The Letter(Will Neill) ‘The Letter’

In some ways Kris Cramer always felt he had a kind of an affinity with the Charles Dickens story…… ‘’A Christmas Carol’’ much like its character Scrooge he also hated the holiday season. He too lived a solitary existence, in honesty he was the only lonely door mouse in his sprawling down town New York penthouse apartment.
Not that the opportunity of romance had ever eluded him, on the contrary, he did have his fair share of lady admirer’s over the years but most he was convinced were drawn to his wealth rather than his personality. He knew he wasn't the most genial of men but time and life had not been favorable to him when it came to relationships. Losing his parents at a young age had focused his ambitions more towards financial security. ‘’Love was all well and good but it rarely filled an empty belly’’ his father would often offer. Not that he remembered much of it being spread around at Saint Mary's orphanage, where he grew up, a place of despair, ironically no more than a stones throw from his building.
Now, as he made his way through the crowds gathering for the Rockefeller Center Tree lighting Ceremony, never had two words from Scrooge’s limited 18th Century vocabulary seemed more appropriate... ‘’Bah Humbug’’ he heard himself grumble. Peace and tranquility is what he sought most this cold big apple night. The welcome repose, security and comfort of his suite drew closer with every step and he could almost imagine his first sip of bourbon warming him like a lovers embrace as he lounged on his expensive Fendi Casa couch. The world of banking had indeed been good to him. He had money and was considered fairly good looking, and at thirty nine was coming close to his prime, so why then had he always felt something was missing. This empty feeling in the gut of his stomach never seemed to ease, not even the distraction of work could null the ache. It was always there. Work colleagues and friends of which there were few had and did invite him still to thanksgiving dinners, but he always found some excuse not to go, nor did he want their pity, so year on year fewer began to offer. Until this time there was now none. But that was OK, he didn’t need anybody, he was quite content to eat alone each night and enjoy the benefits of his solitude by not having to make boring small talk.

New York city was cold tonight, the first wisps of snow where tumbling slowly down from a black sky and Kris Cramer wondered why he’d decided to walk home. On doctors orders as he remembered, it was after he woke suddenly in the night a month ago drenched in sweat and with a pounding headache. Then when he tried to get up his legs went from under him leaving him writhing in pain on his rug and feeling as if someone was sitting on his chest. How he managed to call 911 on his cell before passing out he’ll never know. Coming round in the ambulance with a plethora of wires stuck to his body and his mouth and nose covered in an oxygen mask. Recalling the gentle smile of the paramedic as his eyes slowly focused calmly filling in forms and adjusting monitors as the sound of the emergency sirens filled the night. ‘’You’re a lucky guy’’ he’d said. ‘We just got to you in time, you’ve suffered a mild heart attack. But you're going to be Okay, now lay back and take it easy, we’re not far from Mount Sinai.’’
He remembered the precarious feeling he had of fragility, a sense of foreboding totally alien to his normal steadfast ‘stop moaning and get it done’ fortitude. A virtuousness he enamored and expected from others. In this overbearing environment he felt afraid, uneasy because for once he was not in control.

Things had changed after his dice with death, of that he was sure, certain priorities had shifted, now he realized just how mortal he really was. Suddenly the excitement of securing another big account had waned. Simpler pleasures like enjoying a fine whiskey, or sleeping just an hour longer at the weekend seemed more important. He noticed he enjoyed listening to his music more now than just having it on in the background while he paced his apartment trying to close a late night deal over the phone. Hell some songs had even reduced him to tears. ‘’You need to de-stress Kris’’ his Doctor had ordered. ‘’Eat better, drink less, walk more, you may not be so fortunate the next time.’’

So here he was reluctantly conforming to advice, walking in the snow between 48th and 51st street downtown Manhattan. Not that he was enjoying it much, the cold and the thought of the large medical bill which was due was quite depressing. Kris pulled up the collar of his thousand dollar Black Burberry Pimlico overcoat and hunched his shoulders even more against the icy wind. ‘’Bah Humbug’’ he repeated under his breath, rounding the corner onto his block.

521 Madison Avenue was a comparatively young high rise by New York standards, the building had been erected in 1926 during the depression and first served as a hotel up until the 1982 recession. When it was bought by its current owners, the Gotty family. Renowned for its upmarket parties where only the rich and notable could afford to play it also attracted infamous characters such as Al Capone, Frank Costello and Bugsy Seigal. Rumor was the mafia had a share in it and helped to keep it stocked will illegal liquor during the prohibition years, while Elliot Ness’s untouchables turned supposedly a blind eye. Nothing had ever been proved of course and when Paul Gotty Jr took it over he held on to its name, ‘’The Three Kings’’, even though he turned it into high grade apartments. Some think he did it just for the hell of it knowing it jokingly referred to three of the most notorious gangsters America had ever seen.
Kris found it equally amusing the door man was known as Giuseppe Masseria, a coincidence perchance, he’s named after the ill-famed 20’s Cosa Nostra- Joe ‘the boss’ Masseria. Or perhaps he’s a descendant? Who knows, anyway it didn’t seem to bother him that Kris called him Joe.
Sitting behind his desk in the well lit lobby just as Kris came in Joe reached down and fumbled in one of the drawers retrieving a bundle of mail. ‘Evening Mr. C’ he smiled in his broad Bronx accent, ‘Looks like we might get a white Christmas this year’. Joe stood up and handed over his fistful of post. Dressed in a black suit and tie weighing at least 260 pounds and close to six foot six he was a bear of a man. A very appropriate specimen, Kris thought to his chosen career as a security officer. Which gave him an ethereal peace of mind knowing he was always around should he need him. ‘Don’t you ever go home Joe?’ Kris joked.
‘Sure Mr.C, sometimes, but since Katy left the place is awful quiet.’
Somewhere in the back of his mind Kris remembered Joe telling him his wife Katy had packed her bags six months ago and went back to live with her Mother. He wasn't really paying attention at the time when Joe went into the ‘’whys and what for’’ of his break up. And was now feeling bad he’d been more focused on securing a lucrative deal he was in the final weeks of closing at the time than really listening.
‘Oh right….sorry Joe, so hows that going with you two?’
‘Oh, you know, Mr.C, we’ve been talking, I’m hoping she’ll come back for Christmas. Fingers crossed.’
‘Put it on your wish list’ Kris said slowly moving off.
Joe smiled a big cheesy grin and swiped the air with his spade sized hand, ‘Get outta here! only kids believe in that stuff Mr.C.’

As he strolled over to the elevator he couldn’t help but think of all the years he’d spent in the orphanage, all those Christmas’s he’d wished for new Parents. A loving home just like it used to be before - before the accident. Joe was right, only kids believed in magic, he did too back then. But not any more.
Kris tried hard to swallow the lump forming in his throat and shake off the chill he felt of loneliness. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a white handkerchief and blew his nose then pushed the elevators call button. Self pity is a sign of weakness he thought to himself. ‘Pull yourself together man’ he sighed as the doors opened. Hoping Joe hadn't seen him.
No one had come to adopt him like they had done with some of the others. Twice a year, summer and fall, the Sisters of Mercy lined them up in their best outfits. Making them parade like soldiers to the amusement of those couples thinking of choosing a boy or girl to take home. He’d always smiled his biggest smile and marched as good as he could hoping each time it would be him. Yet year after year he never was picked. Until one winter when all the rest were lining up and he wasn't. Feeling confused he asked a sister, ‘’What about me?’’
‘’Not this time Kris’’ she’d replied ‘’I’m afraid you're too old now".
Was that it? he thought, stepping in, was that the defining moment in his life which made him who he was today. A cynical man angry at the world and god. Had he replaced his wanting of love and belonging mistakenly for the counterfeit status of wealth. Maybe, but just as the nun had said, he…. was too old now to change.

Sliding his penthouse key into the lock he put away the thoughts of what could have been and turned it to the right. The elevator doors closed with a slight murmur of a hidden motor and he felt a lightness in his stomach as it sped him swiftly upwards to his palace in the clouds.
His apartment was spacious, fitted out with only the finest furniture. He liked the classics, but with a modern twist. An Ivory beautifully crafted leather Hampton Chesterfield with elegant scrolled arms, a deep buttoned backrest and turned wooden legs. A black baby grand piano over by the windows. Not that he had ever learned to play. Various bespoke loungers covered with an assortment of cream and white Italian scatter cushions, and a $5000 glass dining table with matching chairs (hardly used) - and if he decided to cast his eye over his realm. Floor to ceiling glass windows.
Kris stood and looked around him, the room temperature was a comfortable 71 degrees courtesy of his AI assistant Alex who monitored his everyday needs. Technology was marvelous, all he had to do was ask and he could switch on his widescreen TV. Call out and the lights could be controlled. Shout a phone number and he would be instantly connected. Money could indeed buy anything, well mostly anything.

He kicked off his shoes and threw his coat onto one of the nearest loungers. Still holding his mail he made his way over to his oak cocktail cabinet adjacent to the baby grand and lifted out a half full bottle of fine bourbon. Picking up a cut glass tumbler from another shelf he sauntered over to his couch and slumped down into it. ‘Display CBS News Alex.’
Within a second of him speaking the silence was broken by the sound of silver haired smooth talking anchor man Scott Pelley who was doing a segment about a new strain of corona virus recently discovered in China’s Wuhan district. Scientists there had given it a name. Covid19, but early reports suggested it was being contained. Sounded serious enough. A brief thought of how the stock markets might react to this skirted across his mind. But what was unsettling him more was what he was reading on the scrolling info-bar at the bottom of his screen... There had been an auto-mobile pile up on the George Washington bridge, which had stopped traffic. Two reported fatalities at the scene. First indications they were husband and wife. The other occupants in the car hit by a swerving truck were children, a boy and a girl. Both survived the impact and are currently being treated in hospital.
Kris closed his eyes, he didn’t want to read any more. ‘Disconnect News Alex.’

Throwing his mail onto the carpet in anger he poured himself a large bourbon, swallowed it quickly and then refilled his glass. The rush of the liqueur in his throat brought tears to his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away, instead he let them fall. He let their saltiness burn his cheeks and sting at his eyes because he knew how those kids would cry for their dead parents. Just as he had done so many years ago, and it had been a long time since he had really cried. Hurting was the only way to remember. If only he hadn't fallen asleep in the back seat. Memories fade as you get older, events of the past can become blurred as time passes, maybe for all others. Yet he can recall most of that day with unequivocal clarity.

Every year since he was a baby his Father Sam and Mother Claire would take him to visit his Grandma Dotrice, affectionately known as Dottie. Grandpappy George had died of lung cancer before he was born, so they made the trip to Clinton every summer and Christmas so Dottie wouldn't feel lonely. The small New Jersey town was only an hour away from Manhattan and was called home to both his parents until they moved to the city after they married. Daddy had found a permanent position with the C. F. D, stationed at city fire department house on West 31st street, and Mom was a home maker. No one really can recollect their early years of infancy so his first happy memory of Christmas with Grandma Dottie could be a montage of many pasted together by the hands of time. He remembers the large tree in the corner by the fire, decorated from top to bottom with lots of colored shiny baubles and twinkling fairy lights. Its crown adorned with a golden star. Tinsel strung from every branch, and presents wrapped and ready for opening on Christmas morning around its base. Carol music being played on Grandpappy’s old stereo record player and if he was lucky it would snow. The lovelingness he felt thinking about those days almost matched the warmth of the bourbon in his stomach. But then god snatched it all away, just like the alcohol would leave a bitter taste in his mouth in the morning. One month after his seventh birthday, December 21st, 1987, was the day his world imploded.
They had arrived at grandma’s early and spent all afternoon decorating the tree. In the evening it was customary to go to the Rockyhill Inn, which according to the towns history has been serving food since 1745. Dad always ordered a T bone, Mom a chicken dinner, Grandma liked fish while he preferred a burger and fries. Things went as they should have like so many times before, only this night Dad surprised everyone and ordered a beer with his steak. He was never much of a drinker, but he joked, ‘’Cant a man have brew at Christmas, and besides its only one.’’ and yes he was true to his word.

It was a perfect meal and while they ate outside the first flakes of winter snow began to fall. ‘’Oh look Kris’’ Grandma smiled pointing out of the window, ‘’Isn't it wonderful.’’
Mom however was a bit more apprehensive. Growing up in Clinton both she and Dad knew how quickly the weather might turn bad. Temperatures could drop below freezing rapidly and the road to home was dark and full of twists and turns. ‘’Lets finish up soon and go Sam’’ she said, and he could remember hearing a hint of nervousness in her voice. ‘’It's getting late and Grandma and Kris look tired.’’
She wasn't wrong, it had been a long day and he was bushed, but at the same time full of excitement for the coming days ahead. ‘’We’ll take the back road’’ Dad said. Parts of it were more of a dirt track but it did cut about 15mins off the journey.
The air was crisp outside and a light layer of snow was already covering their brown and cream Buick Road Master. Mom took Grandma’s arm as they walked and Dad went ahead and cleaned the windshield with his hand. Thinking back, he had asked if it was OK if he could sit in the rear trunk space of the station wagon so he could watch the stars. A decision which ultimately changed the course of his life.
On the way, with the steady drone of the engine, the rhythmical movement of the car and the warmth of the interior, he had fallen asleep. Waking up in the hospital was the next thing he could remember. Battered and Bruised with his right leg in plaster. Even now he still walked with a slight limp. The pain of his injuries was bad enough but nothing like the hurt he felt when they told him his Mother, Father and Grandmother where all killed in the crash. The police had found a dead deer at the side of the road not far from the Buick, they were sure it had run out in front of the car. Looked like he had hit it full on because of the way they’d found its body. The car had swerved and collided with a tree, throwing him clear. Because he was in the trunk space, that's what saved him.

Kris wiped away a rolling tear and poured another bourbon. tomorrow would be the 21st, a poignant day in his calendar. ‘Alex play some Christmas Carols’ . Dean Martin began to fill the room with the sounds of Silent Night making a wave of sadness roll over him. Now he was sure something had changed since his heart attack, it would seem his wall of resistance against the rest of the world was cracking. The thought of not being in control was nearly too much to bear, he couldn’t be a weak man in the cut throat world of finance. Making money wasn't easy, you had to be ruthless, you had to put down your competitors. Take the risks to land that big deal. It was all too much. He felt smothered, stifled by the stress. His Doctors words echoed in his head. ‘If only’ he whispered and drew his hands up to his face.

As he was staring down between his fingers, among the usual mail of junk and regular recognizable bank stuff he’d just discarded, one letter stood out from the rest. A plain white envelope had separated from the others, and as he looked more closely he could see there was something scribbled across it.
He picked it up. It said simply, ‘’To Santa, care of the North Pole.’’
‘What the hell, how did you get in here?’ he heard himself say as he held it up and scrutinized it from every angle, before throwing it back with the rest. ‘some poor kid is sure going to be disappointed this year’ he said and got up with the idea of checking what food might be left in his fridge that could still be eatable.
His eyes lit up when he found a chicken leg, some cold ham and a half filled bottle of mayo. Thinking sandwich he grabbed a plate from a cupboard and headed over to his chopping board. Dean Martin had now been replaced by Michael Bubble who was doing a swinging version of Jingle Bells. Kris began to cut up his chicken and dice the ham, the aroma of the meats and the song began to take him back in time to those nights in the Rockyhill Inn. Where Frank Sinatra crooned and Dad pretended it was him mimicking his singing holding a bread role like a microphone. He did the same thing every year, and Mom always laughed. Thinking of this drew a smile and it had been a long time since he’d smiled, it felt good. Maybe the letter addressed to Santa, the smells and sounds of Christmas had made him nostalgic. Perhaps he was just getting soft, he wasn't sure, but what ever it was it made him go back and pick up the letter again. What to do with it though became a bit of a conundrum. To throw it in the trash just didn’t seem right. He could drop it back into the mail box beside the bank in the morning on his way to work. Or he could return it to Joe at the desk. It really was his fault, after all, he had it. Joe was a good guy, he’d know what to do.

Kris folded up his sandwich, took a bite and made his way to the elevator. The lobby was mildly cold without the benefit of his over coat, but not as cold as the foyer when he stepped out. At first glance there was no sign of Joe at his desk. Instead he could see someone, very much smaller than Joe, sitting with his back to him, who seemed to be engrossed in the security monitor displaying the entrance.
‘Hello, excuse me’ Kris called as he approached. ‘I’ve got this letter by mista…..’
The small man turned on hearing Kris. ‘Ah! Mr. Cramer, so nice to see you. I just love watching people go by’ he said pointing at the small screen.
‘You know my name?’ Kris offered. A bit uncertain if they’d met before and he’d forgotten. Which wasn't uncommon with him.
‘Why yes of course, you're Mr. Kristopher B. Cramer, from the penthouse, the very rich banker. I know everyone in the building. Now what can I do for you?’
‘Where’s Joe?’
‘Oh, he finished at eight, I’m watching the desk tonight. The agency sent me, very short notice it was too if you ask me. I’m Nick.’
Kris stares at the elderly gentleman who is smiling back, something was strangely familiar about him but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
‘Okay, Nick, look, I got this letter mixed up with my mail by mistake.’ Kris holds up the envelope. ‘Its quite clearly not addressed to me’.
Nick peers over the rim of his gold spectacles. ‘M mmn, I see what you mean, this certainly isn't the north pole. Although it does have your name on it’.
‘What are you talking about, its distinctly marked ‘’To Santa.’’
‘Maybe you should look again.’
Kris spins round the envelope, sure enough there it is.
‘How can this be!’ he says dumbfounded. ‘I don’t understand, I could have sworn…..’
‘Well ain't ya gonna open it?’ Nick asks.
‘I guess, I mean…….should I?’ Kris says looking a bit uncertain. Nick nods. ‘Dear Santa’ Kris begins after opening the letter. ‘See! I told you it wasn't addressed to me’ he says going to put it back.
‘Might as well carry on now Mr.C ...no point in stopping, besides what harm would it do to read Holly’s Christmas wish.’
‘How did you know it was from a little girl, Nick?’ Kris wonders a bit perplexed.
‘Oh,….. I think I may have, ah, ……. caught a glimpse.’ Nick says with a phony smile. ‘Yes that was it’.
Kris likes to think he’s been around long enough to know when someone could be yanking his chain. He’s savvy for sure when it comes to banking. But with this….Mmmm. He’s not so certain. ‘’Dear Santa’’ he begins to read again. ‘’My name is Holly Genero. I am seven years old. I know at Christmas time you are really busy getting all the girls and boy’s presents ready. So I won't keep you long. I have only one wish this year. My Mummy is very sick. Her name is Mary, She has Cancer and the doctors say she could die if she doesn’t get a special operation. But it costs a lot of money. I don’t want anything for myself, but if you could help her Daddy and I would be very grateful. Lots of Love. Holly.’’
‘Poor kid, she’s the same age I was when I lost my Mom, Dad and Grandma.’

‘en god gärning kan läka ett sjukt hjärta, is an old saying where I come from,’ Nick smiles, ‘A good deed can heal an ailing heart’.

Kris nods slowly, his lips pert and thin, he’s unable to speak because of the lump forming in his throat, instead he just waves the letter at Nick then turns to go. In the elevator he reads it again, and is once more consumed with emotion. Back inside his apartment Bing Crosby is deep in melodious voice singing, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas. His soft baritone is filing the room. ‘Alex,…. switch off the music and call my personal assistant Irving’ he commands. ‘Try the Berlin number.’ Bing abruptly stops and is replaced with the purring of loud phone. After a few seconds the line connects and Irving breaks in. ‘Hello, is that you Kris. Is everything ok?’
‘Yes there is no need for concern Irving, I hope I haven t interrupted your evening. But I need you to do something for me.’
‘Ok, but, Are you sure you're alright?’
‘Never been better Irving, now listen up. I want you to arrange to pay for the all the medical cover of Mary Genero’s cancer treatment. She’s being looked after at St Luke's Hospital, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. I’ll text you the fine details, ok, can you do it tonight?’
‘Shouldn't be a problem’ Irving says, ‘I think I can set that up, do you want me to tell them who the benefactor is?’
Kris thinks about what Irving has just said, ‘ Just say……..it's a gift from the Three Kings.’
‘Ok Kris, I’ll get on this right away anything else?’
‘I think that's all…… No, wait, one more thing, find me the phone number of my door man Giuseppe Masseria, also known as Joe, I need to speak to his wife, privately.’
Irving clicks off and leaves Kris standing alone and silent in his thoughts.

Outside his window as he walks over to look out at the night lights of the city that never sleeps, he feels a sense of contentment wash over him. And for the first time in a long time the ache he had in his stomach had gone. He’s bushed, its been a long day and Irving will probably take a few hours to get things done so he thinks about kicking his heels up until he calls back. There’s no point going to bed until he can talk with Joe’s wife so the couch would suffice he figures and tosses a few cushions up into one corner. Pouring another bourbon to accompany what remains of his sandwich Kris slumps down onto the soft leather. He sets the drink on the floor and pushes his plate to one side and closes his eyes. It isn't long before he drifts off into an uneasy sleep. He begins to dream. Soon familiar sounds fill his head. He can hear his Mother calling to him to get ready, her voice so clear. The purring engine of the old Buick Road Master is there with its gentle misfire every ten seconds as it idles in the driveway of Grandma's house while Dad cleans its windshield of snow. Christmas carols are playing on Grandpappys old stereo, its wonderful music is drifting up through the stairway to his bedroom. This is his happy place, his blissful carefree moments when all the world seemed right. But he knows if they leave destiny will steal them all away again. ‘Kris Cramer’ his Mother says coming into the room. ‘What on earth is keeping you? Grandma and Dad are in the car and waiting.’
‘Lets not go this time Mom’ he says as tears well up in his eyes. ‘Can we just stay here and listen to the music.’
His mother slides her arm around his shoulders in the loving way she has always done. ‘My poor boy what ever is wrong?’ she asks him. He wants to tell her he knows what will happen on the way home, warn her there will be an accident. Yet how can he? How could he know such things, she would say.
‘Just this one time Mom’ he begs and begins to cry.
‘Shush now my baby, everything is going to be alright’ she whispers and begins to cradle his head. He closes his eyes, safe in his mothers arms.

In the distant echoes of his mind a phone is ringing, its sound is dragging him back. He wants to stay in this vivid dream world of happiness, but he knows he can't. Slowly the warmth of his Mother's arms fade and soon he is back on his couch. ‘Alex, connect’ he says. His eyes sting with the saltiness of tears as he opens them. It's Irving calling to tell him he’s taken care of everything. He even has the number he asked for and apologizes for taking so long. ‘That's OK Irving, now go and be with your family. Merry Christmas.’
‘And to you boss’ Irving says.
Dawn is breaking over the city and a new mornings light is streaming in through his windows. Kris keys the number into his cell phone and a lady’s voice answers. ‘Hi, is that Joe’s wife? …..look you don’t know me but……..’
Kris talks with her for a while and then hangs up. He checks his watch, there’s plenty of time to shower and have breakfast before going to the bank. No one other than himself will be there, he’ll be all alone today, everyone will have gone home for the holidays.
Just over an hour later Kris steps out into the foyer, he sees Joe at his desk and is about to speak when he gets up and comes round. ‘Mr C’ he says grasping his hand ‘I don’t know how you did it, but Caroline called me this morning. Sounded like she’d been crying too. We’re gonna meet up today and have a real long talk. I Got a good feeling about this, thank you.’
‘You really should thank Nick, he’s the one who……..’
Joe is shaking his head and looks puzzled. ‘Nick?’
‘The agency doorman from last night, we talked ...here…, at your desk’
‘No sir Mr. C, don’t know any Nick, besides I was here all last night. What time did you say this happened?’
‘After eight maybe.’
Kris can see Joe thinking for a moment. ‘Oh yeah’ he says ‘I took a bathroom break around that time. And you say he was here?’
‘I don’t know, maybe……’ Kris is unsure just what happened last night. ‘Perhaps it was just a dream……. Listen I gotta go Joe. I don’t want to be late for work.’
‘You're going to the bank today Mr.C?’ Joe asks with that same look of puzzlement on his face.’
‘Yeah’ Kris replies.
‘But Mr.C. your Mom and Dad are waiting for you outside, and besides don’t you always go to your Grandma’s every year. I was just about to buzz you when you came down.’
‘That’s impossible Joe, my mom and dad are d……….’ Kris hears the honk of a car horn coming from outside. A beautiful sound he hasn't heard in years. ‘Excuse me Joe’ he says and walks out into the morning sunlight. Parked in the street is their old brown and cream Buick Road Master gently misfiring every ten seconds as it idles. Smiling in the passenger seat is his Mother, a little older, but its her. He can see his father behind the wheel.
‘There you are’ she shouts as she waves. ‘Better late than never, now hurry up. Grandma is waiting for us.’

The End
Merry Christmas.

December 14 -24th 2020 5,395 words.
Will Neill

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