Kitabı oku: «Dr. Dad To The Rescue»
“I’m not one of your patients, Edie.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication ACKNOWLEDGMENTS About the Author Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Copyright
“I’m not one of your patients, Edie.”
Holden bit out the words. “Platitudes and encouraging pats on the back are not what I need from you.”
She shook her head, trying to clear it as she drew in a shuddering breath, which brought her breasts flush up against him.
She saw the havoc her action wreaked on his composure. On his ability to remain detached and in control, which was so blasted important to him, and not just as a physician.
Fully knowing what she was doing, she took another lung-filling breath. His gaze burned into hers.
Edie didn’t pull away. Couldn’t turn away, and not because she had promised herself she wouldn’t.
“What do you need from me, then, Holden?”
Dear Reader,
Silhouette Romance novels aren’t just for other women—the wonder of a Silhouette Romance is that it can touch your heart. And this month’s selections are guaranteed to leave you smiling!
In Suzanne McMinn’s engaging BUNDLES OF JOY title, The Billionaire and the Bassinet. a blue blood finds his hardened heart irrevocably tamed. This month’s FABULOUS FATHERS offering by Jodi O‘Donnell features an emotional, heartwarming twist you won’t soon forget; in Dr. Dad to the Rescue, a man discovers strength and the healing power of love from one very special lady. Marrying O’Malley, the renegade who’d been her childhood nemesis, seemed the perfect way for a bride-to-be to thwart an unwanted betrothal—until their unlikely alliance stirred an even more incredible passion; don’t miss this latest winner by Elizabeth August!
The Cowboy Proposes...Marriage? Get the charming lowdown as WRANGLERS & LACE continues with this sizzling story by Cathy Forsythe. Cara Colter will make you laugh and cry with A Bride Worth Waiting For, the story of the boy next door who didn’t get the girl, but who’ll stop at nothing to have her now. For readers who love powerful, dramatic stories, you won’t want to miss Paternity Lessons, Maris Soule’s uplifting FAMILY MATTERS tale.
Enjoy this month’s titles—and please drop me a line about why you keep coming back to Romance. I want to make sure we continue fulfilling your dreams!
Regards,
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor Silhouette Romance
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Dr. Dad to the Rescue
Jodi O’Donnell
For my soul sisters, both human and canine.
You saved my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Tammy Hermanson for her help with the ins and outs of physical therapy, and to William R. Irey, M.D., for providing me with the technical descriptions on broken arms. Any errors are entirely my own.
JODI O’DONNELL
grew up one of fourteen children in small-town Iowa. As a result, she loves to explore in her writing how family relationships influence who and why we love as we do.
A USA Today bestselling author, Jodi has also been a finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award and is a past winner of RWA’s Golden Heart Award She lives in Iowa with her two dogs, Rio and Leia.
Dear Sam,
We haven’t been communicating too well lately, have we, son? So I thought maybe a letter would help me get out some things I don’t seem able to say. The fact is, I’m at a loss as to what to do, and it isn’t a feeling I’m used to.
I know it’s been a rough year since your mother died. Rough for us both. And what with being so busy moving us to Dallas and getting established here as an ER doctor, I haven’t always been there for you. I don’t have much of an excuse for that, except to say I’m doing my best. You see, I lost both my parents when I wasn’t much older than you are now. Lost them—and my best friend in the whole world, Elsa Dog.
I know you miss your mother, Sam. Believe me when I say I’d give anything to bring her back. But I can’t, so we’ll have to go on without her. We still have each other, you know, even if it seems to me you could use a friend.
Maybe we both could use a friend. Someone faithful and loyal and true. Someone whose love and devotion would help you heal and believe in the future again. Someone like E.D. was to me. But I also need something—someone—more. And it would take a miracle....
Love, Dad
Prologue
Rural East Texas, twenty-four years ago
Pale legs flashed between breaks in the brush as the boy raced headlong through the pine woods. His jagged breathing was the only sound in the early-evening silence.
Matching her gait to his, as she did everything, the golden retriever loped alongside him, worry in the brown-eyed glances she cast up at him.
Lungs bursting and heart about to, Holden McKee collapsed on the cushioned ground, soaked from days of April rains. Even now the downpour started again, drops pattering down between the thick canopy of evergreen boughs.
Holden didn’t care that the damp seeped into the seat of his cutoffs as he sucked in air and the scent of loamy earth, pine resin and silty river water.
He swallowed, trying as he’d been trying for weeks not to break down. He was ten years old. Too big to blubber like a baby.
But his mother was dying!
The retriever’s tongue swiped at his cheek, taking away raindrops and the few tears that escaped from Holden, despite his efforts.
“Cut it out, E.D.,” he scolded not very strongly, fending off the dog’s advances. He gave the retriever a smile to show he didn’t mean it. Her chestnut eyes showed sympathy. She cleaned another swatch of his cheek, and he was comforted, as always, by her loyalty. Sometimes it seemed she was the only one who understood him.
He didn’t know what he’d do without her.
Holden buried his face in the dog’s neck. “Oh, Elsa Dog.”
She’d been his friend and companion for five years, ever since the pup had been given to Holden’s father when he’d refused to take payment from a patient he knew struggled to keep food on his family’s table. That was Samuel McKee’s way, putting others’ concerns before his own. Just like two winters ago when a bad flu outbreak hit the county, and he’d seen to everyone’s health before his own. His mercy had cost him his life.
And now...now God was calling home Holden’s mother, too.
“So what’s going to happen to me?” Holden muttered rebelliously into Elsa’s ear. He’d done pretty well so far, keeping faith that things would turn out somehow. But right now he couldn’t find it in him to trust God knew his business.
Elsa whimpered softly, probably because of the tight grip he had around her. He didn’t ease up but clasped her tighter to him.
The retriever leaned into him, solid and true. Her copperand-gold coat glowed like a halo. How could someone not want such a pretty dog?
Blinking back more tears, Holden tried to distract himself by staring up through the trees. It did the trick, for he noticed two pines standing side by side, both with forks in their trunks, which was unusual enough, but the top of one split trunk crossed over the other.
“X” marks the spot, he thought. Like in a treasure hunt. And this was his spot, his very own corner of the world. He belonged here, not in some strange house in the suburbs of a city, away from all that was familiar and dear.
Holden set his jaw. “I won’t go. No way they can make me.” And no way would he leave without Elsa.
Holden launched himself to his feet and continued into the woods toward the river and the section of undercut bank he’d come to think of as his.
Within minutes, though, Holden was up to his ankles in freezing mud. Wiping the raindrops from his eyes with one sleeve of his sodden T-shirt, he peered through the undergrowth. It looked like the path to his hideout might be underwater. Should he turn back?
But there was something he kept wedged in a cranny in that hideout. Secured in a watertight box were his most treasured possessions.
He couldn’t lose everything he cared about all at once.
Holden gritted his teeth against the lump that rose in his throat, thinking about how his mother had called him to her bedside this afternoon and told him that Aunt Tina and Uncle Dwight would take care of him from now on; Chicago would be his new home. Would he try, for her, to be good—to be happy?
Holden had wanted to reassure her. But he couldn’t speak, or he’d have poured out his fear and heartbreak to her. Still, she’d known.
Then she’d laid her hand on his cheek and gazed down at him with tear-filled eyes, and he’d sensed she wasn’t able to find the courage to tell him something else. But what could be worse than losing your mother and having to leave your home forever?
When he’d come out of Mama’s bedroom, Elsa had risen from her spot by the door, and he’d noticed the look in his aunt’s and uncle’s eyes. They didn’t have a large house, Aunt Tina said, and not much more than a patch of a yard. Cousin Seth, with whom Holden would be sharing a bedroom, had allergies....
Holden had gotten the message, loud and clear. That was when it had all seemed too much, too unfair. He tore out the door, Elsa at his heels and his mother’s plea swept from his head.
His attention was brought abruptly back to the present as Holden found himself fighting for every foothold in water that had deepened to thigh-high. This was too dangerous, he scolded himself. He knew East Texas weather, knew better than to venture into rushing water.
And he knew he must go back. He couldn’t let Mama down.
Something bumped up against the back of his knees, nearly upsetting his shaky footing. Elsa had already lost contact with the ground. Her front legs churned against the swelling current. Holden’s hand shot out to secure her by her collar. He had to get them both out of there, fast.
“C’mon, girl. I won’t let you drown.”
Panting, Elsa gazed up at him in perfect trust.
He retraced their route, using the trunks of trees to pull himself along. He didn’t dare let go of Elsa.
Finally, grimy with mud, bits of leaves and sticks clinging to his clothes and Elsa’s coat, they made it to higher ground and the dog bounded up the incline ahead of him, shaking herself furiously. She turned and crouched in her usual playful stance—front legs spread wide as she went down on her elbows, hind end high in the air, a grin wreathing her face. Holden had to grin himself. Yes, the danger was over, for now.
Reaching up, he grabbed a low hanging branch to haul himself up that last stretch of the embankment. His hand closed over not rough bark but muscled smoothness, cold and wet and slimy—
A musky, mtring smell invaded his nose. Holden came eye to eye with a deadly cottonmouth.
Every hair on his body stood on end. He jumped away, but the ground was slippery and his feet flew out from under him. Tumbling backward, he came down in three-foot-deep water, going completely under. Yet within an instant, he was up and splashing, scrambling back however he could, arms flailing, his every effort aimed at putting as much distance between himself and sure death. Elsa would take care of herself, he knew. The retriever had been snake-proofed by his father, had had the lesson to avoid all reptiles drilled into her.
Except there was no getting away from a riled-up cottonmouth. Quick as lightning, it uncoiled from the tree branch and dropped to the ground before slithering toward Holden.
He could only backpedal deeper into the water, where he knew he’d have even less of a chance against the cottonmouth. His only hope was to find a long stick to catch the snake under its middle and Sing it far away.
He was frantically feeling under the murky water for such a weapon when Holden heard a low growl. He spun. Terror sliced a trail straight up his spine, for Elsa’s manner was now anything but playful as she squared off in front of the cottonmouth, directly between it and her master.
“Elsa!” he shouted, taking a step toward them. The current tugged at him. Had it grown that much stronger in just a few minutes? “Elsa, no!”
She retreated not one inch as, lips curled back, she bared sharp white teeth that would have made a lesser beast think twice about tangling with her.
Not the cottonmouth. Holden saw the snake rear up its triangular black head and open its jaws.
Hackles raised, the retriever raked the dirt with one paw, feigning first strike. Her water-soaked coat looked like polished copper, smooth as armor. Yet it wasn’t armor; she was just a dog, with skin as tender as his.
“Elsa, no!” Holden yelled again, clambering out of the water, hoping to distract one or the other.
Then the snake struck, and in an endless moment all he could see were flashes of red-gold and the writhing, dark-brown whip of the reptile. The struggle propelled both dog and snake into the water, where Elsa completely submerged while still going after the cottonmouth for all she was worth. His heart pumping, Holden’s eyes stung at the raw, fierce beauty of her.
Oh, his brave, loyal girl!
Just as suddenly it was over, the cottonmouth swimming away, oozing dark blood in its wake.
Had Elsa been bitten, too? Caring nothing for his own safety, Holden plunged once more into the floodwaters. But the flow had picked up, and he found himself being carried along. He’d have welcomed the current if it would bring him closer to Elsa, but she was moving as rapidly.
He should never have come here and tried to retrieve his treasure box! It wasn’t worth losing Elsa.
He used his arms and legs as rudders to steer him toward the dog. He came within an arm’s length of her, and Holden stretched out his hand as she thrashed toward him. His fingers caught a handful of slick fur—
Slam! He crashed into a tree trunk, which nearly knocked the wind out of him—and caused him to lose his hold on Elsa.
Holden wrapped his arms around the tree as he searched for the retriever. His heart sank when he located her. She was so very, very far away. If he let go of the tree trunk, he might never catch up to her and would surely lose his life.
It seemed hopeless.
“No!” Holden screamed. “Don’t give up, Elsa!”
But he saw her losing strength, going under, then surfacing briefly, water spraying from her nostrils, chin stretched and straining. Her movements grew sluggish, weaker.
“Come on, girl,” he pleaded. “Don’t give up on me now!”
Her brown eyes fixed on him, valiant, devoted, loyal to the last. She blinked.
Then she was gone.
“Elsa! Elsa!”
He cried her name over and over, was whispering it hoarsely when Dwight and half the county found him hours later still clinging to that tree trunk, even though the water had receded.
They wrapped him in blankets, but the shivering didn’t stop. He didn’t think it ever would, and right then he didn’t care.
Dwight pried the story out of him. Strangely, his uncle wasn’t angry that Holden had risked his life over a dog. He set a forearm across Holden’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.
“She’s gone, son,” he said. Whether he meant Mama or Elsa wasn’t clear.
Holden hunched his back in resistance and denial. But he couldn’t hold back the truth: He had no one now. No one.
With a sob, he pressed his face against his uncle’s side and cried for all he had loved and lost this day. He cared nothing for the treasure left in the cubbyhole on the edge of the river. That river had taken from him something much more precious. God had taken from him something much more precious.
And he would never, ever forget.
Leaning back in his heavenly throne, God gave a heavy sigh, anguished as always by his children’s pain. Right now, Samuel McKee was waiting at the pearly gates for the arrival of his soul mate. Yet here was another soul who stood aching and alone.
It was not the boy’s time, though. Holden McKee still had much work to do before he would be called home. It was why his canine companion had been placed there, to save the boy. And why God had given man such a creature—to bring the human spirit the example of unwavering trust and hopefulness and faith, which he wished for all his children to find.
“But how to bring them to such trust?” he mused. “Its promise is made on Earth every day—in the bloom of the rose, the rising of the sun, the birth of a child...”
Great fingers drummed a low rumble like thunder on the celestial armrest for a long moment, yet only a blink in time. Then his eyebrows parted like the clouds; eyes cleared like the dawn breaking.
“Of course!” he said. “How else on Earth can you glimpse a little bit of heaven?”
He peered lovingly down upon the boy Holden McKee as he was led home in the darkness.
“Have faith, my son,” God whispered. “I have not forsaken you. In good time, the answers you seek will be yours.”
Chapter One
Dallas, Texas, present day
There came a time in every little boy’s life, Holden supposed, when he was forced to accept the inevitable and often painful fact that the ability to fly was reserved for birds, airplanes, comic book heroes—and certain “illusionists” who performed this amazing deed on prime-time television.
How often had Holden himself listened to such tales of disenchantment as he’d set collarbone or leg, stitched a split lip or patched up the odd contusion sustained as a result of some young man’s literal leap of faith?
Telling himself this instance was no different, Holden shot a sidelong glance at his son, who sat next to him in treatment room three at the Brookside Physical Therapy Associates. Sam’s face was pinched and pensive. Stoop-shouldered, the six-year-old cradled his splinted forearm against him as if protecting a newborn.
Somehow, Holden was not convinced.
Too bad the cast had had to come off this morning, just when Sam seemed to be getting used to it But there was still a lot of healing on his broken arm that needed to be done outside of such a protective shell.
“Are you having any pain?” he asked the boy.
Lips thinning, Sam shook his head.
Holden shifted in his seat, stretching an arm along the back of the empty chair on the other side of him. “That’s good. You should have little discomfort, actually. You heard the orthopedist say the X ray showed the bones had realigned perfectly, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He reached into his suit coat pocket. “You could put on some more of this lotion if your skin itches.”
“I’m okay.”
Holden felt his own mouth crease. He would have asked Sam what was the matter, what he could do for the boy, but he didn’t think Sam would tell him. Ever since Sam’s accident, the gap between father and son had grown, especially after Holden had tried to impress upon him the folly of allowing make-believe to take precedence over common sense.
He simply didn’t know what to do or say or ask next, and had told the grief counselor Sam had been seeing just that. The man had given him the rather simplistic advice that Holden should let Sam make the next move. So far, his son had done nothing.
And so the gap widened, imperceptibly.
Yet what if Sam came to him with a question Holden couldn’t answer, a problem he couldn’t fix?
I’m scared.
And I miss her so much.
With a sigh, Holden dropped his chin and massaged a persistent and painful knot in his jaw muscle. He’d always had a tendency to clench his teeth when under stress, but if he didn’t ease up soon, he’d crack every molar in his mouth.
“dead?”
Holden lifted his head. “Yes?”
“I just wondered if—” Sam was looking at him anxiously. Not often did the boy see him showing any sign of vulnerability. After all he’d been through, Holden made sure of that.
He straightened his spine and asked again, “Yes?”
Sam’s gaze slid away. “If I could, you know, hit the bathroom before the therapist comes in.”
“Oh. Sure. I saw one when we came in. Down the hallway.”
Resisting the urge to offer help, he watched the boy disappear, the door swishing shut behind him. Left alone, Holden let his head fall back against the wall behind him with an oath of self-censure. He really needed to pull himself together, once and for all, for Sam’s sake, if nothing else.
But things had gotten so complicated, so close, lately.
He stared at the recessed spotlights above him and wondered if their brutal illumination, so like the flash-bulb brilliant lighting in the ER, might help him find the distance he usually donned as easily as a stethoscope. At least pondering the subject gave him something to concentrate on, take his mind off of...things.
Like how hard he’d been working. He’d thought leaving the job at County Hospital in Chicago and the daily dose of senseless death would help put his life on a more even footing. Yet even within the less-intensive atmosphere of a private suburban hospital, he continued to feel as if he slogged through a mire as thick as quicksand.
Holden realized the lights had burned hot spots on his retina only after he heard someone say his name. All he could see was a reddened aura surrounding the figure before him.
He closed his eyes, giving them a second to recover.
“Holden McKee?” the still faceless woman repeated. There was something strangely soothing about her voice. Yet rather than calming him, Holden recognized trepidation mingling with the sense of powerlessness he’d been fighting.
“Yes, I’m Holden McKee,” he said blindly, not liking the sensation. “Who are you?”
“I’m here to help your son,” she answered. She had a faint drawl he found rather attractive. “You, too, it would seem. Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. It’s just temporary. Stupid of me, looking into the light like that—”
A hand rested on his shoulder, delicate as an angel’s touch. The impression was reinforced by the caress on the back of his hand, which felt like nothing so much as a feather.
With a certain urgency, Holden blinked. What finally came into focus was a young woman bending toward him, her face inches from his. He realized where he’d gotten the impression of auras and feather-light touches: she was surrounded by a glorious veil of red-gold hair, wavy and as fluid-looking as molten copper. The ends of its waist-length strands brushed his hand as it lay on his knee.
He got the strongest urge to reach up and rub a lock of it between his fingers to see if it was real. Or to bury his face in that thick curtain of softness—to see if she was real.
She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t believe in—”
The rest of his thought was lost as he was captured by a pair of fine brown eyes fringed with dark eyelashes so curly they curved right up over her brow bone. They were quite expressive—open and honest and caring. Quite...familiar.
With that realization, the calm Holden sought settled over him, as if now that the moment of reckoning was near, he could face it—wanted to face it—and get it over with, once and for all.
Her eyes darkened with bewilderment. He must be staring like a madman. His gaze faltered, bringing her mouth into his line of vision.
He found himself riveted by those full lips, so close to his. A mere heartbeat away. All it would take was the slightest shift in his position to bridge the gap between them in a kiss. And with that connection, somehow he would know...what?
The moment held, a wrinkle in time. He felt himself at a crossroads, as if he was being given a rare, brief glimpse of two possible paths to take.
Neither way was quite clear. So close, though.
“What did you say your name was?” Holden whispered, so elusive was the moment.
“It’s Edie. Edie Turner.” Her voice held puzzlement. She didn’t know him, obviously. Disappointment mushroomed and spread in him.
The moment began to slip away.
Desperately, Holden riffled through a mental Rolodex for her name. Edie Turner. It struck no chords with him, but then he came into contact with so many people. Patients, colleagues, co-workers—all passed in and out of his life at such a rate they seemed one faceless blur. He had no time to stop and look closely at anyone, as he was doing now.
Close. So close.
Where on earth—and when—would he have known a woman named...Edie?
“You’re late.” The words popped out of Holden’s mouth of their own volition. Much too late, he wanted to add.
At his accusing tone, she straightened in surprise. Her hand dropped away. “Yes, I-I am, I guess. A little. But we still have plenty of time. There’ll be no one else after you.”
Why did her assurance—and the hurt in her eyes—do nothing to soothe his sudden anger? In fact, that look nearly undid him again, especially coming on the heels of a moment when he’d almost felt he could have told this woman anything and she would have understood.
Unsure why he was so irritated, Holden stood and indicated the time on his watch. “My son’s appointment was at four. It’s now twenty after. That’s more than a little late.”
She took a step back. Whatever connection he’d felt between them snapped.
“I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused,” she said, which only rankled him further.
“I just need to know if this is what I should expect when I bring Sam to his appointments. Because I can certainly put that twenty minutes to good use.”
Edie gave the clipboard in her hand a quick glance. “It’s Dr. McKee, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course. Well—again—I apologize for the wait, Dr. McKee, but in the interest of providing the best treatment possible to our patients, appointments sometimes do run over.” Though her tone remained polite, she flicked a long lock of that hair behind her shoulder in a telling gesture. “As a health-care professional yourself, I’m sure you understand.”
He raised an eyebrow at such insubordination. Not the wisest move on her part, but then—
“I deserved that, didn’t I?” Holden said.
“You’re the doctor.” She returned his scrutiny steadily. She had spirit, he’d give her that.
Yet there was not a bit of recognition in her eyes for him. The caring warmth he’d spied there had definitely departed—if he’d actually seen it at all.
He shook his head. He really had been working too hard.
Holden massaged the back of his neck. “I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Turner. I’ve been under a lot of strain, though that’s hardly an excuse. I guess I don’t blame you, getting back a bit of your own from a doctor. We’re the ones who make the world wait for and on us,” he quipped, trying for a lighter tone.
She seemed slightly mollified, enough to return mildly, “I think they call it a God complex, Dr. McKee.”
Again, the words spilled out of his mouth of their own accord. “Not this doctor, Ms. Turner,” he said with grim emphasis. “Because that would mean I believed there’s such a thing as an almighty and healing God. And the fact is, we’re on our own down here.”
There was a muffled sound from behind him. Holden turned to find Sam had returned and stood in the doorway. He looked as if he’d learned there was no Santa Claus. Holden supposed, in a way, the boy had just endured a similar disillusionment.
His heart sank like lead.
“Sam, I—” Holden extended a hand toward the boy, then dropped it—and shut up. Just as before, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could say to make the situation better. He would have given anything to take back his words. That he couldn’t shake his bitterness about the turn their lives had taken was one thing, but his son ought to have some hope to sustain him.
Yet the futility of trying to make sense of such a loss was a strong force in Holden. Not for the first time, he wondered how he was going to raise this child, given his cynical view of life. Maybe that’s what made him feel so world-weary. There were a thousand hurts he could heal, but what was that power if he couldn’t heal the human spirit? Because his was next to lost. The dearth of hope and trust in him seemed so deep a debt, it would take a miracle to replenish it.
Edie had never seen a person look more forsaken, like he’d just lost his best friend.
The little boy stood in the doorway cradling his injured forearm, the faded-to-gray color of his jeans shorts echoed in eyes so like his father’s. He held the support crossed on his chest, fist on his heart, as if he were set to swear an allegiance and waited only for someone to tell him to whom. And if no one did, he’d bolt at any moment.
In that instant, he owned her heart.
All the cautions given her by the clinic supervisor not three hours ago—that she could not be the world’s rescuer and continue to work in health care—flew right out of Edie’s head. How could she not respond to such a silent cry for help?
He was a handsome child, with those enormous eyes and that spiky dark-brown hair begging for a hand to smooth it down. She wondered what his mother was like, and what kept her from being here in her child’s time of need.
Her heart squeezed painfully.
Edie tossed a reproachful glance at his father, whose own eyes—more gray-green than strictly gray—looked as bleak, his face carved from stone. Thank God he’d checked his tongue before completely demoralizing the boy. Even she had flinched at the gloom and doom in his voice. At least he seemed to perceive his blunder, for she saw the doctor’s jaw bulge with the gritting of his teeth.
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