In early June, I distributed an author survey to gauge the impact of book bans on authors. The survey specifically sought to look at where or how school and library visit invitations have changed since 2021 — the first year this wave of book bans really caught fire. Are authors seeing their incomes decrease? Are they seeing fewer invites to speak to students out of fear of the content their books include? The results are in.

It is worth noting that this survey had 25 responses. This is significantly more than the agent survey earlier this year, though it is in no way able to represent the population of authors; it can’t even represent the population of authors writing the kinds of books being challenged, censored, and banned right now. The author survey reached an even bigger audience of potential respondents than the agent survey did, and both saw wide distribution through new and legacy industry channels. That said, this array of responses is likely indicative of trends happening more broadly and by those who are writing the kinds of books being targeted.

All survey takers were able to remain anonymous, so commentary will be without attribution. Chances are what was stated, though, represents common themes seen by both the other survey takers and the broader kid lit author world in the U.S. It is worth noting that open-ended questions yielded much smaller response pools, evident as you read through the results.

Because some of the questions were cut off in the graphics produced from the survey, I have duplicated them in full above the response.

Due to the length of this survey, note that this week’s book censorship news roundup is in a separate post. You can access it here, and you’ll also be linked to that post at the conclusion of this one.

This week’s book censorship news post begins with highlighting the results of the author survey on the financial impact they have experienced due to book bans. Because the results were lengthy, that was put into a separate post which is linked here and in the image below. Go dig into those, then come back to this week’s roundup of book censorship news.

We need more stories highlighting what the nonstop book banning and legislated bigotry are doing to the librarians in these positions. A worthwhile read from a school librarian in Utah.“The number of people filing complaints and appeals on books in Greeley-Evans schools [CO] represents less than 1% of the total number of voters who participated in a District 6 ballot issue late last year.” More journalism like this, too, please. The “culture war” is a fake lead because it is not a culture war. It is a small, minuscule minority creating a lot of nonsense.Stamped will be put back on shelves in Pickens County Schools (SC).Meanwhile in New Hanover County School District (NC), Stamped was challenged then approved. That decision is now being appealed.The Old Lyme Public Library (CT) will keep You Know, Sex: Bodies, Gender Puberty and Other Things and Let’s Talk About it: The Teen’s Guide to Sex, Relationships and Being a Human in the teen section of the public library. Where they belong.Charlotte Mecklenburg Schools (NC) continues to hear from Moms for Liberty about the need to ban books throughout the district. Maybe the district should not have invited them for a one-on-one meeting last fall to hear them out. Now Moms think they own the district.“In the waning days of LGBT Pride Month, Clovis City Councilwoman Diane Pearce posted a message on Facebook that she called a ‘public service announcement.’ It warned about LGBT books at the local library.” Here’s your fascism, once again in California.Remember the time a full-grown adult was attempting to break into school libraries in Iredell-Statesville, North Carolina to take photos of the books that she claimed were naughty? (Yes, she’s a Moms member). Well, the district is still dealing with this and turns out, they ban books whenever there is as much as a complaint: “Greg Mueller of Mooresville said he appreciated what progress Mimnaugh and others have made in having books removed from schools in Iredell County but questioned the progress. He proposed that any book that was brought into question by parents be removed from schools while it is evaluated. Superintendent Dr. Jeff James said more than 250 books had been asked to be reviewed by adults. He said books are removed during the evaluation process.” Nice parental grooming of a kid in this one, too.Ludlow School’s board proposed a book ban for the district, and now a Massachusetts senator is trying to step in and stop it.Picture books are not a new target in the book banning effort — they’ve been a big part of it since the beginning of this particular two+ year endeavor. But it’s a worthwhile Washington Post piece regardless, if you’re not paywalled.There is a petition trying to get the librarian who put up a June Pride display at the Athens Public Library (TN) fired from the job.“According to Heger, books like The 57 Bus won’t stop bullying in schools of LGTBQ students, as that is a cultural problem for the school. However, she worries that books like The 57 Bus, which focuses on a non-binary student being set on fire while on a bus and their journey of gender identity, will encourage students to use gender pronouns and potentially identify themselves with the ‘attractive’ LGBTQ lifestyle.” Whether or not The 57 Bus remains a choice book in West Bend High School Junior English classes (WI) will be determined later this month. The complainer doesn’t have kids in the school and doesn’t think the book should even be a *choice* to read. You know, though, not book banning since kids can get the book on Amazon.The Kite Runner is also under fire in the West Bend School District (WI) and yes, our parent without kids in the school is involved.Friends of the Caro Library (MI) are helping raise money to protect the board members who are being pushed for recall. Why are they being recalled, you ask? Because the bigots don’t like that they won’t ban books.After throwing chicken feed at the book review committee, Beaufort County Schools (SC) might not allow the individual to attend more meetings. I don’t know, y’all. One side is defending the rights of LGBTQ+ and BIPOC folks and the other is throwing chicken feed.“A Columbia County judge has sided with the Columbia County School District saying a parent’s opt-out of the school’s sexual education program does not require schools to keep materials related to sexuality out of the hands of her child.” It’s wild. The “we don’t coparent with the government” contingent expects the “government schools” to parent for them. This judge says it does not work that way.Moms for Liberty wants LGBTQ+ books labeled at the Billings Public Library (MT), which is in direct opposition to what libraries do. Libraries do not label beyond (potentially) genre stickers.This is a big deal, given this library’s history, but the Public Library of Enid (OK) will allow an LGBTQ+ history display in October.Bartholomew County Public Library (IN) did a huge audit of their teen section after fielding complaints about the usual suspects, including demands to move some of the teen books to “more appropriate” sections. Turns out, books are where they should be and oh, they don’t have enough LGBTQ+ books there, either.A North Carolina county attempted to take control over their public library. It did not go well, and the reason they wanted to take it over will (absolutely not) shock you: “[C]ommission chairman Jeff Whitson made a motion to begin the process of taking over the library system and making it completely county-operated. He said the purpose was to ensure that there was no bias shown to any religious, political, or ethnic platform. The motion was tabled and sparked a heated debate as many residents believed the motion was in response to the library’s Pride display in June.” (Update: the motion did not pass!).An update on our pal Gavin Downing in Kent, Washington, as he prepares for another school year resisting book bans.Unpregnant will be under review with the Nixa School Board (MO) once again.A new bill in North Carolina is a book banner and public school hater’s dream, wherein leaders can be removed easily and librarians can be prosecuted.I am paywalled for this story, and that’s unfortunate since it’s also (what passes for good) news. The Indian Valley Public Library (PA) will not be defunded over LGBTQ+ books.I had no idea since 2021 that over 20 books had been banned or censored in the Waukesha School District (WI).Under a new proposal in Hempfield Area Schools (PA), who cares about expertise? “Potential new books coming into Hempfield Area School District libraries could first be reviewed by the public before going on school shelves.” Cool.It’s not just the U.S. dealing with all of this. In parts of Canada, it’s been brutal, and that’s been especially true in the South Central Regional Library in Manitoba. They’ve dealt with the crisis actors and the city council just found a solution: appoint some of themselves to the library board to ensure the dirty books aren’t in the kids section. “The City’s resolution instructs their two appointed board members to exert influence as members of the SCRL Board of Directors to create a policy, whereby graphically sexually explicit books be moved from the children’s section to another section of the library as appropriate so that children will not stumble across them, but they remain available to parents who wish to use them as an educational resource.” That’s not how this works.The Oconee County Library Board of Trustees (SC) voted to remove the YA book Flamer from the YA section and move it to the adult section. That…is still censorship.10 of the 30 folks who showed up at the Yankton, South Dakota, public library board meeting spoke about the library’s Pride month display. Most spoke in favor of it. Y’all, keep this up.Finally, let’s go back to Canada for a moment. They released their country’s most banned books of 2022 — noting, too, the largest uptick they’ve seen. Top of the list? Gender Queer. You’ll see some U.S. favorites here and some new ones, sure to start causing crisis preparations from the bigot contingent soon.

Péter Esterházy once wrote that Péter Zilahy is the white raven of Hungarian literature who can observe the world each time as if for the first time, always fresh and original. While it’s labeled a novel, The Last Window-Giraffe is essentially uncategorizable, a hippogriff of a creation fashioned from fragments of history, autobiography, and wild invention. How such a wealth of elements—from childhood memories to political atrocities to the poignant evocation of the correspondence between sexual awakening and the deaths of dictators—could be gathered and spun into such a coherent narrative is a kind of aesthetic miracle.

Zilahy uses the Hungarian alphabet to present a wonderful mix of historical facts, poetry, and visual images, an approach inspired by the time he spent in Belgrade in 1996, when citizens took to the streets to protest Slobodan Milošević’s electoral fraud. The Last Window-Giraffe evokes many memories of my own past in the former Yugoslavia. There’s a wizardry in Zilahy’s ability to shrink an entire historical epoch to human scale while at the same time elevating ordinary experience to mythic significance. This is intellectual alchemy of the highest order, executed with wit and compassion. Zilahy can murder a sacred cow and canonize an unknown victim of totalitarianism in a single sentence.

H is for:
három puszi = three kisses
háború = war
harag = anger
halál = death
hatalom = power
híradó = news bulletin
hazudnak = they’re lying

U is for:
ur = space
ur = blank
ur = nothingness

An early-summer, late-afternoon light was catching a porcelain figurine of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus on the windowsill of Johnnie’s Italian Specialties, the twenty-eight-year-old family-owned restaurant in South Philly where, in May, I dialed up my personal hotspot, hoping to get tickets to the Taylor Swift concert taking place in the city later that night. My cheesesteak sub was dry and insufficiently cheesy and entirely beside the point—it was a formality, if a regionally appropriate one, meant to justify my seat at this funky restaurant as my sister and I refreshed four different ticket resale websites waiting for prices to drop. We were not two of the lucky 2.4 million who had gotten tickets to the Eras Tour when they’d gone on sale several months earlier, in a rollout so vexed and disorderly it caused an investigation by the U.S. Justice Department into antitrust violations by Ticketmaster and Live Nation.

At first, this didn’t bother me. I do not have the patience to wait in something called a virtual queue, and also I have a job. So I’d resigned myself to the fact that I would not be attending the Eras Tour, Swift’s 131-show survey of her ten studio albums—which I suppose we now call eras and not albums—and the logical, world-beating end point of her willful evolution from gee-whiz country darling to too-big-to-fail pop supernova. But then, in March, the Eras Tour commenced, and for several weeks thereafter my Twitter feed was overrun with clips from the show, which runs close to three and a half hours, includes forty-four songs, and is structured episodically as a Homeric celebration of Swift’s discography. It looked like the sort of thing I’d regret missing, the premise of a memory I could tell my kids or at least my friends’ kids about. 

Nine days earlier, my sister had texted me to see if I’d be down to drive to Philadelphia from New York the day of the concert on a lark. “Idk how I feel about that,” I wrote back. “Is that a thing?” I am constitutionally risk averse, and the idea of driving there and failing to get tickets was less attractive than not having them at all. But Swift herself once said that nothing safe is worth the drive, and my sister had done her due diligence. On TikTok, she told me, a whisper network of unticketed Swifties were documenting their journeys to whichever city Swift was playing that night, scooping up the remaining tickets at 5 or 6 P.M., when scalpers realized they could not sell them for $2,500 a pop. Not unjustifiably, Swifties get a bad rap. They are defensive and belligerent, boastful about streaming numbers and record sales and tour profits, which is a function of Swift’s own valedictorian disposition. But they are also funny, resourceful, canny creatures of the internet whose parasocial hungers Swift not only treasures but responds to, like a benevolent monarch. 

It was Swiftie plaintiffs who, in righteous indignation at price gouging and incompetence more generally, forced Ticketmaster executives to appear before the Senate Judiciary Committee earlier this year. (It was also Swifties who forced me to witness Amy Klobuchar interpolating the lyrics to “All Too Well” in a pandering screed against the ills of corporate consolidation.) Swifties make Twitter accounts, like @ErasTourResell, to sell available tickets at face value to real fans, thereby keeping them out of the hands of scalpers. “LA SWIFTIES ,” goes one tweet, which is best read in the voice of an auctioneer. “We have a seller …” When Swifties demanded additional tour dates in neglected cities, Swift, who had initially overlooked Singapore, responded with six of them. And on TikTok and other sites, they document and live stream the Eras Tour rigorously for absent fans, so much that I could find out, from an account called @ErasTourUpdates, that Swift changed her costume for the 1989 portion of the concert in Cincinnati—from a beaded lime green top and skirt to an identical set, but in fuchsia—thirty seconds after she appeared on stage.

$1.99 Man Made Monsters by Andrea L. Rogers Get This Deal

$1.99 The Iron King by Julie Kagawa Get This Deal

$1.99 When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb Get This Deal

$2.99 Famous In A Small Town by Emma Mills Get This Deal

$1.99 The River Has Teeth by Erica Waters Get This Deal

$2.99 Everything You Wanted to Know About Indians But Were Afraid to Ask: Young Readers Edition by Anton Treuer Get This Deal

$2.99 Salt and Sugar by Rebecca Carvalho Get This Deal

$1.99 The Great American Dust Bowl by Don Brown Get This Deal

Do cups have souls? If you look at Margot Bergman’s portfolio in our Summer issue, you might be tempted to say yes: the cups she has painted, from various vantage points and in bright colors, seem filled with life. Bergman, who was born in 1934, has been painting for nearly her whole life. She is best known for her series Other Reveries, which features collaborative portraits painted over artworks she has saved from flea markets and thrift stores. Each painting is layered with decisive, bold paint strokes, revealing a face latent with layers of emotions. They are at once beautiful, frightening, humorous, and welcoming. Who knew that cups could contain similarly human emotion? We talked about the joys of painting, the female form, and of course, what drew her to cups in the first place.

—Na Kim 

INTERVIEWER

Much of your work revolves around faces, and especially female figures. When did start painting these?

On August 3, 1917, Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary for the first time in two years—a small notebook, roughly the size of the palm of her hand. It was a Friday, the start of the bank holiday, and she had traveled from London to Asheham, her rented house in rural Sussex, with her husband, Leonard. For the first time in days, it had stopped raining, and so she “walked out from Lewes.” There were “men mending the wall & roof” of the house, and Will, the gardener, had “dug up the bed in front, leaving only one dahlia.” Finally, “bees in attic chimney.”

It is a stilted beginning, and yet with each entry, her diary gains in confidence. Soon, Woolf establishes a pattern. First, she notes the weather, and her walk—to the post, or to fetch the milk, or up onto the Downs. There, she takes down the number of mushrooms she finds—“almost a record find,” or “enough for a dish”—and of the insects she has seen: “3 perfect peacock butterflies, 1 silver washed frit; besides innumerable blues feeding on dung.” She notices butterflies in particular: painted ladies, clouded yellows, fritillaries, blues. She is blasé in her records of nature’s more gruesome sights—“the spine & red legs of a bird, just devoured by a hawk,” or a “chicken in a parcel, found dead in the nettles, head wrung off.” There is human violence, too. From the tops of the Downs, she listens to the guns as they sound from France, and watches German prisoners at work in the fields, who use “a great brown jug for their tea.” Home again, and she reports any visitors, or whether she has done gardening or reading or sewing. Lastly, she makes a note about rationing, taking stock of the larder: “eggs 2/9 doz. From Mrs Attfield,” or “sausages here come in.”

Though Woolf, then thirty-five, shared the lease of Asheham with her sister, the painter Vanessa Bell (who went there for weekend parties), for her, the house had always been a place for convalescence. Following her marriage to Leonard in 1912, she entered a long tunnel of illness—a series of breakdowns during which she refused to eat, talked wildly, and attempted suicide. She spent long periods at a nursing home in Twickenham before being brought to Asheham with a nurse to recover. At the house, Leonard presided over a strict routine, in which Virginia was permitted to write letters—“only to the end of the page, Mrs Woolf,” as she reported to her friend Margaret Llewelyn Davies—and to take short walks “in a kind of nightgown.” She had been too ill to pay much attention to the publication of her first novel, The Voyage Out, in 1915, or to take notice of the war. “Its very like living at the bottom of the sea being here,” she wrote to a friend in early 1914, as Bloomsbury scattered. “One sometimes hears rumours of what is going on overhead.”

In the writing about Woolf’s life, the wartime summers at Asheham tend to be disregarded. They are quickly overtaken by her time in London, the emergence of the Hogarth Press, and the radical new direction she took in her work, when her first novels—awkward set-pieces of Edwardian realism—would give way to the experimentalism of Jacob’s Room and Mrs. Dalloway. And yet during these summers, Woolf was at a threshold in her life and work. Her small diary is the most detailed account we have of her days during the summers of 1917 and 1918, when she was walking, reading, recovering, looking. It is a bridge between two periods in her work and also between illness and health, writing and not writing, looking and feeling. Unpacking each entry, we can see the richness of her daily life, the quiet repetition of her activities and pleasures. There is no shortage of drama: a puncture to her bicycle, a biting dog, the question of whether there will be enough sugar for jam. She rarely uses the unruly “I,” although occasionally we glimpse her, planting a bulb or leaving her mackintosh in a hedge. Mostly she records things she can see or hear or touch. Having been ill, she is nurturing a convalescent quality of attention, using her diary’s economical form, its domestic subject matter, to tether herself to the world. “Happiness is,” she writes later, in 1925, “to have a little string onto which things will attach themselves.” At Asheham, she strings one paragraph after another; a way of watching the days accrue. And as she recovers, things attach themselves: bicycles, rubber boots, dahlias, eggs.

Counterpath Press’s series of now thirteen computer-generated books, Using Electricity, offers a refreshing alternative to the fantasia of terror and wonder that we’ve all been subjected to since the public release of ChatGPT. The books in this series present us with wide-ranging explorations into the potential interplay between human language and code. Although code-based work can be dauntingly hermetic to the noncoder, all computationally generated or mediated writing is the result of two fundamental decisions that remain in the hands of the human author: defining the source text(s) (the data) and choosing the processes (the algorithms or procedures) that operate on them. A text generator like ChatGPT uses brute force on both sides—enormous amounts of text vacuumed from the internet are run through energy-intensive pattern-finding algorithms—to create coherent, normative sentences with an equivocal but authoritative tone. The works in Using Electricity harness data and code to push language into more playful and revealing imaginative territory.

Many of Using Electricity’s authors mobilize computational processes to supercharge formal constraints, producing texts that incessantly iterate through variations and permutations. In The Truelist, Nick Montfort, the series editor, runs a short Python script to generate pages of four-line stanzas comprising invented compound words. “Now they saw the lovelight, / the blurbird, / the bluewoman facing the horse, / the fireweed.” The poem is a relentless loop—repeating this same structure as it churns through as many word combinations as it can find. Rafael Pérez y Pérez’s Mexica uses a pared-down, culturally specific vocabulary and a complex algorithm to generate short fairy tale–like stories. One begins, “The princess woke up while the songs of the birds covered the sky.” The skeletal story structure swaps different characters and actions as the variations play out. It’s like watching a multiversal performance of the same puppet show.

I find that often I am not reading these works for meaning as much as for pattern, which is at the heart of how computation operates. Allison Parrish’s fantastic Articulations brings us frighteningly deep into the core of computational pattern searching. Drawing from a corpus of over two million lines of poetry from the Project Gutenberg database, she takes us on a random walk through “vector space.” Put simply, this is the mathematical space in which computers plot similarities between different aspects of language—the sound, the syntax, whatever the programmer chooses. The result is a dizzying megacollage/cluster-mash-up of English poetry in which obsessive and surprising strings constantly emerge—a vast linguistic hall of mirrors. “In little lights, nice little nut. In a little sight. In a little sight, in a little sight, a right little, tight little island. A light. A light. A light. A light. A light.”

Many of these works are indebted to the wider traditions of procedural, concrete, conceptual, and erasure poetry, while making use of code’s unique possibilities for play, chance, variation, and repetition. Stephanie Strickland’s Ringing the Changes draws its mathematical ordering process from a centuries-old practice of English bell ringing. In Experiment 116, Rena Mosteirin plays a game of translation telephone by running Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 116” through multiple languages in Google Translate and back into English.

On July 11, 1903, a long narrative poem called “The Miner’s Song” by Karl P. Effield appeared in the Natal Mercury, a weekly newspaper in Durban, South Africa. Effield—who claimed to be from Boston—was actually none other than the Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa, then a high school student in Durban. This was the first of Pessoa’s English-language fictitious authors to appear in print—the beginning of Pessoa’s unusual mode of self-othering. The adoption of different personae allowed him to go beyond a nom de plume, and take on unpopular, controversial, and even extreme points of view in both his poetry and prose.

While in South Africa, where Pessoa lived between 1896 and 1905, he sent another work to the Natal Mercury under the name of Charles Robert Anon, attempting without success to publish three political sonnets about the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905. Pessoa’s early fictitious authors wrote in English, French, and Portuguese—the three languages he continued to use until he died, at age forty-seven. These first invented writers, which he would go on to call “heteronyms,” composed loose texts mostly in the form of first drafts; but others, like Bernardo Soares (whom Pessoa created around 1920) or the major heteronyms (Alberto Caeiro, Álvaro de Campos, and Ricardo Reis in 1914), produced a very solid body of work. By the time Pessoa was twenty-six years old, he had already invented a hundred literary personae.

Alberto Caeiro was the central fictitious figure of Pessoa’s literary universe. Born in Lisbon on April 16, 1889, Caeiro died of tuberculosis in 1915. Pessoa said that Caeiro poetically arrived in his life on March 8, 1914—which in a famous letter to the Portuguese literary critic Adolfo Casais Monteiro he described as a “triumphal day.” The poet and novelist Mário de Sá-Carneiro was one of Pessoa’s closest friends in Lisbon, and Caeiro (perhaps a pun on Sá-Carneiro’s name) seems to have come into being as a joke: “I thought I would play a trick on Sá-Carneiro and invent a bucolic poet of a rather complicated kind,” wrote Pessoa in the same letter. Caeiro’s “death” seems to have been influenced, in retrospect, by Sá-Carneiro’s suicide in Paris on April 26, 1916. As Pessoa wrote in the review Athena in 1924, “Those whom the gods love die young.” By that time, he had produced the body of poems for which Caeiro would be remembered—The Keeper of Sheep.

For our series Making of a Poem, we’re asking poets to dissect the poems they’ve published in our pages. Leopoldine Core’s “Ex-Stewardess” appears in our new Summer issue, no. 244.

How did this poem start for you? Was it with an image, an idea, a phrase, or something else?

Often a poem begins wordlessly. It’s as if the text is a reply to some cryptic spot in the back of my brain that I have become attracted to. I’m alerted to the presence of something that isn’t solid. It has more to do with feeling, tempo, scale, and temperature. I’m so focused on that emanating region that, even though I’m using words, my experience—the start of it—is wordless and meditative.

How did writing the first draft feel to you? Did it come easily, or was it difficult to write? (Are there hard and easy poems?)

Three years ago, I biked into a curb and fell on my head. When I got up, I couldn’t remember where I was, so I called an ambulance, which drove me to the nearest hospital, which was apparently one block away. The emergency room doctors told me there was nothing they could do. My eye was swollen, but my face seemed otherwise normal, and they wouldn’t know if anything was wrong with my brain unless they ran a CAT scan, which would expose me to toxic radiation. I asked if there were any nontoxic tests they could run for free. They offered to run a blood panel, which would let me know if I had any STIs. I let them bind my forearm, which had nothing to do with my head.

The next day, the doctor sent a message through the hospital’s online portal. My tests all came back negative, but they had also run a nutrient panel, and I was deficient in B12. I started googling. “Fell off bike low B12?” Everything that came up was random; I might as well have strung together any other combination of five words. I wanted to google more, but the doctor had told me that the internet was bad for my concussion. So I forgot about my deficiency and tried hard to make my body do nothing, which was the only way for it to heal.

Things got better. I started to feel normal, and eventually I was allowed to google as much as I wanted. Years went by. And then one day at a café, I met a man—a comedian—who told me horror stories about his life as a former vegan. His hair had fallen out, he was exhausted, his mood was always sour, and it was all because of vitamins: he could never get enough of them. While he complained, I felt my hairline receding; I was a vegan, too. And when I thought about it, really thought about it, my personality was on the decline. I was always struggling to make my days have meaning, and I wore my meaninglessness like a divine premonition. (“I have a feeling,” I texted a friend, “that something bad, really bad, is going to happen.”) I remembered the emergency room doctor’s diagnosis and felt the empty place inside of me where all the B12 supplements should have been, leeching into my bloodstream.

I tried to make a doctor’s appointment, but I had moved to California, and my insurance only covered care in New York. My body was on the West Coast, but all the tools I had for reading it were on the East. I told my father I was coming home to visit him, and when I arrived, asked him to drop me off at urgent care.