A Third Meow
The wind off Jasper Lake is colder than it looks, nipping through my fleece where the seams have stretched thin. The waterline’s pulled back like it’s trying to disappear, leaving behind a cracked skirt of shore. Brendan paces the edge, tossing pebbles: plink, plink, sink, testing as if he’s measuring how much space he’s allowed to take up again.
Hayden props his phone against a slanted boulder. “C’mon,” he says, setting a timer. “Let’s get a picture. We didn’t take one yesterday.” His voice is too light, like he’s trying to outrun the morning.
We line up automatically, Hayden on one side, I on the other. Brendan stays where he is, arms crossed. He doesn’t ask to be in the middle. He just is.
“You good there?” I ask.
Brendan shrugs. “I guess it’s fitting.”
The timer beeps. Five seconds pass. No one smiles. The shutter clicks.
The hike back to Diamond Lake is a silent, single-file procession. The easy camaraderie of the hike up to the site yesterday afternoon is a distant memory. When we break through the treeline and see our tents again, it doesn’t feel like a return to safety. It feels like a return to the scene of the crime, with another whole night still stretching ahead of us.
The midday sun is warm on the lake’s surface, a stark contrast to the chill between us.
Brendan stops, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his Buffs jersey. "I feel fucking gross. I'm going in, even if it’s cold." It's the most decisive thing he's said all day. He doesn't wait for a reply, just kicks off his shoes and peels off his socks, jersey, and joggers, standing at the water's edge in just his black Nike boxer briefs.
Hayden and I watch, frozen. There's no hiding it now, not after this morning. Brendan’s body is a testament to his sport: toned, lean, powerful, with the defined muscles of a Point Guard. The boxer briefs cling to him, leaving little to the imagination as he wades into the shockingly cold water, hissing as it climbs his thighs.
"He's... really fit," Hayden whispers, his voice low, almost to himself.
I glance at him. The comment hangs in the air, fragile and dangerous. "Yeah," I say, my own voice quiet. "I had a bit of a crush on him, too, you know. Before I even really knew you."
Hayden turns to look at me, his blue eyes searching mine. There's no jealousy, just a shared, startling recognition. "Yeah?"
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Yeah. I followed him on TikTok before you."
We look at each other again and nod, then strip down to our own underwear. Hayden, in his signature blue Nike boxer briefs, me in a pair of gray Columbia boxer briefs, and wade in after him. The water is a breathtaking slap of cold, almost glacial, shocking the silence out of us for a moment. We splash, we gasp, we wash off the grime of the trail, but the real current running between us is electric.
The cold water of Diamond Lake shocks the morning's tension out of our systems, leaving behind a raw, clean silence as we make our shivering retreat back onto shore. We drape towels over sun-warmed rocks like seals, steaming slightly in the afternoon light. Brendan sits a few yards away, a solitary figure, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks as if searching for an answer in the granite.
I feel Hayden's eyes on me before he speaks. I turn my head, meeting his gaze. His expression is a tangled knot of desire, guilt, and a desperate hope for repair. He flicks his eyes meaningfully toward Brendan's back, then back to me, a silent question forming in the crinkle of his brow.
My heart is a wild thing in my chest. Is he thinking what I'm thinking?
Hayden shifts, the rock scraping softly beneath him. He leans closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for my ears, his breath warm against my neck.
"Joey," he murmurs, his tone laced with a nervous energy. "Look at him. This is... this is all so messed up because of me. Because of us."
I nod slowly, not trusting my voice.
Hayden's hand finds mine where it is resting on the rock, his fingers intertwining with mine. It is a bold, intimate gesture with Brendan right there. "I can't stand this... this wall. I hate that he's over there and we're over here." He pauses, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "What if... what if we didn't have to be?"
I swallow, my mouth dry. "What are you saying, Hayden?"
He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching mine for permission, for partnership in this next insane idea. "The tent," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "It's a two-person. But we shared a sleeping bag, and we were fine. What if we asked him to sleep in ours? Do you think... is that a terrible idea?"
My mind races. It is a spectacularly risky, potentially scandalous idea. But looking at Hayden's pleading eyes, feeling the static charge of the possibility, and seeing the lonely line of Brendan's shoulders... It also feels inevitable. It feels like the only way to bridge the chasm we've created. I give his hand a slight, reassuring squeeze, a silent I'm with you.
Emboldened, Hayden turns his head, his voice losing its whisper and gaining a tentative, deliberate volume.
"Hey, Brendan."
Brendan looks over, his expression blank, a fortress waiting for the next assault.
"Hey," Hayden says, his voice tentative. "So... our tent is a two-person. But it's... roomy."
Brendan's eyes narrow slightly. "Yeah. I know. I have one too." His tone is flat, a statement of fact, not an invitation.
"I know," Hayden says, pushing forward, leaning on the confidence I've just given him. "But... your tent can be for gear. We can make room for three in ours."
The world seems to hold its breath. The lapping of the lake against the shore falls silent. Brendan's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. The fortress walls tremble. He looks at Hayden, then his gaze shifts to me, lingering, questioning. He is looking for the truth, is this a pity invite, a joke, or a genuine, terrifying offer?
In my eyes, he finds no joke. Only the same nervous, hopeful anticipation that is currently tying my stomach in knots.
The silence stretches, thin and brittle as the ice that will form on this lake in a few weeks. Brendan’s gaze flicks between us, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to laugh in our faces or just turn and walk away.
Then, a single, sharp exhale. It’s not an agreement, but it’s not a refusal. It’s a crack.
“Fine,” he says, the word clipped. “Whatever. It’s just sleeping.”
The relief that floods me is so intense it feels like a second plunge into the lake. Hayden’s shoulders drop an inch, a tension he’s been holding all day finally releasing.
“Okay,” Hayden says, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual easy charm. “Okay, cool.”
What follows is a bizarre, wordless ballet. We become a trio of movers, transferring all our gear between the two tents. The three backpacks, the bear canister, and the scattered clothes are all shoved into Brendan’s tent, which now looks like an overstuffed gear closet. Then, we carry Brendan’s Cat’s Meow and pad over into our tent.
The three sleeping bags now cover the entire floor, a matching blue and white patchwork of nylon and synthetic fill. It’s a ridiculously tight fit. There’s no “my side” or “your side.” It’s just… a pile.
“Cozy,” Hayden remarks, a slow, daring grin spreading across his face as he surveys the cramped space. “Just remember which one is Joey’s, cause last night we… uh, never mind.”
He cuts himself off with a forced cough, but the damage, or the invitation, is done. My cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. Brendan freezes halfway through shoving the pack into the gear tent, his back to us. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, picturing exactly what Hayden almost described.
After a minute, Brendan shoves the pack the rest of the way in with a little more force than necessary and straightens up. “Right,” is all he says, his tone undiscernible.
The awkwardness isn't gone, but the tangible, logistical problem has given us a shared purpose. The air is still charged, but the current has shifted from hostile to anticipatory.
We have hours until dark. Hours to sit in this new, terrifying closeness we’ve just constructed.
“Hey,” I say, seizing on the first distraction I can think of. “It’s still early. What about a quick hike up to Upper Diamond Lake? The guidebook said it’s only about 45 minutes from here. Better than just… waiting around.”
Hayden and Brendan exchange a glance, not hostile, but assessing. It’s the first time they’ve really looked at each other directly since this morning.
“Sure,” Brendan says, shrugging. He seems grateful for the excuse to move, to do anything other than contemplate the sleeping arrangement.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” Hayden agrees.
The trail to Upper Diamond Lake is steeper but shorter, a winding, sometimes disappearing path through dense evergreens that opens up abruptly to a smaller, more secluded alpine lake. It’s like a secret version of the one below, its surface a perfect, undisturbed mirror of the stark peaks that cradle it. The air is even quieter here, the sense of isolation profound.
We find a flat rock to sit on, the silence between us now more comfortable, filled with the sheer awe of the place.
“First one to find a heart-shaped rock has to share a deep secret,” Hayden says, breaking the silence with a playful challenge that feels brave after the day we’ve had.
Brendan snorts but starts scanning the shoreline. I smile, my eyes drifting over the water. The high, thin air and the beauty of this hidden place make the truth feel closer to the surface.
“My first love was my Venturing Crew President,” I find myself saying, the words coming easier here than they ever could down below. “Travis. I looked up to him so much. It was… intense. He was the one who… well, he was my first everything, really.” I glance at Hayden, giving him the space to speak next. The raw, vivid details of that night in that Cat’s Meow are a memory I hold close, not something to blurt out. That story is for a more intimate moment, maybe whispered in the dark of the tent later.
Hayden let out a long, slow breath, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks. “You both know it’s Ava,” he says, his voice low but clear. There is no point in pretending now. “And it’s… complicated. It felt like first love. It was comfortable, and everyone back home saw us as this perfect pair. But being out here, away from all that… I’ve been realizing how much of it was about the idea of us. The picture.” He finally looks at me, his eyes full of a painful honesty. “What I’m feeling now… It’s terrifying, but it’s real in a way that never was.”
It’s the most direct he’s ever been about it in front of Brendan. It isn’t just an admission about me; it’s a confession about the foundation of his old life cracking.
We both look at Brendan. He’s listening intently, a small, smooth stone turning over and over in his hand.
“Lindsey,” he says after a moment, his voice low. “Point guard on the girls’ team in high school. We were rivals before we dated. I think I just liked the competition. When we finally got together, it was all fireworks for about a month. Then we just… burned out. Realized we were better at arguing than talking.” He chucks the pebble into the lake, the rings disrupting the perfect reflection. “Haven’t really had anything since that felt… real. Or that messed everything up this much.” He doesn’t look at either of us, but the meaning is clear. He’s talking about now. About us.
The admission hangs in the thin mountain air. It’s more vulnerable than anything he’s said all day. It isn’t about attraction or physical confusion; it’s a confession of a longing for something genuine, and the pain of finding it in the middle of a mess.
The sun begins its descent, casting long, golden fingers across the water. I watch the light fade for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet melancholy settling over me. “We should head back,” I finally say. “Get dinner started before it gets dark.”
The second hike back to camp is different. The silence is thoughtful, the space between us charged not just with sexual tension, but with a new, fragile understanding. We have shared the blueprints of our hearts. We know who broke them first.
The unspoken question is now a physical presence, as tangible as the three sleeping bags waiting in the tent behind us: What happens when we finally zip that door shut?
Back at our tents, we fall into the familiar, grounding routine of dinner. The conversation is still sparse, but it's no longer hostile. It's practical, punctuated by the hiss of the stove and the rustle of meal bags.
"Chicken and rice or beef stroganoff?" I ask, holding up the options.
"Chicken," Brendan says, not looking up from where he's organizing his pack.
"Stroganoff," Hayden adds.
I nod, setting water to boil. As I'm preparing the meals, Hayden gets up and rummages in the gear tent, emerging with the remaining half of the six-pack. He doesn't take one for himself. Instead, he walks over and places two cans directly in front of Brendan, where he's sitting on a log.
"Here," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Figured you could use these more than me."
Brendan looks at the two cans, then up at Hayden, a glint of surprise in his eyes. It's a silent offering. An apology. A peace treaty.
After a beat, Brendan picks up the first one. "Thanks," he mutters, cracking it open and taking a long, deep swallow. He drains it in a few greedy gulps, the thin mountain air and his empty stomach conspiring to send the alcohol straight to his head. He barely pauses before cracking the second can. A definite flush creeps up his neck, and the rigid, athletic set of his toned shoulders begins to slump into a weary, looser posture. He doesn’t look stumbling drunk, but the high altitude had sanded the sharp, defensive edges off him, leaving behind a raw, pliable honesty.
When the last light fades from the sky, painting the peaks in shades of violet and rose, we sit around the cooled stove, our bellies half-full, the confessions by the upper lake, and the two beers settling around Brendan like a protective, inebriated cloud.
Hayden stands and stretches, a deliberate movement that draws both our eyes. "Well," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I guess it's time to turn in."
His gaze meets mine, full of heat and promise, then slides over to Brendan. The unspoken question is now a physical presence, as tangible as the three sleeping bags waiting in the tent behind us. The beer has eased the path, but the leap is still terrifying.
Brendan looks from Hayden to the dark mouth of the tent, then down at the two empty cans by his feet. He takes a deep breath, his decision made not in a grand statement, but in the simple act of standing up, a little less steady than before.
"Right," he says, his voice a bit thicker. "Just sleeping."
The three of us move toward the tent, a silent procession under a blanket of stars. What happens when we zip that door shut is no longer a question. It is an inevitability.
Inside the tent is pitch black, a cramped cocoon of rustling nylon and held breath. We’re a tangle of limbs and sleeping bags, the three Cat’s Meows turning the floor into a single, massive, squishy bed. Hayden is in the middle, a warm, solid line against my side. Brendan is on his other side, a restless presence.
The silence is absolute, thick with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t. The two beers have made Brendan’s breathing deeper, slower. Just as I think he might have passed out, his voice cuts through the dark, slurry, and blunt.
“So, Hayden.”
Hayden goes rigid beside me. “Yeah, man?”
There’s a long pause, the kind that’s only possible when you’re drunk and working up the nerve.
“Does Joey…” Brendan starts, then stops, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial grumble. “Does he give better head than I did?”
The air is sucked out of the tent. My heart stops, then kicks into a frantic, pounding rhythm. I’m grateful for the absolute darkness that hides the fire in my cheeks.
Hayden freezes. I can feel the conflict radiating off him, the loyalty to me, his complicated history with Brendan, the shock of the question.
“Brendan, what the hell?” Hayden’s voice is a strained whisper.
“C’mon, man,” Brendan slurs, a hint of his earlier hurt resurfacing. “You can tell me. You’ve had us both. I wanna know. Was it better?”
The question hangs in the air, crude and vulnerable all at once. It’s not just about technique; it’s a plea for validation, for a ranking, for some way to understand his place in this new, messy dynamic.
Hayden lets out a shaky breath. He’s trapped between us. Lying would be condescending. Telling the truth could be catastrophic.
But then he surprises me. His hand finds mine under the sleeping bags and squeezes, a silent apology for what he’s about to do. He turns his head slightly in Brendan’s direction, his voice low and impossibly intimate in the dark.
“It’s not… It’s not about better,” Hayden says, each word careful and deliberate. “It’s different. With you… It was fast. It was hungry. With Joey…” He pauses, and I feel his thumb stroke the back of my hand. “With Joey, it’s like he has all the time in the world.”
The answer is a masterstroke. It’s honest without being cruel. It acknowledges the passion of his history with Brendan while affirming the deep, lingering intimacy of what he has with me.
The tent falls silent again, but the energy has completely transformed. The pretense is gone. The boundary has not just been crossed; it’s been obliterated.
Brendan doesn’t reply for a long moment. We just hear his breathing, ragged and slow. Then, his voice comes again, quieter now, stripped of its belligerence and filled with something else, a desperate, voyeuristic curiosity.
"Show me then," he whispers into the dark.
Hayden and I both freeze. "What?" Hayden breathes, the word barely audible.
"You heard me," Brendan says, his voice gaining a sliver of conviction. "If it's so different... Let me see. I want to watch."
The request hangs in the still air, more intimate and terrifying than any physical touch could be.
Hayden’s grip on my hand tightens, a silent, frantic question. Is this okay? Is this what you want?
My mind is screaming, a riot of fear, excitement, and a strange, powerful sense of permission. I take a shaky breath, and in the profound darkness, I give Hayden’s hand a slow, deliberate squeeze back.
Yes.
A beat of silence. Then, a fumbling movement from Brendan's side of the tent. A click, and the dim, warm glow of a small LED lantern, the one we used for dinner, flood the cramped space. It was on its lowest setting, but after the absolute blackness, it feels like a spotlight.
Our eyes, wide and shocked, struggled for a second. Now there were no more shadows to hide in. I can see the sharp lines of Hayden's jaw, the flush on his cheeks. I can see Brendan, propped on an elbow, his gaze locked on us, intense and unwavering. The three Cat's Meows, a tangle of blue and white in the soft light.
"Let’s see," Brendan repeats, his voice hushed but clear in the new stillness.
The air in the tent changes, the anticipation crystallizing into intent under his watchful eye.
In the revealing glow, I move. The sound of my own Cat’s Meow unzipping is a gunshot in the quiet. I don’t get out of it; I shuffle forward on my knees within the confines of the bag, the nylon rustling loudly as I move over Hayden. I find his chest through his sleeping bag, then the zipper pull. The metallic shriek of his zipper coming down is even louder than mine.
My hands find the waistband of his blue Nike boxer briefs. I hook my fingers into the elastic and pull them down just enough, the fabric sliding over his hips. The moment my fingers brush against his soft cock, it twitches, flooding with blood, thickening and lengthening impossibly fast in my grasp until it is fully, rigidly hard in the lantern light. A low, guttural sound escapes Hayden’s throat.
From the other side of Hayden, another zipper rasps, Brendan’s. The sound is slower, more deliberate. He doesn’t move from his bag, but I can see the frantic rustle of nylon as he shoves his own briefs down. His breathing, already ragged, turns into sharp, quiet gasps. He’s watching, his eyes dark and fixed on me, and he starts to touch himself.
The knowledge that he is there, watching, jerking off just feet away in the dim light, sends a jolt of pure lightning through me.
I lower my head, my lips finding the familiar, salty skin of Hayden’s shaft. I don’t tease. I take him deep, my throat opening for him, swallowing him down in one smooth, practiced motion that I know makes him lose his mind.
Hayden’s whole body arches off the sleeping pad beneath us. A choked, strangled moan rips from him. His hands fly to my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Fuck, Joey… your tongue,” Hayden gasps, his voice a broken whisper meant for me and Brendan both. “Right there… Jesus, the way you… God, you’re gonna make me…”
His words dissolve into another helpless groan. The wet, slick sounds of my work are now accompanied by the visual of it in the lantern's glow, a lewd, living tableau for our audience of one.
And through it all, the only other sound is the soft, slick, rhythmic friction of Brendan’s fist working over his own cock. But it’s not just the sound. As I move, my ear pressed against Hayden’s thigh, I can hear it: the distinct, whisper-soft shhh-shhh-shhh of Brendan’s wrist brushing back and forth, back and forth, against the nylon lining of his Cat’s Meow. The sound is maddening. It’s a ghost of a touch, a secret shared between the fabric and my ears, proof of his arousal, his participation, his surrender to the heat building in the tent.
Hayden’s control starts to shatter. His hips begin to piston upward in tiny, desperate thrusts, meeting the rhythm of my mouth. The fingers in my hair tighten, a silent, pleading warning. Beside us, Brendan’s breathing hitches, his own rhythm faltering and then quickening, the swish of nylon becoming frantic, matching the building pace of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. The entire tent feels like it’s vibrating, charged with the raw energy of two bodies hurtling toward their peak, connected through me, the silent, frantic witness, and the shared, secret dark.
“I’m….Joey, I’m gonna…” is all Hayden can manage before his climax hits him. He spills into my mouth with a sharp, guttural cry, his body bucking as I swallow every last pulse, savoring the familiar, salty taste of him.
For a second, there is only the sound of his ragged panting and the frantic, slick sound of Brendan’s fist from two feet away. Then, Hayden’s breathless, blissed-out voice cuts through the dark, a low murmur of pure satisfaction.
“Holy shit… Way better than this morning.”
The comment is a spark on gasoline. It’s the final validation, the ultimate compliment, and it shatters the last remaining barrier. My head spins with the power of it.
Without a second thought, driven by a boldness I didn’t know I possessed, I shift. I turn away from Hayden’s spent body and crawl over him, my knee brushing against Brendan’s leg through the sleeping bag. I can hear his breathing stop, frozen in shock.
My hand finds the top of his Cat’s Meow. I don’t go for his skin, not yet. I grip the soft, cool nylon of the sleeping bag itself and, in one fluid motion, yank the top of it down, exposing him from the waist down. The cold air hits his erect, six and a half inch, cut cock, and he lets out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Fuck….Joey?”
This is the point of no return. I turn my head back towards where I know Hayden is lying, a silent question hanging in the air.
A beat of silence. Then, the low, approving words from Hayden.
“Yeah. I wanna watch you blow him too.”
It’s all the permission I need.
The world narrows to the space between us. I turn from Hayden, my movement deliberate, and lower my head. The first touch of my lips to Brendan’s skin is a spark. He’s got more fight in him than Hayden, his scent less of cologne and more of pure, clean sweat and the sharp, musky promise of himself. I don’t tease. I take the full, unfamiliar length of him into my mouth in one slow, claiming glide.
The effect is instantaneous and thrilling.
A raw, shattered sound is torn from his throat, a noise I’ve never heard him make: not on the court, not laughing with Hayden. It’s the sound of a wall crumbling. His hips jerk off the sleeping pad, a full-body flinch of pure, overwhelmed sensation. My hands find them, not to hold him down, but to anchor him, to give him something solid to push against as his world dissolves into my mouth.
I work him with the same focused intensity I’d just given Hayden, but the rhythm is different, tailored to this new instrument. My tongue traces the rigid, throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft, learning its unique topography. I feel the moment his athletic control fully shatters, the fine tremor in his powerful thighs escalating into an uncontrollable shake. His breath hitches, turning into ragged, pleading sobs.
"Joey... fuck, man… I can't…"
The plea is my cue. I don't pull away. I take him deeper, my throat relaxing and opening until my nose is buried in the coarse hair at his base. I hold him there, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart through his cock. This is the precipice.
Then, I do what I’ve never done with anyone else. As the first hot, salty pulse erupts onto my tongue, I pull back just an inch and blow a soft, cool stream of air directly across the hypersensitive, weeping head of his cock.
The contrast is violent in its gentleness. Scorching release meets the shocking chill of my breath.
It utterly unravels him.
His whole body seizes, back bowing off the ground in a powerful, silent arch. A scream is caught in his throat, visible in the corded strain of his neck, but no sound escapes. It’s a seizure of pure, unadulterated pleasure, so intense it’s beyond vocalization. The pulses seem endless, a tidal wave of release wracking his frame, and I swallow every drop, holding him with my lips until the very last tremor subsides.
When I finally release him, he collapses back into the sleeping bag like a marionette with its strings cut. Utterly spent. Completely remade.
The only sound in the tent is his ragged, struggling breath and the deafening silence of what we have just done.
I stay there for a moment, my forehead resting against Brendan’s thigh, listening to the slowing, thunderous beat of his heart. The air is thick with the scent of sex and spent youth.
Then, a hand finds my shoulder in the dim lantern light. Hayden’s hand. His touch is gentle but sure. He guides me back, away from Brendan’s spent form, and rolls me onto my back in the tangle of sleeping bags. His eyes, dark and serious, hold mine. There are no words. There don’t need to be.
He doesn’t kiss me. He simply lowers his head, his golden hair a messy halo in the soft light, and takes me into his mouth with a slowness that steals the air from my lungs. It’s not hungry or frantic. It’s an offering. A sacrament.
My head falls back, a moan escaping me as I fist my hands in the nylon of the sleeping bags. The sensation is overwhelming, a vault of pleasure tightening deep in my gut, built from the entire, impossible day. From the confrontation, the confessions, and the taste of a basketball player still on my tongue.
From beside us, movement. Brendan, recovered, props himself up on an elbow. His eyes are heavy-lidded, sated, but utterly focused. He doesn't speak. He simply reaches out and runs his fingers through Hayden’s sun-streaked hair, a gesture of startling tenderness and possession. He doesn’t guide him, he just… connects. His touch says, I’m here. I’m part of this, too.
That final, shared touch is the wave that breaks the dam.
Hayden’s mouth works me with a renewed, devastating purpose, spurred by Brendan’s touch. The vault cracks. My back arches off the sleeping pad as I come with a broken cry, my release pulsing into the warm, willing heat of Hayden’s mouth. He takes it all, his own body shuddering in a sympathetic echo, while Brendan’s hand remains, a steadying anchor in his hair.
For what feels like an eternity, there is only the sound of our ragged breaths mingling in the lantern-lit tent. Three bodies, three sleeping bags, one tangled, breathless truth. The chasm has not just been bridged; it has been filled, and all of us are standing together in the center of something entirely new.
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