There are seemingly countless sleepy little towns in rural America, practically invisible to all but the few hundred who call each of these towns home. It used to be, only a hundred years ago or so, that most Americans lived in these little villages, making a living as farmers. Society has changed so much, and so fast, that it’s easy to forget that these towns exist, unless perhaps you’re in an airplane flying at night, looking down out the window at tiny little clusters of lights, or perhaps randomly trawling through Google Earth, in the idle chance that you might find something interesting. Haversham is one of those towns that are practically invisible. I won’t mention which state it’s in. Some of these towns should be forgotten, and Haversham is one of them.
When it comes to the scenery, Haversham ranks among the best. It’s nestled in a region of great natural beauty, though it’s subtle instead of dramatic. It’s ideal and idyllic farmland. It’s the sort of region where photographers come to make postcards, or maybe famous computer desktop backgrounds. There are countless rolling gentle hills. None are too high, but most high enough to make you want to hike to the top and see what’s on the other side. They’re high enough to present a face to the setting sun, or rising for that matter, and during the golden hours of dusk and dawn they’re particularly beautiful.
In the early days, this farming town grew mostly wheat, though that industry has largely declined for a multitude of reasons. The land is now mostly owned and run by giant agricultural conglomerates, and they mostly grow grass, for hay, to feed to beef cattle on ranches a few counties over. Still, those rolling hills are a sea of green in the spring, and turn a white gold in late summer before the harvest. The hills, when viewed from on high, are spotted here and there, like an appaloosa, with little forests of trees, usually oak and maple. Little cool babbling brooks meander in and around the bases of the hills. Scientifically, the region is known for a special species of endemic butterfly, small and blue, and beneath the sod one can still find earthworms of unusual size. This works out well, because those babbling brooks are also beloved by the fly fishing community, many members of which will gladly swap out a whole box of handmade flies for a few of those whoppers.
The most notable resident of Haversham is Trevor Milton. Trevor’s high watermark of local fame came to him as he was a teenager. Haversham High School, class of 1999. Improbably, Trevor didn’t even play football. Football is king, they say, in rural America. If a teenage boy is going to become a small town hero, he’s usually a football player, and usually a running back. Yet Haversham had never been big enough to need a large high school, and its football team was lucky during a good year if it could field both a varsity and JV team. So nobody got too excited for the local Haversham Hawks, which was a good way to manage expectations.
Trevor was one of those good kids, the over-achieving kind you just tell is destined to great things some day, and you feel a little privileged to have met him in his youth. He had big dreams of being a big city journalist. His English teachers had always said he had a great natural talent at writing, and his words would just flow out onto the page like water. Trevor also had an Eagle Scout-like drive for public service. He was convinced that being a journalist would be a perfect way to use his natural writing talent to help people, to inform the public, the recording of unbiased facts, the undying search for the truth, and so on and so forth.
There was never going to be an opportunity for Trevor in Haversham. It actually had a biweekly paper, but it was barely more than a newsletter. It had one full time employee, the editor who probably should have retired years ago, and a nice lady who came in part time to put together the classified. Still, when Trevor asked if they’d be interested in a voluntary unpaid intern, they didn’t turn him down. He told them it was something that he could put on a college application some day, and they thought that was swell. He was the sort of boy that ought to go to college. So he learned to set the classifieds and advertisements. He helped the Old Man proof, though not write, the obituaries. After a while they even let him write the articles on the Haversham Hawk’s latest loss.
Trevor had another interest, the real key to his local fame. In fact, Trevor really didn’t find it all that interesting, just another useful tool that would help him be a good journalist some day. Everybody else’s interest, though, that was another story. Trevor was the first person in the whole town to hook his computer (and not that many had computers) up to the internet. Many people in town had hardly heard of the thing, and had only vague understandings of what it was, or what it could do some day. To be fair, a lot of people all over the country were like that back in the time. Unless you were there, it’s hard to imagine how the whole world changed over a few short years.
What really cemented Trevor’s place in local lore is that he created the town’s first official website. Really it was just a project Trevor wanted to do because he was bored and couldn’t think of anything else, and there was nobody else to do it. He mentioned it, over dinner, to his parents, who mentioned it to their coworkers, and by the next Sunday everybody in town had heard that the Milton boy had created not only his own website, but now Haversham had its own place on the World Wide Web. What a marvel! The mayor invited him over to the City Hall. That was a small, almost church-like building of historical provenance, built back when the town was still hopeful of growing into something bigger.
Trevor helped the mayor and the city’s one secretary hook up their new computer to get internet access for themselves, and the first place they went to was www dot haversham dot com. After teaching the mayor how to use a mouse and how to click the hyperlinks, Trevor was lauded for his forward thinking and great technical skills. He was going to put Haversham on the map some day. The next issue of the town’s paper hada picture of him on the front page, smiling with the mayor next to a boxy CRT computer monitor. Why, the young MIilton boy was so smart, the article explained, he’d built his own computer at home just by ordering the parts.
Down at the church, at the post office, the barber’s, the bar, the older residents would chatter to each other about that Milton boy. And a website! Imagine! They would speak out all the double-u, double-u, double-u’s, and the dots, and the com. They didn’t know what it all meant but the fact that it was a thing now amused them, and they laughed about it. Later one, Trevor would create websites for the three local schools: high (and junior high), Elementary, and Primary. He’d do the same for the Parks department, covering the two parks they managed (the one in the city square, and the one by the creek). Later on he’d change the URLs to the appropriate .govs and .edus, but the pages themselves still reflect that unique mid-late 90s web aesthetic.
That fall he’d ride in the town’s tiny, but appreciated, Apple Pie Parade. He’d ride with the mayor in his convertible, behind the high school’s little marching band, and ahead of the horses. Trevor had his whole future ahead of him, and he was looking for something to do. In his junior year he found his next big project. It would be a way to tell Haversham’s history to the outside world. Trevor was going to create an online registry for the dead who were buried in Haversham’s little nearby cemetery.
The Haversham Cemetery was a little under a half mile West of town, obscured by one of the ubiquitous rolling hills. It was down what was now called Cemetery Drive, an unpaved road that had originally been intended to lead to other places, but by circumstances nobody had purchased more property down the road, nor built anything down that way, so it was renamed to fit its sole surviving purpose. The cemetery was built on the southern and eastern flank the next hill over, with its eastern edge leading down almost to the bottom, where a large swift creek ran, covered on both banks by cottonwood trees. From the air it looked like a quarter circle with the apex cut out, or as Trevor would say, a big macaroni. The entrance, by the road, was on the south side, and there was a big brick memorial arch, large enough to drive a car through. The arch had been built about a hundred years previously, as had the surprisingly expansive wrought-iron fence that surrounded the roughly trapezoidal cemetery grounds.
The graveyard had a fine view of the natural scenery. The tombstones, gate and fencing had an additive effect on the picturesque quality of the place. Only by happenstance, no professional photographer had ever found this place, Haversham might be famous for it, if they had. Since nearly every resident of Haversham had at least some family buried here, even if it were decades ago, it was common for them to make a trip out to lay some flowers. They appreciated that their loved ones had such a pleasant spot as their final resting place. That said, burials themselves were becoming increasingly rare. The cost of burials had become impractical, more and more people were choosing the more economical option of cremation. It was thought that this was just as well. There was only so much empty space in the Haversham Cemetery anyway. At some point it would be full, and that was just as well too.
Trevor Milton’s plan had been to create a website for the cemetery. The site would include the names of those buried, and short biographical sketches. The people themselves, of course, were what made Haversham, and the cemetery had gone all the way back to the town’s very founding.
Trevor had the tiny newspaper’s archives to work with. There were the high school yearbooks, which went a long way back, though not all the way. There were, of course, the elderly residents of Haversham, who’d be happy to sit with Trevor and talk about their memories. Trevor felt he had plenty of sources for his research. He could provide their names, their dates of birth, when or if they finished school, the jobs they took, who they married, who their children were.
Then there was the decision that Trevor had to make concerning the cause of death. The Old Man at the Paper had told him that, secretly, that was the reason most people read obituaries for. In most cases, Trevor decided to mention the cause of death if it was known, and untimely. A fatal car accident might get mentioned, a death from old age would not. Besides, the readers could infer the latter based on the dates of birth and death.
Trevor learned a lot about the town from his project. There were common surnames here that he’d see over and over. There were the Browns, the Collins’s, the Hertz’s, the Humphreys, the Van Dykes. They had all been old families, with children and grandchildren. He learned all about relationships of the current townsfolk that he’d never known existed. Like how the girl at school he crushed on was second cousins with his lab partner from chemistry class. Or how the principal was the nephew of the part-time lady who did the classifieds. There had once been prominent families who’d gone extinct or moved away, like the Wilsons and the Llewellynns. Occasionally, even if rarely, new families would show up and come an integral part of the community, like the Gomez’s, back in the 1940s.
He learned some things from the causes of death too. He’d expect to learn about men from the town who’d died in WWI or WWII, the ideas of which loomed large in his still developing knowledge of history. Instead, the town had only contributed a little over a dozen sons to the latter conflict. Only a fraction had seen combat and all survived. One had lost a leg, but he still made it home.
What he did notice was two trends that surprised him. The first was infant mortality, and how high it was well into the twentieth century. Before it had only been an abstract concept to him. Yet when he actually cataloged the children of the residents, how many children they had and how many that it lost, did it really strike him. “Infant” also seemed to be a misnomer to him. Six, seven, eight year olds had succumbed with terrible regularity, if not quite as often as the younger. He found numerous cases where a female member of a given family might be born, then grow up and give birth to eight, nine, ten children, only to have just three or four of them survive to adulthood. Cholera, typhoid, pneumonia, tuberculosis, nondescript “fevers.” They’d all been a terrible scourge. He wondered about the psychology of those poor people, how they could just accept things, and go on with their lives. Based on the stories in the paper’s archives, they seemed as happy and content as any people today. They must have had so much baggage.
This would fade with more modern medicine, only to be replaced by a new scourge in the 50s and 60s. The number of traffic accidents shocked him. While there may have been laws against drinking and driving, it was still common and overlooked. The offenders weren’t made public pariahs. Seltbelts weren’t standard. Airbags didn’t exist yet. When he looked at some of the old photos he noticed a lot of the roads didn’t even have the white lines painted on the sides. Traffic safety might as well not have existed. Trevor had never known anybody killed in a car accident. Yet for a stretch in the late 50s through early 60s, it seemed like at least one accident a year claimed the life or lives of local high school students, not to mention other residents of Sweetleaf. Like the generations earlier, people seemed to just strangely accept the problem. As if they had no choice, and this was simply the consequence of the times they lived in.
Later the accidents would diminish as had the disease. As the cost of burials rose, so declined the number of burials. For the last twenty or so years, most of the buried had died of old age, or the diseases that accompanied it. They’d be buried in family plots that had been purchased decades previously. It was like the graveyard itself was succumbing to its own old age.
Trevor eventually ran into a roadblock going in the other direction, cataloging the oldest of the burials. These people had died before there was any school yearbook, or archived obituary, or the living memory of the oldest of residents. In some cases they had surnames, and could at least be associated with known families; in other cases they didn’t. In some cases their grave stone had been so weathered and eroded that the names were invisible. Though with some parchment paper and charcoal, Trevor could sometimes rub their names back into record.
By fall of his senior year, Trevor had become more socially accepted by his peers. He’d been a bit of a pariah earlier, partly because of his strange nerdy hobbies, partly because of the way the grown-ups doted on him and not them. Yet by then they had all become internet savvy themselves and understood its virtues, and they’d gotten to know Trevor better too, and decided he was a pretty alright guy, despite the overachieving.
One Friday night a group of his friends showed up at the newspaper office, where Trevor had been given a desk where he did most of his work. Everybody else, both of them, had left hours earlier and Trevor’s friends were asking him to relax and come out and hang with them. He agreed, but he wanted to run up to the graveyard first, and make a couple of rubbings first. The evening looked pleasant, but the forecasts called for the beginning of autumn rains soon, and he’d rather do it dry.
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The friends were amiable to this idea. It’s not like they had any particular place to go, most small towns don’t. The point was to get away from adult supervision.
A few minutes later, the group of teens were strolling through the Haversham Cemetery, two hills over from town. Normally it’d be closed by now, and it was, but Trevor had a key given to him by Jim, the man who mowed the grass here in the graveyard, and also the two parks, and the high school’s playing fields. Trevor marched off straight away to the Eastern uphill corner of the cemetery, where the earliest plots were, right up against the fence, to get his work over with. The others milled about, a little awestruck at how amazing the view was at dusk. Naturally none of them had been here this late before.
The sky above hills to the east was clear, and glowing a pale purplish gold from the setting sun. The sun set, however, was obscured by a dark bank of rain clouds moving in from the west. At first there was a good amount of light to see by; that stream of light from the East was lighting up the graveyard’s hill, and all its pale gravestones. Trevor's friends had brought a football with them, and were idly tossed it around while Trevor finished his work. The strange colored sky was an interesting backdrop, and the slope of the hill were strange features to deal with as the ball flew back and forth. There was plenty of space between the rows to run up and down, and even when they missed catches and the ball bounced queerly down the slope they were mindful of the graves, taking care to avoid the stones or even trod on a grave itself.
It was while watching the ball travel through the air that they noticed the first bat. It had swooped up from the thick patch of trees at the base of the hill. Moments later, a piercing white light shone from the hilly horizon to the East. It took two minutes for the pale full moon to finish rising into the diminishing gap of clear sky between the cloudbank and hills. By then, the sky was filled with whirling and cartwheeling bats, out feasting on moths and mosquitos. Trevor’s friends had stopped throwing the ball around, partly out of concern for accidentally hitting a bat, partly because they weren’t having fun anymore. A cold wind blew from the West. It felt damp, the air was tangibly getting ready to rain. A chill ran up their spines. It wasn’t just from the cold air, everything about their surroundings felt laden with ominous dread. None of them had ever felt anything quite like this before. They started slowly heading back out towards the entrance, where their pick-up truck was parked. They looked to the north, hoping Trevor was done with his work, so that they could get out of this suddenly creepy cemetery. They noticed he was no longer making his rubbings, and was rapidly descending the hill on the cemetery’s northern border, looking like he was very busy.
Trevor, for his part, had noticed the moonrise. He had recognized that it was past time to leave, and had stowed away his work in his backpack. Yet when he looked up, that is to say, looked from his backpack down to the base of the hill, his heart skipped a beat. A chill ran through his blood and the cold wind hadn’t touched him yet. Trevor saw something new he hadn’t seen before, something that probably shouldn’t be. It concerned the fence. He was up the hill, near the northern section. His eyes followed the iron-wrought poles of the fence all the way down to the hill, just at the edge of the wooded creek bank, where it should have met the other section, coming up from the south, at a right angle. The fence almost reached the corner, but there was a break. The northern fence turned a sharp left, and ran parallel to the other, then disappeared behind tall grass and the curve of the hill.
Trevor descended at a good clip, a little dangerously if he had not been so youthful and fit. Still, the spear-like points of the eastern fence line loomed up at him as he approached, and he swung his arms about for balance as he slid to a halt at the base of the cemetery. Sure enough, to his surprise, the fence lines didn’t meet, and instead formed a curved passage around the hill heading north. If there had been a gate here, that would have made more sense, but it wasn’t, it was simply a long continuation of the cemetery that somehow he had never noticed before. Admittedly, he hadn’t spent a whole lot of time in this one corner of the cemetery, but he should still have seen this. He took a look at the gravestone in the corner. Timothy Collins, 1919-1993, sure enough Trevor had been here before. He could remember writing up the man’s description. Why hadn’t he noticed the passage in the fence? The grass down the path had been mowed, presumably by Jim. Maybe he had only mowed here recently? Maybe that path had been unmowed earlier, and the tall grass had partially obscured the gap in the fencing?
Trevor wondered what could be down the passage. Maybe just some maintenance area, perhaps a tool shed where Jim had kept supplies. That almost made sense. The path was wide enough for a riding lawn mower, not a hearse. The grass of the path was a pale blue in the full moon light. Perhaps that was the reason why Trevor noticed it now, the taller grass outside the fence was a darker gray. Maybe it stood out more in the moonlight.
Trevor’s curiosity got the better of him. He had come to know the cemetery better than Jim or the Mayor or any of the old timers in Haversham. It felt like it belonged to him and he had to find out where this path led, despite him knowing that his friends would be wanting to leave. Trevor walked the path.
The trees to his right began to screen the moon, and only its light reflecting off the bottom of the cloud bank lit his way, but it was enough. The cottonwoods on the creek bank grew fairly straight, but they started to give way to oaks. Their large bendy limbs, heavy with moss, crossed the path over his head, a bit like giant grasping arthritic hands. If Trevor hadn’t been surprised by his discovery of the path, he’d have likely been too spooked to explore. The open thick pasture just past the fence to his left buzzed with crickets, still out late for the season. To his right, in the creek, frogs were calling, he couldn’t identify their species by sound, but there had to be at least three different kinds, they were as distinct as they were loud. Well above his head a great horned owl hooted. It didn’t startle him or make him jump, he was used to hearing owls, he even enjoyed them. Yet here in this situation it only made the goosebumps on his arm raise a little higher.
The path zigged a little to the right, then back to the left, around what must have been the cemetery’s hill, then the fence to his left turned sharp, and Trevor’s heart leaped into his throat. The space opening up before him was more of the cemetery. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Here were more gravestones, rising up a second hill. If anything, it seemed larger than the one he had known. The grass was even mowed, but Trevor was convinced that Jim never came here. He tried to make sense of it. The cemetery had only one big section, yet there was a second. Trevor had known that cemeteries in the south used to be segregated, but that wasn’t the case here. The town never had that sort of history, or population. He was aware that many cemeteries had sections for Jewish burials, but again the town never had a large Jewish population, and what’s more, he’d have expected Stars of David on the stones.
Trevor rushed up the hill, to where the trees no longer cast their shadows, and there was enough moonlight to read by. The names here he didn’t recognize. There were the usual patterns of family plots and more distant relations. Yet none of the living townsfolk shared these surnames. There were the Conyers, and the Paynes, and the Chapmans, and the Atkinsons, and the Scurlocks, and the Bechers, and the Hesselinks. The birth dates generally declined the further up the hill he rose, matching the pattern in the other portions. The nineteen forties, the twenties, the 1890s, the seventies. Trevor paused here to catch this breath. These dates were becoming older than the stones in the previous section, and if this continued, would soon be older than the founding of the town. Once he was ready, he resumed his ascent. He was already higher than the previous hill, and it only kept going, far higher than he could have guessed at the base. The dark patches he assumed to be shrubs turned out to be trees. The pale blue rectangles that he had earlier thought to be tombstones, turned out to be whole tombs. He stopped again in front of one of them. It was large to hold an entire family. There was a large iron door, with heavy riveted bars, keeping the dead secure. On each side were two massive vases filled with the dried remains of flowers. Both were made from what appeared to be fine marble, so too was the tomb itself.
This made no sense. This was the tomb of a wealthy family. Haversham never had any wealthy individuals let alone wealthy families. Yet when Trevor looked at his surroundings there were more tombs than tombstones. This looked like the sort of cemetery you’d find in a major east coast metropolis. Oaks had been planted here, not naturally but part of the landscaping. They towered over the tombs. Each must have been several hundred years old, from well before the town’s founding. What’s more, the hill was so high this should have been viewable from the original portion of the cemetery. Hell, it should be visible from town.
Trevor’s compulsion drove him up the hill once more. He paused one more time before reaching the crest. Here, gasping, he looked at the nearest stone. At the top was a crude bas-relief of a skull. On either side sprouted angel’s wings. The epithet read
“Here lies Prudence Goodewife, aged 93
Formerly lively, now dead as can be.”
Trevor was only a high school student, yet he knew enough about history to know this was impossible. The death’s head, the rhyming couplet, the early modern Puritanical name, this was 17th century. This cemetery should not exist. Trevor moved on.
When Trevor reached the top of the hill, the inescapable horror of his situation struck him like a brick. A part of the view he had expected. Here was the usual rolling hill country, still picturesque even in the dying light. Yet what was impossible was that they were all covered in tombstones, all the way off to the horizon. Tombstones and tombs. And monuments, and barrows. Long barrows and round barrows, Trevor recognized those out of history books. Off in the distance, great mounts. Ziggurats, almost as high as the hills. There were pyramids, small, steeply sloped ones at first, then off nearer the horizon, giant squat ones. Then, way off in the distance, above the horizon, literally reaching up into the sky, there was…
Trevor’s friends had gone back to their pickup truck in the little gravel pick-up truck. There they had waited impatiently. When they got impatient, they got back out and re-entered the cemetery, ready to drag Trevor out, kicking and screaming if they had to. They all jumped when, perhaps only fifty yards past the entrance gate, they heard the sound of rapidly approaching feet, then the scream, “run!” They looked up to see the black silhouette of Trevor approaching at a full sprint, wildly waving his arms. Then they all took off like a shot back to the truck.
They all rushed into the cab and started it up. The driver instinctively moved his foot from the brake to the pedal and floored it for a fraction of a second, sending up a great roostertail of dust and gravel, before slamming on the brake again to give Trevor enough time to make it. Trevor didn’t bother with the cab and simply leaped into the bed, smacking the roof a couple times and yelling, “go, go!”
The driver, with no idea of what might be chasing them, again floored it and took off down the dirt road at inappropriate speed. The pothole rutted road caused such a vibration at this rate it felt like the teeth would shake right out of their skulls. When the driver checked his rear view mirror, he saw Trevor bouncing around in the bed with a tool box and a spare tire, so he slowed just a bit until they got to the pavement, where he floored it again.
They didn’t stop the truck until they got back through town, drove to the other side of town, and into the parking lot of the gas station/convenience store that served as the primary hang out spot for meeting up with other teens their age. When they poured out of the cab, they were all laughing and in good spirits.
That had been a hell of a practical joke Trevor had pulled, they told him. He had set them up good. When he had come running out of the darkness, hollering like a banshee, they had really come convinced that the devil was on his heels. They all agreed it was the best practical joke pulled in some time in Haversham. When other cars with other teens pulled up, they were all eager to tell the funny story. At first they were a little annoyed at Trevor. He was trying to keep up the bit, long after they were on to him. His face was pale. He sounded distant. Like he was trying to pretend he was still scared, and it hadn’t all been a joke. Finally, he came around. He started to laugh, and smile, and eventually he admitted it had been a joke. He told them they shouldn’t go back there, but who would? The joke was over. Later that night, Trevor would be the first to go home, a little early. His friends guessed he just wasn’t feeling that well, that explained his odd behavior. Before actually going home, Trevor returned to the graveyard and put the lock back on the chain at the entrance.
He returned the next morning, after daylight. It was cold, and raining heavily, nobody was likely to visit soon, not even Jim. The pathway was still here. He didn’t explore it again, he just wanted to confirm its nightmare existence. Trevor could never account for it. His personal theory, which he never told anybody, was that the path had opened because of his project. He had recorded the dead here. Then the dead from… someplace else, well, they wanted to be recorded too. Trevor felt, from deep down in his soul, that would be a very bad idea.
Trevor never ended up going to college. The mayor, despite asking, had never sent off the letters of recommendation he’d written. Trevor had never even applied. It would have been difficult anyway. His grades fell off a cliff the rest of his senior year. He was frequently truant. He even stopped hanging around with his friends. He’d never leave his parents house, and as an adult, he would work remotely from his home, first as a web designer then as a content creator, writing lists of inane things for popular websites.
His classmates had all left town, going off to the big city, or at least bigger towns. Most of them would return to Haversham to visit their folks on the holidays. They’d find out that Trevor was still here, and had never left. Oh well, they would think. That happens a lot. The kid you think is going to be a big deal when he’s a teen just blossoms too early. They end up being a nobody in a backwards little town, forgotten by the world.
If only they’d known what a hero he really was. Trevor had taken over the groundskeeping duties from Jim when he’d retired. Now he held the only key to the lock. When the Mayor had retired, Trevor ran for the position, unopposed. It was an unpaid position, mostly involving ceremonial things like riding in the parade, and signing checks for the various city services. The residents of Haversham thought it was fitting for him. There was still a bit of civic pride left in the boy after all. Yet his whole interest was that it would grant him the power that he needed to keep his secret hidden. He’d even hired a blacksmith a few towns over to build a few feet of wrought iron fencing, based on a series of photos, that he stuck at the entrance to that path, to keep it hidden.
It’s still there, of course. Trevor’s the only one, as far as he knows, who knows of its existence. In a little forgotten town, just past the main strip and down the dirt road, there’s a path to the land of the dead. Some other sort of plane that wants to be a part of ours. Trevor has decided that must never happen. It needs to stay out, the dead, and that thing that reaches up tall behind the horizon. That means that nobody must ever discover that path. He’d like to be able to just wipe Haversham off the map, yet he hasn’t got that kind of power. All he can do is hope that people forget. If he has to spend his whole life, sacrifice his whole life, well then Trevor has decided that’s a small price to pay.