Stephen King - A note On The sun Dog

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The Sun Dog

A Note on 'The Sun Dog'

Every now and then someone will ask me, 'When are you going to get tired of this horror stuff, Steve, and write

something serious?'

I used to believe the implied insult in this question was accidental, but as the years go by I have become more

and more convinced that it is not. I watch the faces of the people who drop that particular dime, you see, and

most of them look like bombardiers waiting to see if their last stick of bombs is going to fall wide or hit the

targeted factory or munitions dump dead on.

The fact is, almost all of the stuff I have written - and that includes a lot of the funny stuff - was written in a

serious frame of mind. I can remember very few occasions when I sat at the typewriter laughing uncontrollably

over some wild and crazy bit of fluff I had just finished churning out. I'm never going to be Reynolds Price or

Larry Woiwode - it isn't in me - but that doesn't mean I don't care as deeply about what I do. I have to do what I

can do, however - as Nils Lofgren once put it, 'I gotta be my dirty self ... I won't play no jive.'

If real - meaning !!SOMETHING THAT COULD ACTUALLY HAPPEN!! - is your definition of serious, you

are in the wrong place and you should by all means leave the building. But please remember as you go that I'm

not the only one doing business at this particular site; Franz Kafka had an office here, and George Orwell, and

Shirley Jackson, and Jorge Luis Borges, and Jonathan Swift, and Lewis Carroll. A glance at the directory in the

lobby shows the present tenants include Thomas Berger, Ray Bradbury, Jonathan Carroll, Thomas Pynchon,

Thomas Disch, Kurt Vonnegut, jr, Peter Straub, Joyce Carol Oates, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Katherine Dunn, and

Mark Halpern.

I am doing what I do for the most serious reasons: love, money, and obsession. The tale of the irrational is the

sanest way I know of expressing the world in which I live. These tales have served me as instruments of both

metaphor and morality; they continue to offer the best window I know on the question of how we perceive things

and the corollary question of how we do or do not behave on the basis of our perceptions. I have explored these

questions as well as I can within the limits of my talent and intelligence. I am no one's National Book Award or

Pulitzer Prize winner, but I'm serious, all right. If you don't believe anything else, believe this: when I take you

by your hand and begin to talk, my friend, I believe every word I say.

A lot of the things I have to say - those Really Serious Things - have to do with the small-town world in which I

was raised and where I still live. Stories and novels are scale models of what we laughingly call 'real life,' and I

believe that lives as they are lived in small towns are scale models of what we laughingly call 'society.' This idea

is certainly open to argument, and argument is perfectly fine (without it, a lot of literature teachers and critics

would be looking for work); I'm just saying that a writer needs some sort of launching pad, and aside from the

firm belief that a story may exist with honor for its own self, the idea of the small town as social and

psychological microcosm is mine. I began experimenting with this sort of thing in Came, and continued on a

more ambitious level with 'Salem's Lot. I never really hit my stride, however, until The Dead Zone.

That was, I think, the first of my Castle Rock stories (and Castle Rock is really just the town of Jerusalem's Lot

without the vampires). In the years since it was written, Castle Rock has increasingly become 'my town,' in the

sense that the mythical city of Isola is Ed McBain's town and the West Virginia village of Glory was Davis

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Grubb's town. I have been called back there time and time again to examine the lives of its residents and the

geographies which seem to rule their lives - Castle Hill and Castle View, Castle Lake and the Town Roads which

lie around it in a tangle at the western end of the town.

As the years passed, I became more and more interested in - almost entranced by - the secret life of this town, by

the hidden relationships which seemed to come clearer and clearer to me. Much of this history remains either

unwritten or unpublished:- how the late Sheriff George Bannerman lost his virginity in the back seat of his dead

father's car, how Ophelia Todd's husband was killed by a walking windmill, how Deputy Andy Clutterbuck lost

the index finger on his left hand (it was cut off in a fan and the family dog ate it).

Following The Dead Zone, which is partly the story of the psychotic Frank Dodd, I wrote a novella called 'The

Body'; Cujo, the novel in which good old Sheriff Bannerman bit the dust; and a number of short stories and

novelettes about the town (the best of them, at least in my mind, are 'Mrs Todd's Shortcut' and 'Uncle Otto's

Truck'). All of which is very well, but a state of entrancement with a fictional setting may not be the best thing in

the world for a writer. It was for Faulkner and J. R. R. Tolkien, but sometimes a couple of exceptions just prove

the rule, and besides, I don't play in that league.

So at some point I decided - first in my subconscious mind, I think, where all that Really Serious Work takes

place - that the time had come to close the book on Castle Rock, Maine, where so many of my own favorite

characters have lived and died. Enough, after all, is enough. Time to move on (maybe all the way next door to

Harlow, ha-ha). But I didn't just want to walk away; I wanted to finish things, and do it with a bang.

Little by little I began to grasp how that could be done, and over the last four years or so I have been engaged in

writing a Castle Rock Trilogy, if you please -the last Castle Rock stories. They were not written in order (I

sometimes think 'out of order' is the story of my life), but now they are written, and they are serious enough ...

but I hope that doesn't mean that they are sober-sided or boring.

The first of these stories, The Dark Half, was published in 1989. While it is primarily the story of Thad

Beaumont and is in large part set in a town called Ludlow (the town where the Creeds lived in Pet Sematary), the

town of Castle Rock figures in the tale, and the book serves to introduce Sheriff Bannerman's replacement, a

fellow named Alan Pangborn. Sheriff Pangborn is at the center of the last story in this sequence, a long novel

called Needful Things, which is scheduled to be published next year and will conclude my doings with what local

people call The Rock.

The connective tissue between these longer works is the story which follows. You will meet few if any of Castle

Rock's larger figures in 'The Sun Dog,' but it will serve to introduce you to Pop Merrill, whose nephew is town

bad boy (and Gordie LaChance's bete noire in 'The Body') Ace Merrill. 'The Sun Dog' also sets the stage for the

final fireworks display ... and, I hope, exists as a satisfying story on its own, one that can be read with pleasure

even if you don't give a hang about The Dark Half or Needful Things.

One other thing needs to be said: every story has its own secret life, quite separate from its setting, and 'The Sun

Dog' is a story about cameras and photographs. About five years ago, my wife, Tabitha, became interested in

photography, discovered she was good at it, and began to pursue it in a serious way, through study, experiment,

and practice-practice-practice. I myself take bad photos (I'm one of those guys who always manage to cut off my

subjects' heads, get pictures of them with their mouths hanging open, or both), but I have a great deal of respect

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for those who take good ones ... and the whole process fascinates me.

In the course of her experiments, my wife got a Polaroid camera, a simple one accessible even to a doofus like

me. I became fascinated with this camera. I had seen and used Polaroids before, of course, but I had never really

thought about them much, nor had I ever looked closely at the images these cameras produce. The more I thought

about them, the stranger they seemed. They are, after all, not just images but moments of time ... and there is

something so peculiar about them.

This story came almost all at once one night in the summer of 1987, but the thinking which made it possible went

on for almost a year. And that's enough out of me, I think. It's been great to be with all of you again, but that

doesn't mean I'm letting you go home just yet.

I think we have a birthday party to attend in the little town of Castle Rock.

CHAPTER 1

September 15th was Kevin's birthday, and he got exactly what he wanted: a Sun.

The Kevin in question was Kevin Delevan, the birthday was his fifteenth, and the Sun was a Sun 660, a Polaroid

camera which does everything for the novice photographer except make bologna sandwiches.

There were other gifts, of course; his sister, Meg, gave him a pair of mittens she had knitted herself, there was ten

dollars from his grandmother in Des Moines, and his Aunt Hilda sent - as she always did - a string tie with a

horrible clasp. She had sent the first of these when Kevin was three, which meant he already had twelve unused

string ties with horrible clasps in a drawer of his bureau, to which this would be added - lucky thirteen. He had

never worn any of them but was not allowed to throw them away. Aunt Hilda lived in Portland. She had never

come to one of Kevin's or Meg's birthday parties, but she might decide to do just that one of these years. God

knew she could; Portland was only fifty miles south of Castle Rock. And suppose she did come ... and asked to

see Kevin in one of his other ties (or Meg in one of her other scarves, for that matter)? With some relatives, an

excuse might do. Aunt Hilda, however, was different. Aunt Hilda presented a certain golden possibility at a point

where two essential facts about her crossed: she was Rich, and she was Old.

Someday, Kevin's Mom was convinced, she might DO SOMETHING for Kevin and Meg. It was understood that

the SOMETHING would probably come after Aunt Hilda finally kicked it, in the form of a clause in her will. In

the meantime, it was thought wise to keep the horrible string ties and the equally horrible scarves. So this

thirteenth string tie (on the clasp of which was a bird Kevin thought was a woodpecker) would join the others,

and Kevin would write Aunt Hilda a thank-you note, not because his mother would insist on it and not because

he thought or even cared that Aunt Hilda might DO SOMETHING for him and his kid sister someday, but

because he was a generally thoughtful boy with good habits and no real vices.

He thanked his family for all his gifts (his mother and father had, of course, supplied a number of lesser ones,

although the Polaroid was clearly the centerpiece, and they were delighted with his delight), not forgetting to give

Meg a kiss (she giggled and pretended to rub it off but her own delight was equally clear) and to tell her he was

sure the mittens would come in handy on the ski team this winter - but most of his attention was reserved for the

Polaroid box, and the extra film packs which had come with it.

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He was a good sport about the birthday cake and the ice cream, although it was clear he was itching to get at the

camera and try it out. And as soon as he decently could, he did.

That was when the trouble started.

He read the instruction booklet as thoroughly as his eagerness to begin would allow, then loaded the camera

while the family watched with anticipation and unacknowledged dread (for some reason, the gifts which seem the

most wanted are the ones which so often don't work). There was a little collective sigh - more puff than gust -

when the camera obediently spat out the cardboard square on top of the film packet, just as the instruction

booklet had promised it would.

There were two small dots, one red and one green, separated by a zig-zag lightning-bolt on the housing of the

camera. When Kevin loaded the camera, the red light came on. It stayed on for a couple of seconds. The family

watched in silent fascination as the Sun 660 sniffed for light. Then the red light went out and the green light

began to blink rapidly.

'It's ready,' Kevin said, in the same straining-to-be-offhand-but-not-quite-making-it tone with which Neil

Armstrong had reported his first step upon the surface of Luna. 'Why don't all you guys stand together?'

'I hate having my picture taken!' Meg cried, covering her face with the theatrical anxiety and pleasure which only

sub-teenage girls and really bad actresses can manage.

'Come on, Meg,' Mr Delevan said.

'Don't be a goose, Meg,' Mrs Delevan said.

Meg dropped her hands (and her objections), and the three of them stood at the end of the table with the

diminished birthday cake in the foreground.

Kevin looked through the viewfinder. 'Squeeze a little closer to Meg, Mom,' he said, motioning with his left

hand. 'You too, Dad.' This time he motioned with his right.

'You're squishing me!' Meg said to her parents.

Kevin put his finger on the button which would fire the camera, then remembered a briefly glimpsed note in the

instructions about how easy it was to cut off your subjects' heads in a photograph. Off with their heads, he

thought, and it should have been funny, but for some reason he felt a little tingle at the base of his spine, gone and

forgotten almost before it was noticed. He raised the camera a little. There. They were all in the frame. Good.

'Okay!' he sang. 'Smile and say Intercourse!'

'Kevin!' his mother cried out.

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His father burst out laughing, and Meg screeched the sort of mad laughter not even bad actresses often essay;

girls between the ages of ten and twelve own sole title to that particular laugh.

Kevin pushed the button.

The flashbulb, powered by the battery in the film pack, washed the room in a moment of righteous white light.

It's mine, Kevin thought, and it should have been the surpassing moment of his fifteenth birthday. Instead, the

thought brought back that odd little tingle. It was more noticeable this time.

The camera made a noise, something between a squeal and a whirr, a sound just a little beyond description but

familiar enough to most people, just the same: the sound of a Polaroid camera squirting out what may not be art

but what is often serviceable and almost always provides instant gratification.

'Lemme see it!' Meg cried.

'Hold your horses, muffin,' Mr Delevan said. 'They take a little time to develop.'

Meg was staring at the stiff gray surface of what was not yet a photograph with the rapt attention of a woman

gazing into a crystal ball.

The rest of the family gathered around, and there was that same feeling of anxiety which had attended the

ceremony of Loading the Camera: still life of the American Family waiting to let out its breath.

Kevin felt a terrible tenseness stealing into his muscles, and this time there was no question of ignoring it. He

could not explain it ... but it was there. He could not seem to take his eyes from that solid gray square within the

white frame which would form the borders of the photograph.

'I think I see me!' Meg cried brightly. Then, a moment later: 'No. I guess I don't. I think I see -'

They watched in utter silence as the gray cleared, as the mists are reputed to do in a seer's crystal when the

vibrations or feelings or whatever they are are right, and the picture became visible to them.

Mr Delevan was the first to break the silence.

'What is this?' he asked no one in particular. 'Some kind of joke?'

Kevin had absently put the camera down rather too close to the edge of the table in order to watch the picture

develop. Meg saw what the picture was and took a single step away. The expression on her face was neither

fright nor awe but just ordinary surprise. One of her hands came up as she turned toward her father. The rising

hand struck the camera and knocked it off the table onto the floor. Mrs Delevan had been looking at the emerging

picture in a kind of trance, the expression on her face either that of a woman who is deeply puzzled or who is

feeling the onset of a migraine headache. The sound of the camera hitting the floor startled her. She uttered a

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little scream and recoiled. In doing this, she tripped over Meg's foot and lost her balance. Mr Delevan reached for

her, propelling Meg, who was still between them, forward again, quite forcefully. Mr Delevan not only caught his

wife, but did so with some grace; for a moment they would have made a pretty picture indeed: Mom and Dad,

showing they still know how to Cut A Rug, caught at the end of a spirited tango, she with one hand thrown up

and her back deeply bowed, he bent over her in that ambiguous male posture which may be seen, when divorced

from circumstance, as either solicitude or lust.

Meg was eleven, and less graceful. She went flying back toward the table and smacked into it with her stomach.

The hit was hard enough to have injured her, but for the last year and a half she had been taking ballet lessons at

the YWCA three afternoons a week. She did not dance with much grace, but she enjoyed ballet, and the dancing

had fortunately toughened the muscles of her stomach enough for them to absorb the blow as efficiently as good

shock absorbers absorb the pounding a road full of potholes can administer to a car. Still, there was a band of

black and blue just above her hips the next day. These bruises took almost two weeks to first purple, then yellow,

then fade ... like a Polaroid picture in reverse.

At the moment this Rube Goldberg accident happened, she didn't even feel it; she simply banged into the table

and cried out. The table tipped. The birthday cake, which should have been in the foreground of Kevin's first

picture with his new camera, slid off the table. Mrs Delevan didn't even have time to start her Meg, are you all

right? before the remaining half of the cake fell on top of the Sun 660 with a juicy splat! that sent frosting all

over their shoes and the baseboard of the wall.

The viewfinder, heavily smeared with Dutch chocolate, peered out like a periscope. That was all.

Happy birthday, Kevin.

Kevin and Mr Delevan were sitting on the couch in the living room that evening when Mrs Delevan came in,

waving two dog-eared sheets of paper which had been stapled together. Kevin and Mr Delevan both had open

books in their laps (The Best and the Brightest for the father; ShootOut at Laredo for the son), but what they were

mostly doing was staring at the Sun camera, which sat in disgrace on the coffee table amid a litter of Polaroid

pictures. All the pictures appeared to show exactly the same thing.

Meg was sitting on the floor in front of them, using the VCR to watch a rented movie. Kevin wasn't sure which

one it was, but there were a lot of people running around and screaming, so he guessed it was a horror picture.

Megan had a passion for them. Both parents considered this a low taste (Mr Delevan in particular was often

outraged by what he called 'that useless junk'), but tonight neither of them had said a word. Kevin guessed they

were just grateful she had quit complaining about her bruised stomach and wondering aloud what the exact

symptoms of a ruptured spleen might be.

'Here they are,' Mrs Delevan said. 'I found them at the bottom of my purse the second time through.' She handed

the papers - a sales slip from J. C. Penney's and a MasterCard receipt - to her husband. 'I can never find anything

like this the first time. I don't think anyone can. It's like a law of nature.'

She surveyed her husband and son, hands on her hips.

'You two look like someone just killed the family cat.'

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'We don't have a cat,' Kevin said.

'Well, you know what I mean. It's a shame, of course, but we'll get it sorted out in no time. Penney's will be

happy to exchange it -'

'I'm not so sure of that,' John Delevan said. He picked up the camera, looked at it with distaste (almost sneered at

it, in fact), and then set it down again. 'It got chipped when it hit the floor. See?'

Mrs Delevan took only a cursory glance. 'Well, if Penney's won't, I'm positive that the Polaroid company will. I

mean, the fall obviously didn't cause whatever is wrong with it. The first picture looked just like all these, and

Kevin took that one before Meg knocked it off the table.'

'I didn't mean to,' Meg said without turning around. On the screen, a pint-sized figure - a malevolent doll named

Chuckie, if Kevin had it right - was chasing a small boy. Chuckie was dressed in blue overalls and waving a knife.

'I know, dear. How's your stomach?'

'Hurts,' Meg said. 'A little ice cream might help. Is there any left over?'

'Yes, I think so.'

Meg gifted her mother with her most winning smile. 'Would you get some for me?'

'Not at all,' Mrs Delevan said pleasantly. 'Get it yourself. And what's that horrible thing you're watching?'

'Child's Play,' Megan said. 'There's this doll named Chuckie that comes to life. It's neat.'

Mrs Delevan wrinkled her nose.

'Dolls don't come to life, Meg,' her father said. He spoke heavily, as if knowing this was a lost cause.

'Chuckie did,' Meg said. 'In movies, anything can happen.' She used the remote control to freeze the movie and

went to get her ice cream.

'Why does she want to watch that crap?' Mr Delevan asked his wife, almost plaintively.

'I don't know, dear.'

Kevin had picked up the camera in one hand and several of the exposed Polaroids in the other - they had taken

almost a dozen in all. 'I'm not so sure I want a refund,' he said.

His father stared at him. 'What? Jesus wept!'

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'Well,' Kevin said, a little defensively, 'I'm just saying that maybe we ought to think about it. I mean, it's not

exactly an ordinary defect, is it? I mean, if the pictures came out overexposed ... or underexposed ... or just plain

blank ... that would be one thing. But how do you get a thing like this? The same picture, over and over? I mean,

look! And they're outdoors, even though we took every one of these pictures inside!'

'It's a practical joke,' his father said. 'It must be. The thing to do is just exchange the damned thing and forget

about it.'

'I don't think it's a practical joke,' Kevin said. 'First, it's too complicated to be a practical joke. How do you rig a

camera to take the same picture over and over? Plus, the psychology is all wrong.'

'Psychology, yet,' Mr Delevan said, rolling his eyes at his wife.

'Yes, psychology!' Kevin replied firmly. 'When a guy loads your cigarette or hands you a stick of pepper gum, he

hangs around to watch the fun, doesn't he? But unless you or Mom have been pulling my leg -'

'Your father isn't much of a leg-puller, dear,' Mrs Delevan said, stating the obvious gently.

Mr Delevan was looking at Kevin with his lips pressed together. It was the look he always got when he perceived

his son drifting toward that area of the ballpark where Kevin seemed most at home: left field. Far left field. There

was a hunchy, intuitive streak in Kevin that had always puzzled and confounded him. He didn't know where it

had come from, but he was sure it hadn't been his side of the family.

He sighed and looked at the camera again. A piece of black plastic had been chipped from the left side of the

housing, and there was a crack, surely no thicker than a human hair, down the center of the viewfinder lens. The

crack was so thin it disappeared completely when you raised the camera to your eye to set the shot you would not

get - what you would get was on the coffee table, and there were nearly a dozen other examples in the dining

room.

What you got was something that looked like a refugee from the local animal shelter.

'All right, what in the devil are you going to do with it?' he asked. 'I mean, let's think this over reasonably, Kevin.

What practical good is a camera that takes the same picture over and over?'

But it was not practical good Kevin was thinking about. In fact, he was not thinking at all. He was feeling ... and

remembering. In the instant when he had pushed the shutter release, one clear idea

(it's mine)

had filled his mind as completely as the momentary white flash had filled his eyes. That idea, complete yet

somehow inexplicable, had been accompanied by a powerful mixture of emotions which he could still not

identify completely ... but he thought fear and excitement had predominated.

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And besides - his father always wanted to look at things reasonably. He would never be able to understand

Kevin's intuitions or Meg's interest in killer dolls named Chuckie.

Meg came back in with a huge dish of ice cream and started the movie again. Someone was now attempting to

toast Chuckie with a blowtorch, but he went right on waving his knife. 'Are you two still arguing?'

'We're having a discussion,' Mr Delevan said. His lips were pressed more tightly together than ever.

'Yeah, right,' Meg said, sitting down on the floor again and crossing her legs. 'You always say that.'

'Meg?' Kevin said kindly.

'What?'

'If you dump that much ice cream on top of a ruptured spleen, you'll die horribly in the night. Of course, your

spleen might not actually be ruptured, but -'

Meg stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to the movie.

Mr Delevan was looking at his son with an expression of mingled affection and exasperation. 'Look, Kev - it's

your camera. No argument about that. You can do whatever you want with it. But -'

'Dad, aren't you even the least bit interested in why it's doing what it's doing?'

'Nope,' John Delevan said.

It was Kevin's turn to roll his eyes. Meanwhile, Mrs Delevan was looking from one to the other like someone

who is enjoying a pretty good tennis match. Nor was this far from the truth. She had spent years watching her son

and her husband sharpen themselves on each other, and she was not bored with it yet. She sometimes wondered if

they would ever discover how much alike they really were.

'Well, I want to think it over.'

'Fine. I just want you to know that I can swing by Penney's tomorrow and exchange the thing - if you want me to

and they agree to swap a piece of chipped merchandise, that is. If you want to keep it, that's fine, too. I wash my

hands of it.' He dusted his palms briskly together to illustrate.

'I suppose you don't want my opinion,' Meg said.

'Right,' Kevin said.

'Of course we do, Meg,' Mrs Delevan said.

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'I think it's a supernatural camera,' Meg said. She licked ice cream from her spoon. 'I think it's a Manifestation.'

'That's utterly ridiculous,' Mr Delevan said at once.

'No, it's not,' Meg said. 'It happens to be the only explanation that fits. You just don't think so because you don't

believe in stuff like that. If a ghost ever floated up to you, Dad, you wouldn't even see it. What do you think,

Kev?'

For a moment Kevin didn't - couldn't - answer. He felt as if another flashbulb had gone off, this one behind his

eyes instead of in front of them.

'Kev? Earth to Kevin!'

'I think you might just have something there, squirt,' he said slowly.

'Oh my dear God,' John Delevan said, getting up. 'It's the revenge of Freddy and Jason - my kid thinks his

birthday camera's haunted. I'm going to bed, but before I do, I want to say just one more thing. A camera that

takes photographs of the same thing over and over again - especially something as ordinary as what's in these

pictures - is a boring manifestation of the supernatural.'

'Still . . .' Kevin said. He held up the photos like a dubious poker hand.

'I think it's time we all went to bed,' Mrs Delevan said briskly. 'Meg, if you absolutely need to finish that

cinematic masterpiece, you can do it in the morning.'

'But it's almost over!' Meg cried.

'I'll come up with her, Mom,' Kevin said, and, fifteen minutes later, with the malevolent Chuckie disposed of (at

least until the sequel), he did. But sleep did not come easily for Kevin that night. He lay long awake in his

bedroom, listening to a strong late-summer wind rustle the leaves outside into whispery conversation, thinking

about what might make a camera take the same picture over and over and over again, and what such a thing

might mean. He only began to slip toward sleep when he realized his decision had been made; he would keep the

Polaroid Sun at least a little while longer.

It's mine, he thought again. He rolled over on his side, closed his eyes, and was sleeping deeply forty seconds

later.

CHAPTER 2

Amid the tickings and tockings of what sounded like at least fifty thousand clocks and totally undisturbed by

them, Reginald 'Pop' Merrill shone a pencil-beam of light from a gadget even more slender than a doctor's

ophthalmoscope into Kevin's Polaroid 660 while Kevin stood by. Pop's eyeglasses, which he didn't need for close

work, were propped on the bald dome of his head.

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TheSunDogANoteon'TheSunDog'Everynowandthensomeonewillaskme,'Whenareyougoingtogettired\ofthishorrorstuff,Steve,andwritesomethingserious?'Iusedtobelievetheimpliedinsultinthisquestionwasaccidental,bu\tastheyearsgobyIhavebecomemoreandmoreconvincedthatitisnot.Iwatchthefacesofthepeoplewhod\ropthatparticul...

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Stephen King - A note On The sun Dog.pdf

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Stephen King - A note On The sun Dog

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