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Amy Elizabeth Bishop & Erin Koehler

An Interview with Karin Lin-Greenberg

Karin Lin-Greenberg earned her MFA from the University of Pittsburgh, an MA from Temple University, as well as an AB from Bryn Mawr College. Her short story collection, Faulty Predictions, was the winner of the 2013 Flannery O’Connor Award in Short Fiction from the University of Georgia Press. Her stories can also be found in literary journals such as The Antioch Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and the Berkeley Fiction Review. She is currently an assistant professor at Siena College, where she teaches creative writing.

Erin Koehler: We think the title Faulty Predictions encompasses the entire collection well. Can you talk about how you determined the collection’s title?

Karin-Lin Greenberg: I wanted the book’s title to be the title of one of the stories in the collection. I looked at all the titles and thought about whether there was one title that could encompass the themes and ideas in the entire collection, and I decided “Faulty Predictions” made the most sense. In each of the stories, characters set out with a particular set of expectations, and by the end, their “predictions” about their lives are turned upside-down. Generally, the characters learn or understand something about their own lives by the end of the story that they didn’t know at the beginning. Usually, something they didn’t expect to happen occurs over the course of the story.

Amy Elizabeth Bishop: The settings in Faulty Predictions are diverse—from Ohio to Illinois to Kansas, North Carolina, from college towns to big cities. How did you choose the settings for your stories? And how important is setting to you as a writer?

KLG: The settings are all places where I’ve lived or imagined towns that are similar to places I’ve lived. I’ve moved a lot in the last decade, and I wanted to incorporate each place I lived in my fiction. Some sense of setting is always important for me. I tell my students that we need to know a general sense of where things are taking place; if we don’t know, we often get scenes where characters are talking to each other, and readers can’t picture where the characters are. I’ve heard this called Talking Head Syndrome. In some of the stories in the collection, like “Bread,” I don’t specify a particular setting because place isn’t a terribly important element of the story. However, we know that some scenes are set in the protagonist’s house, others in a car, and others in a grocery store. In other stories, like “Miller Duskman’s Mistakes,” setting is incredibly important. I think in that story setting drives the plot in many ways. I taught for three years in a small town in Ohio that was very similar to the imaginary Morningstar, Ohio, of “Miller Duskman’s Mistakes.” The only outsiders in the real-life version of Morningstar were the people who came to teach at the college. I wanted to capture a sense of what it felt like to be an outsider in a small town, and I wanted to come up with a character who might be perceived as even more of an intruder than the academics who came to teach at the college. I thought a character who tore down an established business in Morningstar and opened a restaurant that was very out of place in this town could create some active dislike from the people who’d lived in the town their entire lives.

EK: The characters in your collection are unique, quirky, even, yet they feel very real too. We especially loved the characters in “Miller Duskman’s Mistakes” and this small town perspective. Are your characters often born out of real life experiences, people you know, or do they come to you in other ways?

KLG: Mostly my characters are imagined. They might be sparked by something that happened in real life or something that I observed or read or heard about, but for the most part I like to make up characters from scratch. I don’t think I’ve ever written a character that’s completely based on either myself or someone I know. I might take one or two traits from real life people, but I’d say about ninety to ninety-five percent of each character I write comes from imagination.

AEB: Character names seem important in your stories. In “Prized Possessions,” in particular, names are meaningful. How do you choose character names?

KLG: I’m mostly concerned with names matching who the characters are. I think about the ages of the characters and where they live and the time period in which the story takes place, and I try to choose names that feel right. I often find myself writing near bookshelves filled with books, so when I’m stuck for a character name I’ll look at the spines and the names of the authors and a lot of the time my eyes will rest upon either a first name or a last name that seems to fit the character I’m writing. Sometimes I’ll just do a Google search for something like “Most popular last names in North Carolina in 1990” and see what comes up. Sometimes I’ll poke around on baby name websites, but I don’t care too much about the meanings of the names; for me, these websites are just a way to scroll through lots of names. I generally try not to use names that are symbolic, but in “Prized Possessions” I believed the characters would name their twins Hope and Chance. So that was more of a decision to characterize the parents than to have these kids stand for these abstract ideas.

EK: A number of the conflicts in your stories take place within families or in friendships, which can be fraught in similar ways. In “The Good Brother,” for instance, adult siblings, who are thrown together for a surprising errand, come to understand each other. In the title story, Hazel and the narrator reach a similar moment of understanding. In “Prized Possessions,” there is resolution for the protagonist in both her family and her friendship. Can you talk about writing these moments and the role of humor in them?

KLG: I think the humor often arises from the situations the characters are in. What’s important for me in stories is to have two things going on, an upper story and a lower story. The upper story is simply where stuff happens. Sometimes people call this the actual plot. I try to be aware of making sure there’s enough going on in scene in my stories. I ask myself whether characters are doing things, whether they’re talking to each other, whether they’re in conflict in some way with each other. I want to make sure they’re not just sitting around thinking and pontificating. The lower story is where there’s some sort of emotional resonance to the stuff that happens in the story, and this can also be called the emotional plot. So the upper story is where the humor happens in action, but the lower story is where there are moments of understanding and resolution.

AEB: The stories in Faulty Predictions are told in a variety of points of view. “Editorial Decisions,” begins the collection with the first person plural, and you use first and third limited elsewhere. How do you choose POV?

KLG: For me, point of view is generally attached to character. If I’m working with a character with a distinct voice, I’ll usually gravitate toward first person. In “Editorial Decisions” I had a group of characters who were all thinking and acting in the same way, so I thought first person plural made sense as a way to tell this story. I think about second person as a distancing point of view, sort of like a displaced first person. I generally don’t think of it as a point of view that puts the reader in the character’s shoes. I chose second person narration for “Designated Driver” because I thought the protagonist would have a hard time telling the story in first person. It’s easier for her to not quite take responsibility for her missteps and instead push these actions onto a “you” character.

EK: There’s a lot of action in these stories—people going places, seeking out other characters or things, getting injured, etc. What types of scenes are most difficult for you to write, and which comes the most naturally?

KLG: First drafts of any sort of scene are always difficult for me. I tend to overwrite and indulge in tangents, and then in revision I cut away and keep only what’s important. I like the revision process a whole lot more than I like the process of getting the first draft of the story down. I enjoy writing dialogue, but I find in revision I can usually cut away at least half of the dialogue I initially wrote, which tightens up the subsequent drafts.

AEB: Your collection won the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction in 2013. Can you talk about the process of putting together a collection? Did you submit Faulty Predictions to other contests?

KLG: I started submitting a collection of stories to contests for book-length collections starting in 2006, when I graduated from my MFA program. We had to complete a manuscript as a final project, and my manuscript was a collection of stories. After I graduated, I submitted the stories that I wrote during my MFA to contests, but I was also writing new stories. I kept submitting to contests every year, and each year I would take out some of the older stories and swap in newer stories. I think the collection got stronger over the years as I kept working and writing and swapping out stories. In 2009 I was a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor, which gave me a lot of hope and encouraged me to keep going even though by that point I’d gotten dozens of rejections for the collection. By the time the collection won in 2013, it probably looked about ninety percent different from the collection I started submitting in 2006. “Faulty Predictions” itself was written in 2012, so it was a really new story. Actually, three of the stories, “Faulty Predictions,” “Late Night With Brad Mack,” and “Half and Half Club” were all written within a few months before I submitted the collection in May. Those are the three stories in the collection that weren’t first published in journals because they were so new that I didn’t have time to get them published before the book went to press.

I learned a lot over the years about putting together a collection. At first, I thought that if a story had been published in a journal it belonged in the collection. So for many years I submitted collections that I don’t think held together thematically or in terms of voice or tone. Then I started thinking about collections as a whole and studying collections I liked. Even if the stories in these collections were about different kinds of characters and were set in a variety of places, they generally all felt like they belonged together in some way. So I got rid of some stories from my collection that didn’t fit in with the other stories. These were mainly stories that were more driven by voice than by character or plot and also some stories where I was more concerned with lyrical language than plot. In this collection that I submitted in 2013, I tried to include stories that felt tonally similar and had some humor to them, even if they were about serious topics.

AEB: We’re struck by the story about “Prized Possessions” being rejected numerous times before winding up in the prestigious journal Epoch. How do you know when to push on with a story and how do you know when to give up?

KLG: A big issue with “Prized Possessions” was that I submitted it too early. It was a story I was excited about, and I’d written multiple drafts of it and just couldn’t wait to submit it. It really wasn’t finished yet; I still had a lot of things to figure out with it, and I should have gone through a few more drafts before sending it out. I’m a lot more patient now as a submitter; I’m willing to put a story down for a while and revisit it before I send it out. “Prized Possessions” is the oldest story in the collection, and it started as an exercise in a class I took in graduate school. I think I often submitted work too early while I was a student.

Ultimately, figuring out when to push forward and when to quit has a lot to do with how much I believe in the story. And, maybe more importantly, whether I can stand to keep working on it. I’ve worked on some stories for five or six years before they got published (of course this isn’t steady work, but rather returning to the stories every few months). I think it’s also important to take another look at a story that’s been rejected a lot of times and see if I can figure out whether there’s something that’s simply not working with the story. And, if I can figure this out, the next step is seeing if I can figure out how to revise what’s not working. If I’m really lucky, some kind editors might jot down a few notes about why they rejected the story, and if I find that several of the notes say similar things, that might also help to lead me to what to revise.

EK: What are you working on currently?

KLG: I’m currently working on a bunch of things. I’ve been writing stories set in upstate New York that I hope will one day work together in a collection. I had fun putting together a collection that jumps around in terms of settings, but I’m now interested in writing a more cohesive collection. I’m also working on a novel that grapples with the question of what it means to be successful. And since I teach these genres and am constantly reading and thinking about them, I’m also writing some poetry and some creative nonfiction.


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Erin Koehler

Boats Anchored by Mycelium

I peeled like citrus & found a crown
made of shark teeth in a place too deep
for sea divers. Here—
we take our potions for breakfast & breakdown
boxes for lunch.
We search for seeds sown by clown fish, dropped
from the mouths of eel spit grins—we sift salt
through our toothed gills, become fruiting bodies under mushroom caps.

We hop beehives, drip
ourselves in oil & honey—thrive anger into tumbleweeds.
We scrape against champagne
bottles; fear dying in a swarm
like a wasp: is it better or worse to be part of the excess?

My tongue is black licorice: a mechanism
made of traps, mice chasing
tails into my open mouth, cast ashore
by driftwood—

                we ambulance across ice. Asleep, I
record miles of roots on my arms.

The Charadriiform on Matters of State

I am milked out of answers     And fossil
stiff     An affair of seafoam and kelp,
my tongue to test the waters first
—this fire     This fire (chewed through
rigging oil—) strong     Dissonance here,
how to unravel and let drift, the isthmus
flat and pink     Implosions are like that: taut
scars of lights broken and humming open
Open, then a raking through low tide,
carved faces: the horror of reflections: a
gull squawking; goes on squawking


More than Receipts & Hollow Pockets

Mama: made of pollen—her body: contained
with anther & dull smudged eyes. She is the lift-bridge
of continents: I cannot find the edges of her, they sprout

daffodils in the woods behind our house. Bulbs drop
like secrets out of telephone calls: Mama

curls herself into cords—I stroke leaves & she strokes
wires. Daffodils keep pushing

up with poison ivy, quarantined from the garden.
Mama wants to play bumblebee—can only wasp

her way among them. I watch her
lift petals & hand them out like flyers—sending them further
than sundial shadows; further than continental crust.

When they finally settle it is the sigh
of a dial tone & scattered powder.

Erin Koehler is currently a senior at SUNY Geneseo studying English (Creative Writing) with a Native American Studies minor. After college, Erin hopes to find a career writing children’s literature and being creative. Bilbo Baggins is her literary kindred spirit because of his love of comfort, good food, and things that grow.

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Erin Koehler

The Phototroph

My mother was the first person to teach me about plants when I was younger. She taught me to rotate plants on a windowsill, so the entirety could receive equal sunlight. It wasn’t until I took AP Biology my senior year of high school that I learned when a plant isn’t directly in the sun it leans towards the light—a phenomenon called phototropism. A year later, the summer my biology teacher died, the sun beat down like a fist. When I started working at Welch’s Greenhouses in May, the weather was brutally hot and dry. By July the ground was parched, cracked like the face of an old woman.


I arrive at eight in the morning and my water bottle is already dripping with condensation. I unlock the old barn door with the key hidden under a cement block on a shelf holding a variety of flowerpots. The barn’s small interior is illuminated, showing assorted plant fertilizers, antique gardening tools, and a plexiglass case holding collectable toy tractors. Grabbing a thin, white rope, I pull the main barn door open like a garage. After it’s up, I switch the sign on the small door to open.

When I first walk in I can smell the musty garlic, and the dryness of the dirt that has become part of the barn like the walls. The dust is a permanent feature of the cold, cement floors; no amount of sweeping can loosen its grip on the pavement. I quickly find the light switch and flick it on, hoping no spiders have spread webs across the spaces where I need to walk. The barn is connected to a small greenhouse, longer than it is wide. I open the greenhouse doors to let some morning air circulate the humidity. I reach above my head to feel the dirt in the hanging plants. The soil is slightly damp but could use more water. The hanging plants are attached to a water system of tubes and PVC pipes that my boss, Bill, built. I turn the nozzle and soon the rows of well-trimmed petunias, lobelia, million bells, verbena, fuchsia, and geraniums are dripping from a satisfying soak.

Pulling a garden hose out from under a wire bench by the wall, I water each row carefully and diligently. Trays of vibrant New Guinea impatiens and sweet potato vines beg for a drink from my hose, while clusters of pink and yellow lantana stand firm, pleading for their leaves to be stroked, releasing the odd citrus smell that they hold. I pass water quickly over the begonias, which tend to dry out more slowly, and give a little more attention to the gerbera daises and dahlias—their colorful faces spread open like decorative fans.

The summer heat is already causing my forehead to sweat. Wiping it away I wander back into the barn, which, despite the overhead lights, is cool and dark. I take a small drink from my water bottle, the condensation from the ice piled inside dripping down my arm. I glance at the clock on the barn cash register. It’s almost nine; the first customers will most likely be coming soon. I walk outside towards the plants that are left out on the tables overnight.


My mother, an early riser, was always in the kitchen when I would come downstairs in the morning to be greeted with a fresh pot of black tea. Not being much of a morning person until I eat breakfast, we habitually greet each other and don’t talk much, existing peacefully within a quiet morning lull. Although I can’t be certain, I’m sure the morning I learned of my teacher’s death was a similarly usual morning. I can see the sliding door in the kitchen pushed open wide—the stained glass my dad crafts in his basement workshop clanging familiarly to let in the morning air before the thick July heat comes in with the rising afternoon. I can see my mother’s mug, steaming before her, despite it being the middle of summer. There is no doubt in my mind that July 29, 2012 was like any other shining Sunday, until my sister came down from her bedroom, her hair tousled from sleep, and her phone brightly lit in her hand.

I continue the process of watering plants in front of the greenhouse and barn, where more plants sit on long wide tables. I give the peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, and broccoli a good drink. When I reach the herb table I rub the soft, thin lavender leaves, smelling the sweet oil left on my fingertips. Next, I pinch the top leaves of the sweet basil to keep them from going to seed and to help them get bushier at the base of the plant. As I water, I pick a mint leaf and pop it in my mouth, tasting it bitter and fresh between my teeth.

As the summer progresses Welch’s doesn’t require more than a few employees a day,and I often work alone, but I don’t feel lonely; I can see the life in each plant slowly bending stems and leaves in subtle movements. I feel responsible for them—a mother of thousands. Being by myself gives me time to think and relax, even if the labor can be arduous: weeding, lifting heavy bags of mulch, moving full trays of flowers. After a few months of working at Welch’s, I start to find that working in the greenhouse is therapeutic for me, giving me time to reflect on myself, a skill I need to focus more energy on. Only the sporadic customer, needing plant replacements or else starting their garden late, breaks my solitude.

This is one of those days where I am alone with the plants. Bill is out in the back fields harvesting corn, cucumbers, zucchini, and garlic to sell at the stand out front. Even this early in the morning I can feel my arms beginning to tan from the heat of the sun. I wipe the back of my neck; thankful I’ve had the insight to pull my thick, curly hair into a bun. In retaliation of my darkening t-shirt lines, I push my sleeves up to my shoulders.



My sister, Kara, has always been very thin and tall. Her height causes her to naturally slouch her posture often. She did this when she stood in the kitchen, leaning slightly in the doorway, her gray t-shirt baggy over pajama shorts.

“Kayla just texted me, and she said Mrs. Boyum’s been in an accident.”

My mother looked up from her Kindle, while I do the opposite and stare into the last dregs of my cereal floating in warm milk.

“How would Kayla know that?” My mother questioned Kayla’s gossiping nature, thinking she would have heard through the parental grapevine sooner.

“They’re really close neighbors,” my sister continued. “They think she was hit by a drunk driver.”

“What? How?” I asked in shock. “It’s nine in the morning. Was that last night?”

Kara shook her head slightly and looked down to reference her phone again.

“No, Kayla said it was this morning. She had to go help watch the kids.”

In my mind I couldn’t put two and two together. Why would someone be driving drunk in the morning? My mother groaned, ran a hand through her short brown hair.

“From the night before?”

Her question was met with silence. I don’t remember if my sister knew at that moment if Mrs. Boyum had died yet, or if I learned later that day. But I know that when I found out she was dead, I felt nothing but disbelief.


A single car rolls from the busy road into the gravel parking space as I finish watering. The entire community was shaken by Mrs. Boyum’s death. My bosses told me they could see the sirens and police tape from their house located next door to Welch’s. For weeks afterwards, people couldn’t stop talking about the tragic circumstances. As I turn off the hose I try to forget a customer who, a week or so earlier, had babbled on about the accident, as if the whole ordeal was idle gossip. It’s such a shame—she was so young—and a mother, too. When she asked me, did you hear about that? I shook my head. I pretended not to know her—my own teacher. I couldn’t tell this stranger about the grief that bounced around my thoughts like a hive of trapped wasps—the grief that I ignored for fear of what I would say or do if it escaped.

My throat tightens as I straighten a tray of marigolds. My mind shifts to the last time I saw her. We ran into each other at Wegman’s. She was with her son and daughter, and she told me she was proud of my AP test results. I had worked hard in her class. Biology was not one of my strongest subjects, and I managed a 4—the second best score on the exam. I push a fat, wet slug from the underside of the black plastic tray as I remember the pride beaming from her round, kind face. Short blonde hair framed her smile—the golden glow I remember of her laugh, her being alive.

I push past the marigolds. I think of her love for her children, how she was absent for a few days of class when her six-year-old son accidentally cut off the tip of his finger while moving a piece of equipment in his karate class. I can imagine her radiance, her enthusiasm shining as she tried her best to explain the complexities of the science of living things to a class of mostly uninterested high school students.

I find myself settling in with the pots that need deadheading—pulling off the caps of flowers where the petals are dying—to make room for new growth. I don’t want to think of Mrs. Boyum’s body being hit from behind; first by the man on his motorcycle, and a second time by the man’s girlfriend in her car. They had both been out late the night before, and they were both still drunk. I fight the thought of how, because of their recklessness, her body was flung into the road—hit by motorcycle, run over by car—and how right after, both fled the scene. I don’t want to think of how she was killed on this very street, not a half-mile from where I stand gently pinching away the wilting, sticky heads of petunias. And even as I fight back the haunting grasp of this knowledge in the blazing, burning sunlight, I cannot think of her as anything but whole.

As the dust from the car in the driveway settles, I wave hello to the small old woman who starts to amble slowly around, looking at the flowers. After about a half hour, the old woman comes into the barn, pulling one of Welch’s worn teal wagons behind her. I smile politely as I start to fill a few discarded boxes with her plants for easier transport home. As I box them up, I can’t stop myself from squeezing one of her snapdragon heads, imagining a toothy mouth opening wide. I note she has two trays of bright scarlet geraniums.

“These are one of my favorite colors that we have,” I offer for conversation.

She nods. “They’re much more beautiful than the ones I had before. The heat’s already killed the ones I planted earlier this season.”

“The weather’s been all over the place this year,” I say in reply.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Like people.”

I’m taken aback. I’m not sure why her response strikes me as so peculiar, but there is something of a cryptic truth to it that makes me feel uncomfortable but equally content, like dipping a foot into an undisturbed pool to break the glassy surface.

“These will look much better,” I say, gesturing to the flowers I’m almost done boxing up.

“Thank you, they’re for my husband’s grave.”

I give her a smile that I hope is sympathetic. This particular comment doesn’t surprise me—many people come to the greenhouse to buy flowers for grave plots. I swallow, and think about how Mrs. Boyum’s family will most likely be doing the same.

“We all age when we lose our mates—you know it breaks your heart and everything,” the old woman continues. “I was in a crowded room but I was alone. I lost him three years ago and it still feels like yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer feebly. How can I console a woman I don’t even know?

“This would have been our sixtieth year together. That’s a long time; I still miss him everyday. I find myself falling asleep in the afternoons when I never did before.”

I look at her and imagine she has the type of honesty that’s really only found in the elderly. Perhaps she lives alone, spending the remainder of her days giving away parts of her life to strangers, like tart rhubarb pie, one slice at a time. This woman is probably more than four times my age, and yet she is telling me of her sorrows, perhaps trying to make something of them. Or maybe she tells this story to everyone and this moment only means something to one of us.

After I count her change we walk to her car, and I help her load the geraniums into the trunk. The petals are dark cherry red and as silken as thin velvet. I resist the urge to snap a wilted stem that I missed when I was boxing them earlier. I remember to thank her for stopping by and turn back towards the barn, still feeling the old woman’s presence thick like the heat clinging to my sweaty arms, knocking at the buzzing wasp’s nest inside me.

When her car rolls out of the driveway, the dry dust kicked up by the wheels settles in its wake.


After my sister told us what she knew of Mrs. Boyum’s “accident,” as I kept calling it to myself, the day passed as usual. I pushed Mrs. Boyum to the back of my mind where I could pretend to ignore it, but where it sat throbbing like the engine of a machine. I called one of my best friends who was two states away at her summer job as a camp counselor, and who had taken Mrs. Boyum’s class with me. Our conversation was short and informational. She was shocked, and towards the end her words caught in her throat. I was still unable to let myself feel the weight of the morning’s events and tried to carry on as usual. After I hung up the phone, I thought of the candlelit vigil my high school had promptly organized for grieving students and members of the community on a place called Angel Hill—dubbed so five years prior, when a tragic car accident killed five girls from my town who had just graduated from high school. I knew a few people who were going there to meet up and grieve together, but I couldn’t stand the thought of sharing my shock and sadness in such a public way.

I was not at Welch’s the day of Mrs. Boyum’s accident, nor did I realize until later that the scene was only a few hundred feet away from my place of work. All I knew at first was that she had been riding her bicycle down Route 250 when she was hit—but that route is a main road, twisting and cutting through almost three towns. I suppose as human beings we view tragedy from a distance, far from our own personal connections and ourselves. So I never even imagined the possibility that she was killed so physically close to where I work, less than ten miles from my own home.

A week or so earlier, my family got the hardwood flooring in our house redone. We weren’t allowed in the two rooms while the lacquer was drying, but the Sunday Mrs. Boyum died we were permitted to go into the rooms for the first time. Kara and I marveled at the new shine, the floors polished and open without the large woven rugs that had covered them since we were very young. The open space was too inviting and I think at that moment my sister and I felt like we were small children again. I lay down across the new wood, smelling the clean fresh tang of the gloss. My sister tottered above me and grabbed my bare ankles. Before I knew it, she was pulling me across the shiny surface.

Kara pulled me in circles on the floor until I was gasping with laughter. I was dizzy from the motion and the childish absurdity of it all. We fed each other’s laughter until I couldn’t breathe, my sides aching. Suddenly, mid-spin, I felt something slowly shift deep inside me, and I was too out of control to stop it.

In an instant, my laughter was distorted into deep, guttural sobs. The spinning came to a halt. Kara stood over me, unsure of what to do. And there was my moment of private grief, sprawled out across the freshly dried varnish of our new floors.

Erin Koehler is currently a senior at SUNY Geneseo studying English (Creative Writing) with a Native American Studies minor. After college, Erin hopes to find a career writing children’s literature and being creative. Bilbo Baggins is her literary kindred spirit because of his love of comfort, good food, and things that grow.

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