CHAPTER 1: The Cost of a Roof
Part 1
“If your wife doesn’t finish scrubbing the entire communal kitchen by midnight, your rent goes up by $400 tomorrow morning.”
My landlord, Sunita Sharma, stood at the top of the stairs in our shared Westmead house and tossed a heavy bucket of bleach onto the floor at my wife’s feet.
My wife, Chloe, was eight months pregnant, her ankles swollen so severely she could barely stand, yet she reached down without a word to pick up the sponge.
I was a discharged Australian Army corporal rebuilding my life after personal bankruptcy, and because no legitimate agency would lease to us, I stayed silent and let my wife suffer.
But late that night, watching her kneel on the cold tiles in the dark, something inside me finally broke.
The air in the narrow hallway was thick with the smell of stale cooking and cheap disinfectant. Above, the single dim bulb cast long, wavering shadows that danced with every creak of the old house.
Chloe knelt there, her rounded belly pressing against the cold linoleum, the heavy plastic sponge rough in her hand. Her breath hitched slightly with the effort of bending.
Sunita Sharma remained at the top of the stairs, a regal, unyielding figure in a flowing silk sari. She watched Chloe with an impassive gaze, her hands clasped.
“The kitchen isn’t just for you, Chloe,” Sunita’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. “Five rooms share this space. Five families.”
Sunita began to descend, each step deliberate, the soft slap of her sandals echoing in the quiet house. She stopped halfway down, her eyes sweeping over the worn tiles of the communal area.
“And the bathrooms,” she added, her gaze settling on me for a fraction of a second. “All five of them. They are filthy, Mark.”
I clenched my jaw, the muscles in my neck tightening. The words felt like stones in my throat, but I couldn’t speak them. Not yet.
My post-bankruptcy probation hung over me like a guillotine. One wrong move, one reported incident, and Chloe and I would be back on the streets of Sydney. With a baby on the way, that was a risk I couldn’t take.
Chloe pushed herself forward, one hand braced on the floor, the other reaching for the bleach bucket. Her movements were slow, painful.
“Every room in this house pays rent,” Sunita continued, her voice rising slightly. “Every tenant expects cleanliness. And if *your* efforts do not meet that standard…”
She let the sentence hang, staring directly at me now. Her eyes, usually dark and dismissive, held a chilling intensity.
“…then the consequences extend beyond a mere $400 increase for *your* room alone, Mark.”
A tremor ran through my body. The $400 was already a heavy blow, an immediate threat to our already stretched finances.
Sunita took another slow step down, closer to us.
“We have a mutual agreement,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, deliberate tone. “A cash bond for the household common areas. Your *entire* security deposit, that $3,600 you gave me…”
My breath caught. $3,600. It was everything we had left after the bankruptcy. Our safety net, our only hope for a new beginning.
“…that bond is tied to the collective maintenance of this home. If the standards are not met,” she paused, her gaze flicking from me to Chloe and back again, “then it is forfeited. Completely. For the entire house.”
She wasn’t just threatening a rent hike for our failure. She was threatening to confiscate our entire life savings, our $3,600 deposit, claiming it was for the *entire house’s* upkeep. Chloe, eight months pregnant, was being held responsible for the cleaning of communal spaces used by five separate households, under threat of total financial ruin.
I looked at Chloe, her face pale in the dim light, her hands now submerged in the cold, soapy water.
Sunita watched me expectantly, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips.
I swallowed hard, the taste of defeat bitter in my mouth. My hands clenched at my sides.
I forced my head to bob in a silent, reluctant nod.
Part 2
Later that evening, after the sound of Sunita’s sandals had faded from the stairs and Chloe had finally collapsed into bed, exhausted, I found myself standing in the driveway, staring at the darkened garage. The night air was cool, a relief after the oppressive heat inside the house.
Anish, Sunita’s quiet nephew who handled most of the maintenance work, was hunched over a rusty garden tap. He always seemed to be fixing something. He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second before darting away. He was usually careful to avoid eye contact, especially when Sunita was around.
He waited until the porch light flickered off inside Sunita’s apartment, then slowly straightened up. He walked towards me, his footsteps almost silent on the gravel.
“Mark,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent, “I… I have to tell you something.” His eyes darted around, checking if anyone else was listening. “About Aunty Sunita.”
I felt a jolt of alarm. Anish rarely spoke more than a few words at a time. This was unusual.
“She… she does this on purpose,” he continued, still whispering. “She looks for families. Families like yours.”
My brow furrowed. “What do you mean, Anish?”
He took a quick breath. “She checks credit ratings. She knows if people have… problems. Bankruptcies, bad rental history.” He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on my face. “She knows you can’t go to NCAT. The tribunal. No one will take your case seriously if your records are already messed up.”
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t just an unfair demand; it was a deliberate strategy. She wasn’t just an unreasonable landlord; she was a predator, specifically targeting the most vulnerable. She knew we were trapped.
Before I could respond, before I could even ask him how he knew any of this, a bright flash of light spilled from Sunita’s open living room window. Her phone, resting on a small side table, had just lit up with a new notification. It was impossible not to see, even from the driveway, the words clear on the screen: ‘Westmead Community Board’ on Facebook. Sunita had just received a message.
Chapter 2: The Digital Poison
I tapped open the Facebook app on my phone. Sunita Sharma’s face was the first thing I saw, beaming from a post in the “Westmead Community Hub” group.
My stomach clenched even before I read the caption.
She had tagged three separate groups. The text beneath her smiling photo was a poison, a deliberate hit aimed squarely at me.
“WARNING: DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL IN WESTMEAD,” the bold headline read.
Below it, she painted a picture of me as an “unstable, dishonourably discharged ex-soldier” who had “mental health issues” and was now “loitering in her respectable family home.” She claimed I was a threat to her safety and the peace of the neighbourhood.
Comments had already started piling up.
“Heard about these types. Unhinged,” someone wrote.
“Call the police, Sunita, don’t let him stay there!” another urged.
My hands started to tremble, the screen blurring for a second. This wasn’t just idle gossip. This was a calculated strike.
“Mark? What’s wrong?” Chloe asked softly from the bed, her voice tight with concern. She had just finished scrubbing the last of the communal bathrooms, her body clearly aching.
I didn’t answer right away. I scrolled through the other two groups Sunita had posted in: “Parramatta Residents United” and “Sydney Rentals Blacklist.” The messages were identical, word for word.
Within minutes, my phone pinged with a text message from a real estate agent I’d spoken to yesterday about a small unit in Merrylands.
“Mr. Brennan, just saw a concerning post online,” it read. “I think it best we cancel tomorrow’s viewing. Best of luck.”
Another message followed, this time from a prospective employer I’d interviewed with for a warehouse job.
“We value community safety. Regrettably, your application is no longer proceeding.”
Sunita wasn’t just increasing our rent. She was actively trying to make us unrentable, unemployable, and utterly destitute in this city. She was cutting off every avenue we had to escape.
“She called me dangerous, Chloe,” I managed, my voice rough. “An unstable ex-soldier.”
Chloe’s breath hitched. She knew what those words meant for someone like me, fresh out of bankruptcy and still on probation. It meant no new landlords, no new jobs. It meant we were trapped.
Chapter 3: Ghost on the Forum
The next morning, the air in the house felt thick, heavy with unspoken threats. Sunita swept past me in the hall without a glance, her head held high. Priya smirked from the kitchen doorway.
Around midday, Marcus O’Loughlin, the quiet older tenant from room four, knocked softly on our door. His face was lined with a nervous tremor.
“Mark, can you spare a minute?” he whispered, glancing around the hallway.
I followed him into his small, cramped room, which smelled faintly of old tea and menthol. He closed the door, then gestured to a worn laptop open on his desk.
“I saw her posts,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She did the same to the Alis, remember? They left last year.”
I nodded, recalling a young family who had moved out suddenly after similar accusations surfaced in the house.
“It’s not just the Alis,” Marcus continued, his finger hovering over the screen. “It’s been happening for years.”
He spun the laptop around. My eyes scanned a forum thread titled “Westmead Landlord Scams – Beware!” The date at the top read ‘August 14, 2018.’
“This is an old expat housing forum,” Marcus explained, his finger tracing a name. “Look.”
There, clearly visible, was Sunita Sharma’s name.
The thread detailed her exact blueprint: target broke tenants desperate for a roof, invent chore quotas, demand cash fines for “damages,” and use public social media smears if they resisted or tried to move. It even mentioned a previous incident where she fabricated utility bills.
“She did this to three families before us,” Marcus said, his voice firm now. “And a young couple before them. All the same story. Informal leases, cash deposits, then impossible demands until they broke and self-evicted.”
My gaze fell on a specific post, timestamped just a few days before the Alis moved out. It described a landlord threatening to call child services on a tenant for “neglectful living conditions” after they refused to pay an arbitrary “cleaning fee.”
It wasn’t just a pattern. It was a well-honed weapon. This woman had been perfecting her particular brand of cruelty for years, leaving a trail of shattered lives in her wake. The forum was a ghost of her past victims, speaking directly to me.
Chapter 4: Doctrined Ledger
That night, the house was quiet, but a different kind of tension hung in the air. The knowledge Marcus had given me was a cold weight in my gut, hardening into something resolute.
Around midnight, a gentle tap came at our window. I peered out to see Anish, Sunita’s nephew, standing by the back garage door. He looked pale, his shoulders hunched.
I slipped out, pulling on a thin jacket.
“Anish, what’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice low. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth.
He didn’t speak, just held out a small, black USB drive. His eyes darted nervously towards Sunita’s darkened windows.
“What’s this?”
“Originals,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Utility bills. AGL. Sydney Water.”
He pressed the drive into my hand. His fingers brushed mine, and they felt cold.
“She changes the numbers,” he added, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “Makes them higher. Charges everyone for things they didn’t use.”
Then he turned and hurried away, melting back into the shadows.
Back in my room, I plugged the USB into my old laptop. The screen glowed with folders labelled “AGL_Raw” and “SW_Raw.” I opened the first one.
PDFs of electricity bills, month after month, streamed across the screen. I pulled out the printed invoices Sunita had given us.
My breath caught.
The numbers didn’t match. Not even close.
Sunita’s invoices consistently added an extra $100 to $150 per month to each tenant’s bill for “common area usage” or “peak time electricity surcharges.”
Over four months, across the five rented rooms, she had inflated utility charges by exactly $1,200. It was pure profit, extracted directly from desperate tenants like us, tax-free.
This wasn’t just greed. It was outright fraud. The forum detailed her method, Anish provided the proof. The pieces of her scheme were clicking into place, dark and ugly.
Chapter 5: Locked Out in the Dark
The next evening, the tension escalated further. Chloe’s feet were aching, swollen despite resting for most of the day.
“I need some ice for these ankles,” she murmured, wincing slightly as she shifted on the bed.
“I’ll get it,” I said, pushing myself up.
It was just past 11:00 PM. The house was usually quiet by now. I padded downstairs towards the kitchen, a sense of grim determination settling over me.
But as I reached the kitchen door, I stopped dead.
A heavy brass padlock, new and gleaming, hung from the handle. It was bolted through the door frame, effectively sealing off the kitchen.
My jaw tightened. This wasn’t just a casual lock. This was deliberate.
Across the hall, in her armchair, Sunita sat perfectly still. The television cast a pale glow on her face, but her eyes were fixed on me. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched.
“Sunita?” I called out, my voice carefully even. “The kitchen’s locked.”
She sighed, a put-upon sound. “Oh, yes. Kitchen privileges,” she said, her voice dripping with mock regret. “They end strictly at 9:00 PM for uncooperative households, Mark.”
She let the words hang in the air, a clear message. Uncooperative. That was me.
“Chloe needs ice for her feet,” I said, gesturing to the padlock. “She’s eight months pregnant.”
Sunita shrugged, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. “Should have thought of that before 9:00 PM, shouldn’t you? Rules are rules, Mark. Some people just don’t understand that.”
Priya, who had been sitting on the couch beside her mother, let out a small, derisive snort.
I stood there, staring at the cold metal. No refrigeration. No access to water. This wasn’t about rules; it was about control, about making our lives unbearable until we had no choice but to leave. But where would we go?
Chapter 6: Broken Medals
The anger simmered beneath my skin, a slow burn that threatened to ignite. Chloe managed with warm compresses that night, but the discomfort was obvious.
I spent the next morning trying to find any legitimate alternative housing, but every call was met with polite refusals, clearly influenced by Sunita’s online smear.
Later that day, taking out the recycling, I spotted a small, dark velvet box tucked amongst crumpled newspapers at the bottom of the council wheelie bin. It looked out of place, deliberate.
A cold dread coiled in my stomach.
I reached in and pulled it out. The velvet was soft, familiar. My thumb traced the gold lettering: “Australian Defence Force.”
Inside, nestled on satin, was my Long Service Medal. The bronze disc, polished smooth, still held the reflection of the midday sun. This medal was a quiet honour, a testament to years of service, something I treasured.
A wave of nausea hit me. How?
Then I saw it. A faint scratch near the clasp, a tiny but distinct mark I remembered. This was undeniably mine.
It had been in a box in the back of my wardrobe, tucked away safely. Nobody but Chloe and I knew it was there.
My mind reeled. Sunita wouldn’t dare go into my room.
Priya. It had to be Priya. Her mocking smirk, her entitlement, her desire to provoke. This was her way of getting under my skin, pushing me for a reaction. She wanted to see me snap, to give her mother solid proof for her fabricated online claims.
I stood by the bin, the medal heavy in my hand, the quiet fury building. They weren’t just attacking my future; they were attacking my past, my honour, trying to strip away every last piece of dignity I had left.
Chapter 7: The Unlocked Door
The padlock on the kitchen door remained a grim fixture. The lack of proper refrigeration for Chloe’s snacks and water was becoming a real issue.
That night, a little after 1:00 AM, I found myself pacing our small room. Chloe was asleep, but her restless movements and soft moans of discomfort kept me awake.
I needed to get her more ice. Or at least some cold water.
I quietly slipped out of the room and crept downstairs. The hallway was dark, save for the faint green glow of the security camera’s power light near the ceiling.
As I approached the kitchen door, I heard a soft click.
Anish stood there, his face illuminated briefly by the weak moonlight filtering through the window. He had just disengaged the heavy brass padlock, his own master key glinting in his hand.
He didn’t speak, just nodded towards the open door, his eyes wide and filled with a nervous guilt. He was risking his job, his family loyalty, for us.
I stepped past him, a quiet thank you in my eyes. I quickly grabbed a bag of ice from the freezer and filled a bottle with cold water.
As I turned to leave, the red light on Sunita’s hallway security camera flashed twice. A small, almost imperceptible flicker.
It had recorded Anish.
He saw it too. His eyes widened further, his jaw tightening. He quickly re-engaged the padlock, clicking it shut with a soft thud, then vanished up the stairs, leaving me in the dimly lit hall with the chilling knowledge that Sunita would soon know of his betrayal.
The ice felt heavy in my hand, but heavier still was the silent weight of Anish’s sacrifice.
Chapter 8: The Kitchen Floor
The next two hours passed in a blur of fragmented sleep and growing anxiety. The image of the camera’s red flash replayed in my mind.
Then, at 2:15 AM, I woke with a jolt. Chloe wasn’t beside me.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I sat bolt upright, straining my ears. No sound.
“Chloe?” I whispered, scrambling out of bed.
I checked the bathroom, then our small living area. Empty. A cold dread seeped into my bones.
I rushed downstairs, my bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. The hallway was dark, but a faint, yellowish light glowed from under the kitchen door. The padlock was gone.
Pushing the door open, I froze.
Chloe was on her hands and knees in the middle of the kitchen floor. Her hair was damp with sweat, clinging to her temples. Her usually vibrant face was pale, almost grey, and she was shaking.
She held a sponge, scrubbing frantically at a patch of dried grease on the stovetop. Her movements were jerky, desperate, as if her life depended on cleaning that spot.
“Chloe!” I whispered, my voice thick with shock.
She flinched, startled, then tried to quickly wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I… I just needed to finish this, Mark,” she stammered, her voice hoarse, tears streaking her face. “Before morning. Before… before she sees it.”
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming. “She said if anything wasn’t spotless, she’d evict us. Today. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let that happen.”
Her knuckles were white from gripping the sponge so tightly. Her swollen ankles, usually concealed by long pants, were visible beneath her nightgown, scraped raw from kneeling on the cold tiles.
Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t just anger; it was a profound, aching sorrow, a deep well of guilt that I had let it come to this. Watching her, so fragile and desperate, trying to shoulder this burden alone, was unbearable.
This was the end.
Chapter 9: The Midnight Summons
I didn’t say another word. I knelt beside Chloe, gently took the sponge from her trembling hand, and lifted her into my arms. She was lighter than I expected, exhausted.
“It’s over,” I murmured, holding her close. “You don’t have to clean another thing.”
I carried her upstairs, her head resting against my shoulder. She was still shivering. I laid her carefully on our bed, covered her with a thick blanket, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Stay here,” I instructed, my voice firm, but soft. “Don’t move.”
Then, I walked out of our room. The quiet military cadence I’d cultivated during my years of service, the ability to focus in chaos, clicked into place. My mind was sharp, calm, and utterly resolved.
I went straight to Sunita’s ground-floor apartment. The inner door was thick, ornate.
I raised my hand and pounded. Not a frantic, emotional banging, but a steady, measured series of thuds that echoed through the silent house. Three strong knocks, then a pause. Three more.
The lights inside flickered on. After a moment, I heard movement, hushed whispers.
The door eventually cracked open. Sunita peered out, her face a mask of annoyance, a silk dressing gown pulled tight around her. Priya and her younger sister, Kavita, stood behind her, their eyes wide with irritation.
“Mark? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Sunita demanded, her voice low and sharp. “It’s the middle of the night!”
“You and your daughters,” I stated, my voice low, cutting through her protest. “Out here. Now. We need to talk.”
I didn’t ask. I commanded. My gaze was steady, unwavering. Sunita’s initial annoyance flickered into something else – a sliver of surprise, perhaps even a hint of fear, as she met my eyes.
The confrontation was starting.
Chapter 10: Unraveling Threads
Sunita stepped into the narrow hallway, followed by Priya and Kavita, their faces still etched with sleep and annoyance. The air immediately thickened with their combined presence.
“This is completely unacceptable, Mark,” Sunita began, her voice regaining its usual imperious tone. “Waking us up at this hour. This is harassment.”
I ignored her. My hand went into my pocket and pulled out a stack of neatly folded papers. I held them out, the printouts of the 2018 forum thread and the doctored utility bills.
“These,” I said, my voice steady, even. “Are the complaints from your previous tenants. Dating back to 2018. Your pattern, Sunita. The unpaid labour. The cash fines. The social media smears.”
Sunita’s eyes flickered across the printouts. Priya gasped, a sharp intake of breath.
“And these,” I continued, pushing the AGL and Sydney Water bills, still on the USB drive, towards her. “The original, unedited versions. Compared to what you charged us.”
“An extra one thousand, two hundred dollars, Sunita. Over four months, from five rooms.”
Her face went from annoyance to a mask of cold fury. “This is a fabrication! You’re lying! This is a dangerous man, Priya. He’s unstable!” she spat, pointing at me. “I’ll call the police, Mark! Report your aggressive behaviour. Your PTSD. See how that looks.”
She thought she had found my weak spot, a way to trigger me, to turn the situation back on my military history.
But I remained completely still, my breathing even, my posture rigid. The calm was absolute, terrifying even to myself.
“I haven’t raised my voice,” I said, my words like chips of ice. “I haven’t touched a thing. I am simply presenting facts, Sunita.”
I took a step closer. “You’ve been illegally exploiting desperate people for years. And it stops now.”
Chapter 11: Interrupted Reckoning
Sunita stared at me, her eyes narrowing, trying to find a crack in my composure. But there was none.
“Exploitation?” she sneered. “These people, like you, they come with nothing. They have no options. I give them a roof. A chance. What kind of ingrate are you?”
“You deliberately target bankrupt tenants,” I countered, the words precise. “Because you know we can’t go to the Tribunal. You know we can’t afford legal help.”
I reached into my other pocket and pulled out my phone, pressing play on a voice recording. It was a clear, crisp sound.
Sunita’s own voice filled the narrow hallway, casual and dismissive. “They don’t have anywhere else to go. No one else will rent to them. I’m not a legal landlord anyway, so what are they going to do? Complain?”
The recording was from an earlier conversation Anish had secretly captured for me, a casual boast she’d made to him about her system. The sound of her own confession, admitting her illegal subletting structure, bounced off the walls.
Sunita’s face went white. Her lips tightened into a thin line. Priya and Kavita exchanged shocked glances.
Before I could press further, before I could demand her full surrender, a piercing shriek erupted from the back bedroom. Sunita’s young grandson, Rohan, burst out, crying hysterically, his face flushed bright red.
“Dadi! Dadi!” he wailed, clutching his stomach. “My head hurts! So hot!”
Sunita’s focus shattered instantly. Her eyes, filled with cold calculation moments before, now registered pure maternal panic. She scooped him up, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Rohan! What’s wrong, my angel?” she cried, feeling his forehead.
At the exact same moment, a sharp cry echoed from upstairs. Chloe.
“Mark! The baby! It hurts!”
My head whipped around, away from Sunita, away from the evidence. The confrontation, so meticulously planned, dissolved into a chaotic domestic nightmare.
Chapter 12: Morning Standstill
By 5:00 AM, the house was quiet again, the frantic energy of the night’s medical emergencies having finally subsided. Rohan had a severe fever, which Sunita and Kavita were now managing with cool cloths and children’s paracetamol. Chloe’s contractions, thankfully, had turned out to be intense Braxton Hicks, a false alarm, but terrifying nonetheless.
I sat with Chloe in our room until she finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted but safe.
When I ventured downstairs later, the heavy brass padlock was gone from the kitchen door. It lay on the floor beside the bin, discarded like a broken toy.
The forced chore schedule, which had been taped to the refrigerator door for weeks, had also vanished.
Sunita sat at her kitchen table, sipping tea. Priya watched TV in the living room, her expression sullen. No one spoke.
Sunita looked up as I entered the kitchen. Her eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, seemed dulled by the night’s events.
“The chores,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual power. “They are not required. And the kitchen will remain open at all times.”
It was a concession. A clear victory on the immediate, grinding tyranny.
“What about our deposit?” I asked, my voice steady. “The three thousand, six hundred dollars?”
Her lips tightened. She looked away, staring at a smudge on the counter. “That… that is not possible, Mark.”
“You know we can’t afford a tribunal fight,” I pressed.
She finally looked at me, a flicker of her old defiance returning. “That is your problem, isn’t it? I’ve backed off. That is all you will get. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She stood up, her back straight, a clear signal that the conversation was over. The immediate battle was won, but the larger war, the one for our financial stability, remained locked away in her possession.
Chapter 13: River at Dawn
The next morning, the air was still, quiet. Chloe and I found a wooden bench at Parramatta Park, overlooking the river. The first light of dawn was just breaking, painting the water in hues of soft orange and pink.
The air was cool, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth. A lone rower cut a silent path through the glassy surface of the river.
Chloe leaned her head on my shoulder, her body finally relaxing. The relief was palpable. The immediate fear of constant harassment, the exhaustion of forced labour, had lifted.
“It’s quieter now,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Safer.”
I tightened my arm around her. Sunita had backed off. The daily humiliations, the threats of eviction for arbitrary chores, had stopped. We had access to the kitchen, to water, to basic human dignity within the confines of the house.
But the $3,600 cash deposit remained with Sunita, a ransom we couldn’t afford to reclaim through a lengthy, expensive legal battle. Our options for finding new, secure housing were still limited by the black mark she’d plastered across the internet and our own strained finances.
We were still here, in Sunita’s house, living under her roof, and the brutal Sydney rental market waited for us, unchanged, just outside the park gates. The rising sun, beautiful as it was, didn’t erase the fundamental truth of our situation.
Peace isn’t always a clean victory; sometimes it’s just surviving the night so you can stand your ground again tomorrow.
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