TITLE: Waiting
AUTHOR: By Nlynn (nlynn42@hotmail.com)
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, etc.
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Through the end of the series.
SUMMARY: You could be whoever you wanted
to be, slip on one identity, and if it didn't
fit, toss it aside and try on another one.
NOTES: For the E-muse Beat the Heat Secret
"Santa" Challenge. Many thanks to MCA for
catching my mistakes and Bonetree for
organizing the challenge.
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-------------------------------------
Waiting

Scully emptied her pockets and took off her
apron. It would be the last time she'd see
that stupid blue and yellow bird smiling at
her, its wings lifted and eyes alight with
joy. Birds of a Feather was a restaurant of
the past. Time to move on to bigger and better
things, hopefully a restaurant that didn't
stitch its mascots onto the employee uniform.
It could have been worse, she thought. She
could have been forced to wear a hat with
wings.

Shuddering, she left the breakroom and the
apron behind. Mulder would be finished with
his shift soon, then they'd pack up their
things and leave town. They never stayed in
one place for more than a couple of months. It
was too much of a risk, even if they were in
Middle of Nowhere, USA. You just never knew
about people. Who gabbed to customers and who
kept a journal of people coming and going.
They preferred to lie low, create no waves and
just be your typical, run-of-the-mill husband
and wife who like to live on the road and take
in the sights.

"You forgot this," Mulder said, walking up
behind Scully and dangling the apron in front
of her. "Josh said you could probably sneak it
outta here if you wanted."

"Mu ...," she winced, realizing that she had
almost called him by his real name. She took a
breath and started again. "No, I think my
wardrobe's quite complete without it." For
emphasis, she pushed the hand holding the
apron away.

"And give up Tweety, here?" he sighed. "Well,
it's your loss." He returned the apron to the
breakroom and then he and Scully left.
The motel was just like any other they had
been in, except more lived in. By the end of a
stay, Mulder's clothes often ended up on the
floor and the chairs. Three months ago, Scully
had cared and would have told him to pick up
his things and put them away. Now, she just
toed them out of her way. To his credit,
though, he did the laundry, lugging the
laundry bag to the Laundromat and waiting out
the cycles. If Scully wasn't working, she'd go
with him and they'd play rummy on top of the
washing machine, each cycle vibrating through
three of a kinds, runs, and the pièce de
résistance, four aces.

Life on the run had developed a routine. Hit a
new town, check out the local diners, land
jobs, find a motel with a TV and CNN. If there
were no jobs, it was on to the next greasy
spoon. At first, it held a certain
fascination. There was the thrill of
abandoning your current life and leaving
everything behind. Dirty dishes, unpaid bills,
plants that needed watering, oil that needed
changing, all gone and no longer accounted
for. You could be whoever you wanted to be,
slip on one identity, and if it didn't fit,
toss it aside and try on another one.
Scully changed her name, her clothes and her
hair. But she could do little about her
personality. Even if she wanted to, she could
no sooner be Annabelle the gum-chewing
waitress than she could change her height. So
she settled. She was Claire, the reserved
waitress who wanted to see the world. She
could live with that.

Nowadays, though, it was harder and harder.
The glamour of life on the run had quickly
faded, leaving behind blurry images of shag
carpeting, poor lighting and mattresses that
needed flipping. The restaurants began to look
the same, one easily replaced with another.
(With the exception of Lulu's, which did
indeed have the best apple pie ala mode she
ever had tasted.) There were no comforts of
home, and Scully missed curling up on the
couch with a glass of wine and reading her
medical journals. She missed her sheets, her
bed, her bathroom, her refrigerator, her
everything.

Most of all, though, she missed her connection
with friends and family. She missed going out
to the movies, walking along M Street with her
mom and finding new shops and restaurants. Not
that Mulder wasn't good company. He was just ...
Mulder.

"Dammit," Mulder muttered, bringing Scully
back to the present of their latest motel
room, this one with beige carpeting and beige
prints hanging above a bed covered with a
brown bedspread. Mulder ran a hand through his
long hair as he checked his pockets once
again. "I must have left it at the
restaurant." He looked at Scully, defeated. "I
have to go back and pick up my check. Can I
get you a souvenir? Maybe ..."

"Don't say it, Mulder. Don't even think it,"
Scully said.

He shook his head. "Okay, okay," he laughed,
shutting the door behind him.

Scully leaned against the headboard and closed
her eyes while the news played in the
background. When she opened them, she was
staring at the phone, which probably hadn't
been changed since the '60s. It was black with
a black finger wheel and white numbers that
were smudged beyond recognition. That was
probably the only thing keeping someone from
lifting the phone and trying to sell it on
Ebay, she thought. That and the fact that it
was nailed down to the nightstand, she
corrected when she tried to bring it closer.

She could look, but not touch. That was the
rule they agreed on when the first hit the
road. No calls. Not a single one, no matter
how important. To make it absolute, they
tossed their cell phones in the river,
satisfied that whoever was on the other side
listening would get an earful of nothing.
Their cell phones weren't the only ones
bugged, she thought. Surely the new
consortium had insinuated itself into her
mother's life without her even knowing it.
Calls coming from church committee members,
her brothers and even telemarketers were
recorded, analyzed and catalogued for easy
reference. Scully didn't have proof, but she
and Mulder figured that was the next logical
step. Because of them, her mother's life was
no longer all that private.

Right now, though, the consortium was waiting.
If she picked up the phone and dialed her
mother's number, how long would it be before
someone broke into the house and took her
away? Would the organization even bother with
her? Or would it take the instantaneous trace
and come directly after them? Probably the
latter, but Scully didn't want to risk it.
Didn't want to risk her mother.

She ran a finger along the marred handset and
thought that her mother would be safe as long
as she and Mulder stayed away. Knowing this,
though, didn't bring her mother's voice any
closer.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The night was dragging and Scully's lower
back was starting to tighten up. She leaned
over, legs shoulder-width apart, and
released some of the tension. She had been
on her feet since lunch and the dinner crowd
had yet to arrive, or so she had been told
by Jackie, her 42-year-old "service sister."

"You doing okay, Claire? Why don't you take
a quick break and catch your breath before
the night picks up. I'm gonna need your
help because once the game lets out, oooh
boy. Watch out Eddie's!" Jackie laughed,
tossing Scully a french fry from the plate
she had snuck over to the waitress station.

"Thanks, Jackie, but I'm fine," Scully said,
popping the french fry into her mouth.

Jackie looked Scully up and down, pausing
for a beat. She shrugged. "Suit yourself.
Hey, anyway, how long you been doing this?"

Scully cocked her head to one side as if in
thought, "Hmmm, about seven months." She
tried to stick as close to the truth as she
could since lying and acting weren't exactly
her strong suits, which she had learned when
she almost broke her cover while playing the
role of Mulder's wife three years ago. A
New-Ager, indeed. Mulder had gotten quite a
laugh out of that one. Truth was, he was far
more suited to stretching the truth and at
making people believe his truth. She always
stuttered and stammered. Mulder played right
into the theatrics, ad-libbing and whatnot
while she was much more comfortable
following the book and letting logic win
out. No wonder he always needed saving, she
thought.

"Yeah, seven months. We had been living on
the East Coast (true), working normal jobs
(a bit of a stretch) when we realized we
needed to get away (get away from the
military, which wants Mulder dead, and
aliens, who want us both dead, that is. So,
true). So, we're talking a break and seeing
the country (pretty much true)."

"Ahhh, you and the cook?" To Scully's nod,
Jackie smiled. "He's about 100 proof
delicious."

Scully fought back the urge to roll her
eyes. "Don't tell him that. It'll just make
him impossible to deal with."

Jackie laughed. "I like you, Claire. Here,
let's give those tables a once-over before
things get hopping," Jackie said, tossing
Scully a damp and ratty towel.

They'd been wiping tables for less than 10
minutes when the first rush hit. The doors to
Eddie's opened and in flowed what seemed to be
a busload of tourists. "Awww, shit. We don't
need this shit," Scully heard Jackie mutter as
she pulled out a tray and started filling
glasses of water. "Oh, sorry," Jackie said
when she realized Scully had heard her. "I get
a little worked up now and again and let my
mouth fly. I really oughta watch that. Hey,
you feel okay taking orders? How about we
split up this station? You take those three
tables by the window and I'll take the other
four."

"I'm ready," Scully said, helping load the water
onto the tray.

"Go ahead and get these glasses of water out
and I'll grab ya an order book."

Jackie turned and rushed off. Scully took a
breath and lifted the tray, watching her step
as she rounded the drink station. The din of
the restaurant had already risen by several
levels, making it impossible to hear a single
conversation without being next to the table
having it. When she looked up, she saw a
family crowded around a crescent booth,
members presumably arguing over who would
get to sit on the aisle. The mother shepherded
everyone into the booth, and when she was
almost done, Scully stopped breathing. There
sitting on the dull olive green carpet was a
car seat with infant wearing a blue hat
decorated with stars and planets. The hat had
two pointed ends and was identical to the one
Scully's mother had given at William's baby
shower.

Scully tried to jerk around to get away from
the scene, forgetting she was carrying a full
tray. When she realized it, she tried to right
herself and catch the tray as drinks began to
slide. Glasses clanked into glasses and water
sloshed up and over the tray. More glasses
followed suit when Scully couldn't right the
tray fast enough, sliding over the lip and
hitting the carpet one on top of the other.
Glass flew and the crash was loud enough to
stop conversations on either ends of the
restaurant as one glass crashed into another on
the floor. The wave had started and Scully was
helpless to stop it. The tray's weight had slid
beyond her balance point and the only thing she
could do was let go and try not to get caught
in the shards of flying glass.

She stood there and watched it happen. When
the last ice cube had been silenced, the
restaurant was quiet for a split second, right
before the baby in the car seat let out a
strong wail.

"Oh, Jesus, Claire! Are you okay?" Jackie had
both her hands on Scully's shoulders and was
looking her over for any signs of injury.

Scully stepped back, not wanting to be
touched. "I'm fine, really." But her voice
shook. Not from the accident but from her
split-second reaction to seeing a baby who,
for just an instant, looked like her son.

"Scully!" Mulder yelled, displacing Jackie and
doing his own inspection for injuries. "Are
you okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine, really."

"You're shaking."

"No, I'm fine. Mu ... maybe we should clean
up this mess." Scully turned toward the
waitress station and let out a short cry of
pain, her hand going to her back. She
stopped instantly.

"What is it?" Mulder asked, anxious.

"I think I pulled something." She tried to
take another step and was greeted with a
pain that shot from her lower back down her
left leg, not as intense as the first one
but enough to force her to take smaller
steps.

Jackie had started to clean up the mess
along with a couple of bus boys and one
patron who saw the crash and wouldn't take
no for an answer.

Mulder took Scully's arm. "Here, let me help."

"Mulder, it's just a muscle spasm. I just need
to take it slowly."

"Then why are there tears rolling down your cheek?"

Scully reached up and touched her index finger
to her wet cheek. She hadn't realized she had
been crying. "I want to go home," she said
before catching herself. "I mean, back to the
motel. I need ..."

"You need drugs. That's what you need," Jackie
said. "Don't move. I'll be right back." She
slipped past the Matt the manager and quickly
turned so she was behind him and facing Mulder
and Scully. She made the sign of a cross with
her fingers and backed away slowly. Scully
smiled despite herself.

"I see we've got quite a mess," Matt said.

"Had," Mulder replied.

"What was that?"

"Had quite a mess. What you said indicated
that there was still a mess. And, clearly,
there is no mess in front of us."

Matt rocked back on his feet and puffed out
his chest a little. "Well, Ted. You're new.
And if I were you, I'd get back to the kitchen
before you make a different sort of mess."

"And what sort of mess would that be, sir?"

"The kind where you don't have a job. Are
we clear?"

"Totally."

Mulder gently took Scully's arm and started
to lead her to the back of the restaurant.

"Hey, didn't you hear me? Where are you
going?" Matt called out.

"To wallow in my own mess," Mulder said,
taking off his hat and setting it down on
the stainless steel counter next to the door
leading to the breakroom. As they walked
through the door, Scully heard a muffled
Matt and was sure he was flinging some
obscenities their way. Tonight, Matt would
definitely be in it. While the thought
pleased her, she wasn't too pleased about
leaving Jackie with all the work.

"Don't you worry about a thing, this will take
care of all your problems," Jackie said, as if on
cue. She looked left and right and then held out
her hand, which contained two green and yellow
capsules. "It's Flexeril. It should help tonight,
but I gave you an extra just in case."

Scully looked at the capsules and then back
at Jackie, trying to decide which was worse,
that a waitress was handing out prescription
medication or that she was about to take it.
Jackie took her hand and put the capsules in
it and smiled. She whispered, "Don't worry,
Bill and I, we've got insurance." She winked,
gave Scully's hand a squeeze and took off out
the door before Scully could tell her that
they wouldn't be back. Best that way, she
thought. Best not to make attachments. It was
a lesson she learned growing up as a Navy brat
and constantly moving. She'd make friends only
to leave them a short while later. After the
fourth move, she had learned how to make
friends without revealing herself. It led to
unfinished relationships, but that was the
price you paid for growing up in a military
family. Halting a friendship never came
easily, though, especially with someone you
honestly liked.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Scully slowly shifted in bed, rearranging the
motel-flat pillows into a more comfortable
position. She had taken the Flexeril as soon
as they got back to the motel and quickly fell
asleep. Mulder didn't have time to ask her
about what happened, and she didn't have time
to worry where their next check would come
from.

But the bliss of surrendering to sleep pain-
free was replaced this morning by a tight ache
and occasional spasms. Scully knew without a
doubt that she'd be spending the day in bed,
if not the next few days.

She flipped through the channels and found
CNN. From motels, hotels, your cheap variety
holes in the wall to your fancy digs, each had
one thing in common: CNN. Today, a gas pipe
had burst in Arizona, leaving its denizens
without petrol. In Colorado, some lost hikers
were found, tired but unscathed. And
Washington was gearing up for another protest
on the Mall.

Mulder would back from his run soon, Scully
thought. And with him would be the paper,
fresh coffee, fruit and doughnuts. Her mouth
watered at the thought of a chocolate doughnut
with sprinkles. Until then, she'd watch the
news and think.

Funny, this is the fastest they had been fired
from a job. It had only taken them, well, him,
one week to get them kicked out the door.
Technically, she still had a job, but she
doubted that Matt would want her back. Last
time, the firing had been her fault.

They were working in a dive in the Florida
Keys, which came not only with its own special
brand of conch, but also with its very own
harassing regular. Sam came in every day, sat
on the same stool at the counter and made the
same inane comments. Scully, unfortunately,
had been on the receiving end of those
comments.

"Hey sugar, gonna pour some of yourself into
that coffee?"

"Ain't you a pretty thing."

"Awww, come on now, ditch that man of yours
and hang with me."

And he did it with a specific routine. He'd
call her over, asking for more coffee, which
she would dutifully bring. When she went to
pour the coffee, he'd pulled his cup out of
her reach or calmly cover it with his thick
palm. She'd sigh and start to walk away and
he'd call out, "Hey what about my coffee?"
When she called him on the carpet, he raised
his hands in the air as if to say he was just
an innocent. He was only being friendly with
her, that's all. Nothing to get worked up
about.

She tried to switch shifts with the other
waitresses but they were quick to have plans.
She sucked it up and decided the best approach
would be the one with the least contact. She'd
take his order, nod, bring his food and
disappear. She'd bring his coffee by, listen,
pour and walk away.

Then he had begun to time his arrivals. He'd
walk through the door when she was on the
floor serving other customers and he'd find a
reason to brush up against her. Just the upper
part of his arm making contact with hers. She
passed it off as an accident the first time.
The second, she glared. And when he did it a
third time -- this time with the gall to
actually linger ­ she caught his hand and
twisted hard. So hard she sprained his wrist.
When he complained to management, she was
the one called on the carpet. That was when she
found out that Sam just so happened to be the
manager's brother. Convenient, that. With the
town being small, it wasn't long before she
was out the door.

Come to think of it, they left the job before
that because of her, too. They had moved from
the Keys up to Georgia and were working at Le
Peep when a customer had a heart attack on
Scully's shift. She didn't think. Just went
into action. When the paramedics arrived, she
was giving vitals and explaining things that
waitress with limited education wouldn't
possibly understand. Thing was, she was
supposed to be that waitress. Her co-workers
stood around her, mouths agape.

Soon, she was in the manager's office. He
had her application in front of him and was
tapping his pen against desk. "I can't say
that I quite believe what's on this document,"
he had said. "But I do know that the person I
hired is not the same person sitting in front
of me today. I don't know the deal, and I
don't want to know. You're welcome to stay
on, but you should know that this town talks,
and before you know it, they'll have you up at
that clinic. Either that, or they'll be coming
in here looking for free medical advice. Stay
or go, your call."

They had decided to go.

From there, there had been other towns, small
and medium. They had kept to their plan to lie
low for as long as possible before trying to
slip across the border into Canada.

Scully slowly moved her legs to the edge of
the bed and sat up. She let her legs take some
of her weight, and when she was reasonably
sure that she wouldn't collapse, she stood.
She made her way to the bathroom and slowly
lowered herself to the tub. When she was
seated properly, she leaned over and turned on
the water, letting it run over her hands until
it reached the right temperature ­ nice and
hot.

A bath would be good. A bath would soothe her
back.

She stripped out of her pajamas (which she
could barely remember putting on) and when the
tub was full, eased herself into the water.

Naked, she could clearly see herself. Scully.
The woman she was before she let a hairdresser
cut her hair short. She had dyed it on her
own, in a bathroom much like this one. It went
from flaming red to mousy brown in less than
an hour. She bought a pair of cheap ugly
glasses, cut off her nails, bought her clothes
in a Salvation Army store she and Mulder had
found along the highway and effectively became
Claire Adams, waitress, traveler. Special
Agent Dana Scully was effectively hidden from
the rest of the world. But sometimes they
slipped. She'd call Mulder by his real name
rather than his alias, Ted. He'd call her
Scully. They couldn't afford mistakes, yet
they'd make them. And while she winced when
she heard her real name, she also soared with
joy. God, she loved the way he said her name.
The various ways he said it:

"Scully," whispered against her skin, his
breath coming out harder on the l's and giving
her goose bumps.

"Scccuuullllyyyy!" His panic-filled yell that
let her know he'd always come after her.

"Sculleee," his playful tone, most often
accompanied by a roll of the eyes, most often
used when they were bantering.

"Scully," said directly, pointedly, in an
attempt to get her to open up, to tell him
what was going on.

"Scully," his late-night voice, the one filled
with pain and guilt. It told her that she was
the only one he trusted. It sought her comfort
and she freely gave it.

She heard the door open and close and finished
up her bath.

"Chocolate with sprinkles?" she asked, slowly
making her way back to the bed.

"Of course, only the best for our patient,"
Mulder said, pulling a doughnut out of the bag
and handing it and a napkin to Scully as she
climbed back into bed. She took a bite and
closed her eyes. "Mmmmmm, this is good.
Coffee?" When she opened her eyes, a
steaming cup was in front of her. She smiled
and watched as Mulder took a seat at the table.

Mulder drank his coffee and ate his glazed
doughnut while watching the news, but Scully
could tell that he really wasn't paying
attention. His eyes shifted from the carpeting
back to the screen too often, and his right
leg was bobbing up and down at an alarming
pace.

As if he heard her thoughts, his leg stopped.
He set his coffee on the table and walked to
the bed next to hers and sat. "Scully, what
happened yesterday?" His voice was soothing,
asking her to confide in him. She knew it was
coming. She knew they'd have to talk about
William again. Part of her wanted to. Part of
her wanted to lock it away and forget. It
sounded awful, to forget her own son. But if
she allowed him in, she would go crazy.

"Mulder, I thought I saw him. I thought I saw
our son."

"Oh, Scully," he got up and sat next to her,
his back against the headboard. She sat
forward so he could slide his arm around her
and then she leaned back, putting her head on
his chest.

"Okay?" he asked, worried about her back.

"Yeah, it's okay."

"Good," Mulder nodded.

"I don't know Mulder, but I haven't been able
to stop thinking about him, not since I saw
that baby. Honestly, not since I gave him up."

Mulder ran his hand up and down her arm and
she continued: "I don't know what I was
thinking, but after Spender, after the cult, I
thought I was putting him danger. I thought if
he stayed with me, they'd find him and hurt
him. But now, I don't know. How safe is he?"
Her voice cracked and she took a breath.
"What if they can find him? What if I made a
mistake? What if he's safer with us rather
than away from us?"

"No, Scully, no. You did what you thought was
best for our son. You made a tough decision to
keep him safe, away from all of this. Right
now, I don't think he'd be very safe with us.
I don't know how we'd take care of him given
our situation. After all this," he said,
waving his hand, "we can go find him."

"When? When is this over? When does it end?"

Mulder paused. Didn't say anything for a
couple of heartbeats.

"I don't know."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Honey, let me tell you one thing. It's balls
to the wall here on Saturday mornings. Can you
handle that? You got that in you, you'll be
just fine." Those were the first words out of
Linda's mouth when she sat across from her in
the Double T diner's office.

That was two months ago. Scully had healed and
she and Mulder had left town the following
week for another long stretch of road and an
endless supply of country-western radio
stations.

She was back to stacking dishes up her arms
and carrying trays loaded with plates and
drinks. All without a single twinge. The
shifts went by quickly because the diner was
almost always full. When there was a break,
you could find the waitresses outside sneaking
cigarettes and talking on their cell phones.
Mulder was in the kitchen, whipping up club
sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, burgers and
breakfasts.

Ever since they talked, Scully felt on edge.
She wanted answers but had no way to ask the
questions, no way to contact anyone without
blowing their cover. The one thing that helped
ease the frustration was that they had decided
it was time to cross over to Canada. They'd
still have to keep low, though. The military
might not be able to cross borders, but the
aliens don't adhere to such international
laws. Still, Scully could start research on a
vaccine and they'd finally be on their way to
fighting the impending invasion and getting
their son --­ and their lives ­-- back.

A lofty goal, Scully thought. "You can't even
get half your orders right, what makes you
think you can save the world? Hell, you
couldn't keep your own son safe ... Stop,"
she chided herself.

It's something. It's the start of something,
she thought. And that's a hell of a lot better
than nothing.

"Hey, break time," Chula said, tapping Scully
on the shoulder. "How're your tables?"

"Fine, No. 8 just got their food, 10's ordered
and 7's about to leave," she said, handing
over her order pad.

"Enjoy your 15 minutes," Chula laughed,
thinking she'd found a great joke.

Scully winked at Mulder as she passed the
cook's station on her way into the breakroom.
Once there, she sat and turned the TV to CNN.
She was pulling out her tips and arranging the
bills when she heard the lead story:

"Today, three adoption agencies were burned to
the ground in New Jersey, Oregon and Nevada.
No lives were lost, but records were destroyed
and employees of the agencies could not be
found. In a possible related story, three
families who had adopted children from those
agencies were reported missing by loved ones.
The case is under investigation and we'll
bring you more on this late-breaking story as
soon as we get it. But for now ..."

Scully didn't wait to hear the rest, tearing
out of the room and into the kitchen. "Mulder.
Now." She grabbed his arm and pulled him with
her. The other cooks looked on, curious, but
picked up the slack.

"What? What's going on?"

Once inside the breakroom, Mulder listened as
a reporter interviewed friends of a family
that had gone missing. The cameraman focused
on their ranch-style home and then the
friends. Soon, a picture of the happy family
took up the screen.

"It's not them, Scully. The boy, he's older."

"But it could be. They could be next. We have
to move, now. We have to find out," she said,
moving to pick up the phone on the table.
Mulder lunged for the phone and reached it a
second after Scully. He kept his hand on top
of hers, preventing her from lifting the
receiver.

"Think, Scully. Think. It could be a trap.
This could be exactly what they want. Scully,
we could be walking right into their hands."

Scully shook her head, fully aware that the
tables had turned. Mulder was usually the one
who ran off half-cocked with only a shred of
information to support his cause. Now, she was
the one willing to risk their lives based on a
single report from CNN. "It's real. I can
feel it. Mulder, trust me." She looked at him,
her eyes giving him all the emotion she had
locked away the last year. Slowly, his eyes
changed from fierce determination to
understanding. He moved his hand.
Scully lifted the receiver and dialed the
familiar number. The dial tones hit the local
switchboard and were linked with a switchboard
in Virginia, where the computer tried to match
up the tones with the appropriate residence.
It tried a few times before directing the call
to another computer. This time, it answered in
three heart-stopping tones and then voice:

"I'm sorry, the number you have reached has
been disconnected or is no longer in use.
Please hang up and try your call again."

[END]