = buf.getShort() & 0xFFFF; bearing = buf.getFloat(); elevation = buf.getFloat(); } catch (Exception e) { throw new IOException(e); } } }