I roamed.  I roamed the country, killing and taking whatever I

needed with the excuse that it was necessary in my search for

you.  I didn't think, I didn't feel- because it hurt to bad.  I

just survived- no questions.



I was so happy to find Gibson safe in North Carolina, looking

like a pubescent Tarzan with glasses on the beach.  I thought I

had finally found someone who would understand.  He survived the

same way I did- by helping the Greys- and he seemed to be okay.

Maybe he knew the secret.



No.  There's no secret.  Just days of numbness and nights of

terrors for the rest of my life.  Gibson had just learned to

live with it and I hadn't.  I had found a friend, though.



When Gibson discovered that Indian girl in New Mexico, he

suddenly wanted to play house all the time, so I left them to

their love nest and went back to my lonely prowling. She was

about twelve then, by the way, and I didn't give it a second

thought.



There were a few other side trips, but mostly I spent the next

year looking for you.  I stopped in Kansas to check on Marita

and saw the boy.  My boy.  Krycek was with her by then, but

that boy was unquestionably mine, whether I wanted him or not.

I gave her a ton of stuff over the years in exchange for taking

care of him.  You can buy just about anything from a whore.



Not love, though.  I know how you feel, kid.  Maybe someday we

can do therapy together and talk about our mothers.



I always had this fantasy that he and I could be together

instead of just listening to each other.  I wanted to take him

with me every time I saw him, but I couldn't- I couldn't risk

it.  And Marita wouldn't have let me take him- having my son

gave her and endless source of whiskey, smokes, and whatever

else she wanted from me.  I heard him cry when Krycek hit him-

again- and that was enough.  I was taking him or I was killing

Krycek.  I had him almost two days before I slapped him for

thinking the same thing that I was.



I swore to myself that wouldn't happen again, either.

                                

I could listen to the boy.  I could listen and see what Scully

is doing.



I have to find him first, but that's not hard.  Once I know the

station, it's just a matter of finding it again.  I find a nice

tree to sit under, close my eyes and listen.



Water.



He's in the water and he's upset.



Oh God- he's drowning.  I have to get to him.



No- I can feel his butt against something.  It's okay.



A bath.  Scully's giving him a bath.  Oh!  She's doing his

ears.  I always hated it when my mother did that.



"Mulder doesn't want you to give me a bath!"  I hear him say.

Good try, Boy.  He hears Scully laugh and there's a washcloth

rough on his back.



She's laughing.  She's happy without me.



Keep walking.



Get up and keep walking.



No, I'll just sit here for a while and listen.  Just a little

while.



I hear the boy hear Scully's voice as she talks to him.  She

wants to know if I'm coming back.  I feel him listen to me- now

that's an interesting sensation- and tell her that I still don't

know.  I hear him hear her cry.  And cry.



Get up, Mulder.  You can't make them happy.



Get up and keep walking.



She'll get over it and she'll be happier.



I found you, Scully- it took me a while but I found a colony

with a female doctor.  Actually, I found three, but the last one

was the right one.  It took me forever to figure out who the

women in each colony were since they wouldn't let me in.  Then a

whore I liked came back with tales about the nice lady doctor

with red hair that gave be back some of the jewelry I'd given

her to pay for her abortion.  Yes, that was my watch.  No, not

my child.  I already had one and I wasn't risking another.

Besides, Scully- she was nasty.  Gives good head, though.



Again, I offered anything, but there was no trade.  They

wouldn't even let me see you- kept you barricaded in your house

so I couldn't just take you.  I listened to you and you didn't

know any of that, which made it even worse.



You thought I'd paid that whore with my watch and that you'd let

my baby die.  I had no way to tell you how wrong you were.  I

had no way to even tell you I was there.



I stayed right there at that fence- all colonies were fenced by

then, like it was some sort of zoning law or something.  I left

to find food and shoot a few people that annoyed me or could

profit me, but mostly I waited and listened.  Yes, I cut the

man's hands off- there were enough prostitutes for him to touch

without him putting his nasty hands on you.  Not that my hands

were much cleaner.

                

One day, the leader came to me with a deal he was willing to

make.  You for Skinner.  You alive, Skinner dead.



Deal.  I could care less why he wanted it.  Payment on delivery.



I stocked my cabin in California- it was one of the Y2K panic

shelters, so it was already pretty self-sufficient.  There were

a few days that I dreamed about living there with you, but I

knew I couldn't.  I made a few modifications and gathered

supplies for you and the boy, if you wanted him.  I cleared out

anyone that might have threatened you- you noticed they left me

alone when we drove past.  On my way to get you, I stopped to

see my son told him I would be coming for him soon.  Then I

drove off in search of Skinner.



You pretty much know the rest, Scully.  You don't know that I

killed him yet, but the boy will tell you that eventually.



I never meant to have sex with you again.  It kind of- just

happened.  I could hear, actually hear, Gibson with his girl and

you were right there beside me and...



And I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for it to happen, even the way it

did.



After that I tried to make amends to you with every cuddling,

foreplay technique I'd ever learned, but I knew it wasn't

enough.  I wasn't who you remembered and it was better if I just

left you alone.



But I let it happen again- I forced you.  God, Scully- I should

swallow a bullet for that, if nothing else.



You wouldn't say that- you'll say you wanted me, but it's not

like you had much of a choice except to do what I wanted.  You

thought I would hold you down and rape you- I heard how scared

you were.  I wanted to hear you tell me "yes," and I kind of

lost it when you did.  I didn't realize I was being that rough

and that you would think your only choices were consenting or

being raped.  I thought you'd tell me if I was hurting you.



I wouldn't have, Scully.  I would never hurt you.



I want to tell her that.



I need her to know that.



No.  I did hurt her.  And making her give me permission to do it

doesn't make it any less a sin.



I can't walk anymore and it's getting dark.  I'll sleep here

and...



And what will I do tomorrow?  Go or stay?



Go.



I'll go tomorrow.



No.  I'll stay one more day.  Stay and listen to my son.



I have this thing about feeding him, Scully.  About making sure

he's fed.  If he ate all I wanted him to, he'd be as big as a

house.  I've brought Marita so much food over the years that she

finally asked me to stick with booze and smokes.  She can't cook

and I'd hear him being hungry- I was scared he was going to

starve like those kids in India.



You don't know about that, do you Scully?  You didn't come out

of the bunker until after they all died and I guess none of the

other men ever told you or let you see the bodies.  You've never

even given it a second thought that a grown alien can't gestate

inside a very small child.



I'm so glad.



You see, there's a minimum amount of human tissue the Greys need

to form, and it works out to about thirty-five pounds of child

or more.  They took everyone else they could easily find, but no

one under three or so.



Those they left to die.  And there were lots and lots of kids in

India.                  

Were.



I woke up in India- with a sprained ankle since the Greys kindly

dropped me off about seven feet above the ground- to the smell

of thousands of little bodies rotting in the heat.  Everywhere.

In their beds, on the sidewalks, in cars- wherever their parents

left them, they died.



Not all of them, though.  A few of the oldest ones had managed

to find water and a little food for three weeks and were still

barely alive, little bellies grossly swollen.  I kept hearing

weak cries and I would limp into some merchant's stall to find a

three-year-old dying of God-only-knows- what.  It happened again

and again and again- finding a child too far gone for me to help.



I tried to help them, but I'm not the doctor, Scully.  My

training only helped if I needed to help them resolve their

feelings about being abandoned.  I didn't even know what was

wrong with some of them.  Some were just starving, but they were

too sick to eat.  Some typhoid- or something- from drinking

dirty water.  Some hadn't had their diapers changed and were so

raw they had maggots...



No, I can't think about it.



I couldn't save even one of them.  Eventually, I stopped hearing

the weak cries.  Whether they stopped or I just stopped hearing

them, I don't know.  I was just glad they stopped.



And I'm glad you never heard them, Scully.  And I'm glad you'll

always make sure my son isn't ever hungry.  If he survived

Marita's cooking, he can live on yours.



I want to hear you and him happy together and then I'll go.



No, just one more day.



I should make sure she's OK.  Maybe she needs something; maybe I

forgot something she will need.  I'll go back and watch her, but

I won't listen.



Just one more day- I'll stay and watch her for one more day.

Then I'll go and never come back.  I won't listen.  She won't

know I'm here.



No, she'll think three dead rabbits committed suicide on her

front steps.  Brilliant, Mulder.



I wonder if I should have cleaned them?



She's a doctor, brilliance.  Scully can probably gut a few

bunnies.



I should just leave.



After this morning.  I'll watch Scully drink her coffee and John

Boy- what a name- play one last time and then I'll go.



She looks so sad.  What are you thinking, Scully?  Are you

lonely?   Are you worried?  Do you need anything?  Is something

wrong?  Are you not happy here?



I can take you anywhere you want to go- just tell me.  No, you

won't tell me.  You'll say "I'm fine," just like you always do.

The world has turned into a Mad Max movie and you're

still "fine."  You've been sold, almost raped three times- once

by me,- and seen your best friend and lover- I guess- murder two

children and slap his son and you're still "fine."  You've been

forced into sex with Skinner and me and burdened with my child

and have no control over your life.     



You're not "fine," damn it!  None of us are fine!

        

I shouldn't be listening to her.  She'll know I'm doing it.  No,

she can't tell where I am- I could be miles away for all she

knows.



Sad- she is sad.  Lonely.  Tepid coffee.  Love Mulder. Should

have told him.  Need to brush teeth.  Miss him.  Is he OK?

Where is he?  John's going to need another bath.  Why did he

leave me?  Love him.



STOP!



I stop listening, jerking down my mental volume knob.



You do not love me, Scully!



Suddenly, John Boy turns around and points right at the tree I'm

sitting in.  Traitor!  Scully looks and raises her hand at me

before she steps off the porch, noticing the suicidal bunnies.

I drop the few feet to the ground to run and feel my ankle give

way again.



Damn it!



I can't get away now.



God- don't touch me, Scully!  Leave me alone.



Just leave me alone.    



She doesn't leave me alone, though.  I get half-drug into my

cabin- her cabin- so she can check my ankle.  It's sprained; I

could tell her that.  I got dropped out of a UFO and then tossed

into a ditch by the gay pride motorcycle gang from Hell about

five and a half years ago and my right ankle broke the fall both

times.  It was sprained then and it's sprained now.  Leave me

alone!  



Oh, thank you, Scully.  That shot must have been something for

pain.  It doesn't actually hurt that bad, but I think you're

afraid I'll hobble off.



I will.  Just as soon as I can, I'm gone.



Not right now, though.  Right now I'm going to lie here in a bed

that smells like you and doze and dream about what could have

been.



I always wanted to marry you, Scully.  Bet you never would have

guessed that.  Not a civil ceremony- the whole nine yards.  The

white dress, the tux- Hell, you might have even drug me into a

church.  Fox Mulder, the eternal bachelor, wanted to marry Dana

Scully.  First woman I ever wanted to marry.  I wanted to take

you someplace warm and sunny with lots of beaches for our

honeymoon to make love to you for the first time and then adopt

as many children as possible.  I wanted the house in the `burbs

and the picket fence.  I even have a ring somewhere.  Not

somewhere- my left front jacket pocket, actually.



God- that seems so stupid now.



I also wanted to keep chasing my little grey men all over the

country and screwing around as I saw fit.  Keep living like a

frat boy and shaking my fist at the sky.  Keep idolizing my

school-boy version of my partner- gazing at you in awe during

the day and jerking off to those memories at night.



Even Before, I was a bastard.



OH GOD THAT HURTS, SCULLY!



What in Hell are you doing to me?



Whatever it is, I'm certain I deserve it.  I'll try to stay

conscious so I can suffer.



Isn't working.  Sorry, Scully.



I must have fallen asleep in Scully's motel room or at her

apartment again.  She hates it when I do that. Sometimes if I

lie real still, I can listen to her breathing for awhile before

she realizes I'm awake and kicks me out.  It's pitiful for a

grown man to do that, but it's about as intimate as I ever get

with Scully, thanks to that damn bee.



I hear Scully moving around, doing something that smells good-

breakfast.  Must be room service.  Ouch!  Burned herself.  I

like the way her breasts bounce against her chest with she jumps

back.  Guys don't ever have that sensation.  Most guys. 



Why can I feel that?



Apocalypse.  Colonization.  Greys.  Civilization collapses and

chaos reigns.  I sold my soul to the devil in exchange for

Scully's life and am now basically a psychic, half-crazed

killing machine.



And my ankle hurts and I have to pee.



Life sucks.



Why am I naked?  Naked, clean, and shaved?



"Your clothes are almost dry, Mulder.  You were nasty.  Stop

faking it and open your eyes," a female voice informs me.  I

guess I'm going to have to open my eyes.



She is so beautiful.  How old is she now- 40, 41?  Doesn't

show.  Maybe I've aged enough for both of us.  I'm trying to

decide which part of her I like best this morning.  The

conventional favorites aside, I think it's the front of her

waist.  It's flat.  Flat and barren as a pancake.  I'm sick of

seeing women with huge bellies about to bring forth life- a life

that is usually short, ugly, and resented.  Give me a waist I

can almost span with my hands and attach it to Scully.  Next, of

course, is the small of her back- an old favorite.  That tattoo

standing out in sharp contrast to her pale skin.  I guess.  I've

never actually gotten a good look at it.



It is first thing in the morning and I do have to pee.



And I love whatever it is she just gave me in that syringe.



Food.  Scully's bringing me something that smells delicious and

trying to spoon feed me.  No, I don't need to be spoon fed,

thank you.  It's my ankle that's hurt, not my arms.  Just give

me the plate and get the Hell away from me.



Now she's across the room pouting.  Good- pout.  Get good and

mad and hate me because I'm going to leave as soon as I can.

Better if you hate me instead of keeping up this delusion that

you love me.  The boy crawls up beside me and I offer him a bite

of oatmeal.  He only takes one bite, since it smells a lot

better than it tastes.  Only Scully could screw up oatmeal.

Food aside, he cuddles up beside me like I'm a good father and

he's supposed to be there.  I've never spent much time with him

before I got Scully, although we listened to each other a lot.

I told Scully the truth; he's a good kid.  Amazing that he's

mine.

        

Eventually I get a layer of my clothes back and helped to the

bathroom before Scully offers me another pain shot.  She's got

my ankle wrapped up and it really doesn't hurt as long as I stay

off of it, so I shake my head "no."  She insists it's broken and

gives me the shot anyway.



Why did you even bother to ask me if there wasn't a choice,

Scully?



Same reason I asked you if you wanted to have sex with me.  Even

a lie sounds good if it's what you wanted to hear.



I hope I didn't say that out loud.



That must have been a booster dose of Demerol, because I am

suddenly such a happy FBI agent.  I love Demerol.  I love my

Scully, my son, my cabin.  Hell, I love this blanket and the

wall.  Just give me enough of this stuff and I'll stay forever,

Scully.  Demerol seems to be able to beat back the darkness

inside me.



Just keep me drugged up and in bed as your love slave, baby.



I think that was a B-52's song.

        

Love slave, baaaaby.



Come here and love me, Scully.  Let's make like spoons or sleepy

kittens or suicidal bunnies.  No, not like bunnies.  You're not

coming and loving me, Scully.  Damn.  Fine, I'll just lay here

and grin at you.  My little snuggle bunny.



What?



She's such a good mom- I knew she would be.  She's reading the

now-clean Boy "Goodnight Moon"- he loves that story.  I found

the book and I used to sit around the camps that bordered Colony

451 and read it to him beside the fire while he listened in my

head.  Yes, Mulder the Murder likes to read kid's books- tease

me about it and I'll blow your head off.  The other men didn't

tease me, though.  A couple of them even asked me to read it out

loud, which I did not do.  I got other books for him, too.  "Dr.

Seuss," and "The Little Prince," and "The Giving Tree"- nice,

normal memories.  I even picked up a Barney book somewhere in a

nod to my role as the anti-Christ.  Scully must have found them

in my backpack.  The boy's heard them a thousand times, but he's

never actually seen the books before.



I lose the battle against my heavy eyelids and leave this world

for the evening, missing the sweet family tableaux on the couch.



Someone's sitting on the bed beside me.  Female.  Smells good.



Scully.

        

I open my eyes to see a needle going into my shoulder.

Can I go pee before I pass out again?



"You'll run out of that, eventually."



"That was the last," she tells me, dumping me back onto the

bed.  "It wasn't even a whole dose and I'm not sure how potent

it is anymore.  Your ankle is set and your clothes are dry.  Get

up and leave if you want to, Mulder."



She's daring me!  I will leave, Scully!   Just as soon as I lay

here for a little while.  Half-dose, my ass...

        

She looks adorable swaddled in that big t-shirt I found for her

in Bolder and sweat socks, like we're old lovers going to bed in

our weekend cabin.



Before.



But this isn't Before.  And I am not the same person.



I can't do this.  Not even with Demerol.



"Get away from me, Scully."



"Why?"  It's the same voice Samantha used to say "You can't make

me, Fox!"



"Why?"  How the Hell can she ask me that?  Why?  She wants a

fuckin' list?



"Yes, why?  Why, Mulder?  Why would you go to all the trouble to

get me and then abandon me?"



"Because I promised."  I haven't exchanged this many words in

one day out loud in years.  Sometimes I forget that I even -can-

speak out loud.



"You promised?  You think this is what you promised me?  Leaving

me alone in the middle of the wilderness while you go off to

whip yourself for surviving?  What happened to `no questions?"



I don't know what to say to that.  I am very, very out of

practice at arguing- usually I just shoot anyone that disagrees

with me.  There  is safety in my silence, so I retreat and roll

away from her and back into my drugged dreams.



Scully doesn't let me escape.  Lips find my earlobe and small

hands caress my hips, gaining an instant reaction through my

analgesic stupor.  If I could run, I would.



"Stop that," I protest.  It's an empty protest- I'd trade the

rest of my life for Scully to make love to me of her own

volition.



Scully doesn't even bother to respond.  I'm rolled on to my back

roughly and the front of my boxers are pulled down.  When I

realize what she plans to do, I push her away, harder than I

intended.  I will not let Scully do this.  It's not betraying Scully if

I find the occasional whore willing to trade a blow job for whiskey or

cigarettes, is it?  It's a service- like getting a hair cut or an oil change.

Even killers get lonely.  And I don't ever want to think of Scully

as one of those women- not when I'm going to leave her.

        

Scully's sprawled on the floor beside the bed where I pushed

her.   I'm sorry, Scully- that was an accident.



Sure it was.



Her hair is over her face, so I can't see what her expression is

and I don't dare listen- she has both my guns.  Then I hear the

sobs.  She pulls herself into an impossible tiny ball and just

sobs.  I wait for her to stop, but she doesn't- just when I

think she's about to dry up, the tap turns back on to full

blast.  This is how she cried in the bunker when her world was

ending.



I will not reach out to her.  I will not reach out to her.



Thank God, she's finally stopping.  Now she's just sitting

there, still hugging her knees to her chest.  Good- get up and

go sleep upstairs, Scully.  Get away from me before it's too

late and I'll be gone in the morning.



"I know what PTSD is, Mulder.  And I know what survivor's guilt

is.  Why won't you let me help you?  What are you so afraid of?"



She deserves an answer.   It takes me a while to get the words

out; my lips feel floppy:



"Scully, I went to Oxford, remember?  I know what those things

are too.  I also know there's a point when the frontal lobe

can't process anymore shit and it just shuts down and lets the

animal part of the brain take over.  I'm there most of the

time.   I can kill without feeling any remorse- God, Scully- I

can kill and get off on it.  You don't know some of the things

I've done, Scully."



John Boy brings her a bath towel to wipe her eyes, looking

concerned.  I'm telling him to find someplace else to be and

he's ignoring me.  Stubborn little snoop.



He's definitely mine.



"I know the worst thing you've done, Mulder," she says, climbing

back into bed beside me, bringing John with her.  "And I still

love you."



I don't get time to dwell on those magic words because my numb

mind reels- what does she know?  That I found her ovum before?

Women-  Diana?  Christine?  Marita?  One-night stands?  Whores?

How selfish I was that night in the bunker?  How I helped the

Greys?  That I let her mother die?  India?  Kansas?  That I came

listening to her and Skinner?  That I hit Marita?  That I

killed... who?  Which of the hundreds?  Skinner?  She knows

about the boy.  The two kids I killed this week.  Beating up

Gibson.  Whoever's head she thinks was in the box.  The maybe it

was rape and maybe it wasn't hate-sex.



Thank God she can't listen to me think.



"You never stopped trying to keep your promise to me.  You never

stopped trying to come for me.  And you know what, Mulder?  Look

at me, Mulder!"



I'm looking.



"I never asked you to stop.  That makes me equally responsible

for everything that has happened and you don't seem to hate -me-

for that.  Do you, Mulder?  Do you realize that if it wasn't for

me, you would have stayed safe in that bunker and lost your

video collection playing poker for a month with Frohike?"



This is a good point.  I've never given it a second thought.



She was worth it.



That's why I'm still leaving her.



Tomorrow.



"I only prayed you would come.  How can I hate God for answering

my prayer or question the way he answered it?"



Great- drag your God into this.  That's the wives obey your

husbands and the spare the rod guy- right, Scully?



How appropriate.



"What if I hit you?  Or John? Or what if-"



"Don't.  I'm not a martyr, Mulder- or a punching bag.  But

you're not a wife-beater, either.  You're my best friend and I

know you.  As a doctor, I know you'll do better here- away from

other people and stress until you've worked through some of what

you've seen.  As an FBI agent and- I guess- as a mom- you hurt

either of us again and I'm kicking your ass.  I love you and I

want you and I'll help you, but those are the terms, Mulder."



I heard what she said.



I also heard her say she loved me.  Wanted me. Wife.  Mom.



"Go get my jacket and look in the front left pocket."



I must be totally stoned to say that.  Hell, I can't take it

back now.

                        

Scully does and pulls out the ring.  "Put it on," I tell

her.  "It was my grandmother's wedding ring and I always wanted

my wife to have it."



The platinum lace ring dusted with diamonds slides onto her left

hand, where is should have been all along.



Scully holds up her hand and examines the ring.  "It's

beautiful.  She must have been a small woman- it fits me."



"No, Scully- I had it resized.  About a decade ago."



Scully's face is soft, but I can't tell what she's thinking and

I won't listen- that's not fair.



"I can't promise any more, Scully.  I promise that I'll never

love another woman besides you.  That I'll never hurt you or the

boy or let someone else hurt you.  But I can't promise I'll

stay."



Scully lies down on the bed and I lay beside her, not touching

her as I turn off the lamp.  John is already sound asleep

against the wall behind me.



One more night.  Just one more night with her.

        

"I remember something Martin Luther King said, Mulder- that

sometimes it has to get really dark before you can see the

stars."  Scully rolls over to look at me and continues "We would

both have given our lives to save the other Before without a

second thought.  That's all you did After.  You gave up your...

peace... in order to save me and I refuse to hate you for that.

I love you, Mulder."

        

She said it again.



"Scully, I have a Hell of a lot of dark."



She takes my hand in hers.  "I know there are going to be times

when you have to disappear into the darkness.  But whenever you

look up and see the stars, I want you to come back for me- for

us,  just like you promised."



Just one more night, I tell myself, closing my eyes.



One more night that I can pretend I'm someone I'm not.



And then tomorrow-



Tomorrow, I'll see.



"You still don't believe in God, Mulder?" her soft voice asks me

as she huddles closer to my chest.



"No."  This is an old debate.  "God is Henry Ford and Smith &

Wesson and the dark matter in the void of space.  Nothing

else."



There is no God that would allow this negative utopia to exist-

not one I want to believe in.  I want to believe in a God that

protects the weak and gives peace to the tormented.  One that

saves innocent children and brings lovers together.



"Well, I do, Mulder.  And I believe He answers prayers.  It's

just that sometimes He makes us work for our blessings so we'll

appreciate what we've got when we get it.  For better or for

worse, and sometimes there's lots of worse, Mulder- that's the

God I believe in."



For better or for worse, Scully.  For always wanting me.  For

keeping the faith.  For surviving.  For innocent children and

peace for the tormented and lovers together.  For a God that

protects the weak when I couldn't.  For appreciating our

blessings.



Scully told me once that every decision we made in our lives

leads up to one moment in time.  It's hard for me to accept that

all the awful things I've seen and done have led up to me laying

here with Scully and my son, listening to both of them breathe

safely in the middle of a the end of the world.



But they have.  And there must be a reason for that.



"Hey, Scully?"  I'm getting sleepy again.  "Maybe."



"Maybe, what, Mulder?  Maybe there is a God or maybe you'll

still be here tomorrow morning?"



"Yeah, Scully.  Maybe."

        ***



My religion consists of the humble admiration of the illimitable

superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are

able to perceive with our frail and feeble minds.  That deeply

emotional conviction of the presence of a superior reasoning

power, which is revealed in the incomprehensible universe, forms

my idea of God.



-Albert Einstein



        ***