I screamed at a seven-year-old boy to be quiet when he whispered that my patient was about to die. Ten seconds later, the EKG flatlined. But the real terror started when he grabbed my hand, looked me dead in the eye, and whispered, “Doctor, you’re next.”

Chapter 1: The Countdown

The trauma bay smelled like copper and rubbing alcohol. It was a smell I usually didn’t notice after twelve years in the ER at Chicago General, but tonight, it was suffocating. The fluorescent lights hummed with a headache-inducing frequency, casting long, harsh shadows against the tiled walls.

“We’re losing him!” I shouted, locking my elbows and compressing the chest of the forty-year-old construction worker on the gurney. “Push two milligrams of epi! Someone get me a fresh rhythm check!”

My team was moving like a well-oiled machine, but the chaos was deafening. Monitors were screaming, nurses were shouting out vitals, and beneath it all was the wet, rhythmic sound of compressions. I was sweating through my scrubs, my triceps burning with every thrust.

That’s when I saw him.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight years old, standing just inside the heavy curtain separating Trauma One from the hallway. He shouldn’t have been there. This was a restricted zone. He was wearing a faded, vintage Ninja Turtles t-shirt and holding a dirty plush rabbit by one floppy ear. He looked completely out of place, a stark contrast to the blood and sterilized steel surrounding us.

“Hey! Get that kid out of here!” I barked at a passing nurse, not breaking my rhythm on the chest.

The boy didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch at my yelling. He just stared at the dying man on the table. His eyes were wide, dark, and utterly devoid of fear. He looked like he was watching a boring documentary, not a man fighting for his last breath.

“He’s going to stop,” the boy said. His voice was soft, but somehow, it cut through the mechanical whine of the defibrillator charging.

“Security!” I yelled, frustration spiking. “Get him out! Now!”

“Ten,” the boy whispered.

I paused compressions for a rhythm check. The monitor showed ventricular tachycardia—a jagged, chaotic line. We still had a chance. “Charging to two hundred! Clear!”

“Eight,” the boy counted.

“Clear!” I slammed the paddles down. The body arched violently off the table.

“Six.”

The monitor went chaotic. “Still V-tach! Go again! Push Amiodarone!”

“Five.”

“Kid, shut up!” I screamed, losing my professional composure. The sheer audacity of this child counting down a man’s life was unhinging me. “Get out!”

“Four.”

I was charging the paddles again. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a mirror of the panic in the room. Why wasn’t security here? Where was the mother?

“Three.”

“Clear!”

“Two.”

Shock delivered.

“One.”

The jagged lines on the monitor suddenly smoothed out. A single, high-pitched tone filled the room. The flatline.

I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat. My hands hovered over the patient’s chest, the heat radiating off his skin fading fast. The timestamp on the monitor blinked. The exact second the boy stopped counting.

The room went dead silent. The nurses looked at the monitor, then at me, their faces masks of confusion.

I slowly turned my head toward the curtain. The boy was still standing there. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t sad. He just blinked once, clutched his rabbit tighter, and turned to walk away into the busy corridor.

“Time of death,” I choked out, my voice trembling in a way it never had before. “19:04.”

Chapter 2: The Variance

I stripped off my latex gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin with more force than necessary. My hands were shaking. Not the adrenaline shake—I was used to that. This was different. This was a deep, primal chill settling in my marrow, like I had swallowed a cube of ice.

I marched out of the trauma bay, ripping my scrub cap off and letting my hair fall messy around my face. “Who is that kid?” I demanded, grabbing the arm of the charge nurse, Brenda.

Brenda looked frazzled, holding a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other. “Who? The little guy in bed four? That’s Leo. He’s here for a laceration on his arm. Fell off his bike.”

“Why was he in Trauma One?”

Brenda frowned, checking her chart. “He wasn’t, Sarah. He’s been in bed four with his mom the whole time. I just gave him a popsicle not two minutes ago.”

“I just saw him,” I snapped, my voice rising. “He was standing right there. He… he counted down the code, Brenda. He knew the exact second the patient was going to die.”

Brenda gave me that look—the one that says you’ve been working a double shift, go drink some water and sit down. “Sarah, honey, bed four is down the hall. We’ve been short-staffed; security is backed up. Maybe he wandered. But he’s just a kid. You’re seeing things.”

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I spun around and walked straight to bed four.

The curtain was half-open. Inside, a young woman with tired eyes and a frantic energy was scrolling on her phone. Sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs, was the boy. Leo. He was licking a red popsicle, the Ninja Turtles shirt stained with a drop of juice.

He looked so normal. So innocent. The kind of kid you’d see at a playground.

I stepped inside. “Hi there.”

The mother looked up, startled. “Oh, is the doctor ready for stitches? We’ve been waiting an hour.”

“In a minute,” I said, my eyes fixed on Leo. “Leo, did you go for a walk just now?”

Leo stopped licking the popsicle. He looked up at me with those same dark, unreadable eyes. “No.”

“I saw you,” I pressed, trying to keep my voice gentle but firm. “In the other room. With the sick man.”

“Sarah,” Brenda whispered from behind me, “don’t scare the kid.”

Leo tilted his head. He dropped the popsicle into the trash can beside the bed with a wet thud. Then he hopped off the mattress and walked over to me. He was so small I had to look down.

He reached out and took my hand. His skin was ice cold, like he had been outside in a Chicago winter without a coat.

“I didn’t go for a walk,” Leo whispered. “I just heard the noise.”

“The noise?” I asked, crouching down to his level.

“The noise of the string snapping,” he said.

I froze. The ambient noise of the ER seemed to fade away. “What string?”

“The one holding him here,” Leo said simply. Then he squeezed my hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for a seven-year-old. “Yours is getting really thin, Dr. Sarah.”

My blood ran cold. I pulled my hand away as if I’d been burned. “Excuse me?”

“It’s fraying,” he said, pointing a small finger at my chest, right over my heart. “Like an old rope. You should probably call your mom.”

“Leo, that’s not funny,” his mother scolded, though she looked confused and slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, Doctor, he says weird things when he’s tired. He has an active imagination.”

“I’m not tired,” Leo said, never breaking eye contact with me. “I just see the strings.”

He looked past me, toward the hallway where a stretcher was being wheeled past.

“That one is thick,” he noted, pointing at an elderly woman on a gurney. Then he pointed to a young, healthy-looking orderly—Mike, a guy I’d known for three years, a guy who played pickup basketball on weekends—pushing the cart. “His is gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” I whispered, my mouth dry.

“It snapped five minutes ago,” Leo said. “He just doesn’t know he’s falling yet.”

At that exact moment, Mike let go of the gurney. He grabbed his chest, his face twisting in agony, and collapsed to the linoleum floor with a sickening thud.

Chapter 3: The Diagnosis

Pandemonium erupted.

“Code Blue! Hallway!” Brenda screamed, vaulting over the nurses’ station desk.

I stood frozen in the doorway of bed four. I watched as my colleagues swarmed Mike. I saw them rip his shirt open. I saw the compressions start. But I wasn’t looking at Mike. I was looking at Leo.

He hadn’t moved. He was watching the chaotic scene with that same terrifying, passive curiosity.

“How did you know?” I whispered. The air in the room felt heavy, pressurized.

Leo looked back at me. “I told you. The string broke.”

My heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy. This was impossible. I was a woman of science. I believed in physiology, in pathology, in cause and effect. I did not believe in invisible strings or little boys who could predict death. But I had just watched a healthy twenty-five-year-old man drop dead seconds after this child predicted it.

I grabbed Leo’s shoulder, perhaps a little too roughly. “Come with me.”

“Hey!” his mother yelled, standing up. “Where are you taking my son?”

“I need to… I need to check his vitals,” I lied, my voice cracking. “In the exam room. Just for a second. Stay here.”

I didn’t wait for her permission. I ushered Leo into the empty supply closet next door and shut the door, locking it. It was quiet in here, the shelves stacked with gauze and saline creating a claustrophobic bunker.

I knelt down, grabbing Leo by the shoulders. “Leo, listen to me. What is happening? Who are you?”

“I’m Leo,” he said, sounding bored. He reached out and touched the stethoscope around my neck. “You’re scared.”

“Yes, I am scared!” I hissed. “You just killed Mike!”

Leo frowned, genuinely offended. “I didn’t kill him. I just saw it. You don’t blame the weatherman for the rain, Dr. Sarah.”

The logic was simple, childish, and horrifyingly sound. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my hands. “Okay. Okay. You said… you said my string is fraying.”

“It is,” Leo said. He reached out and traced a line in the air near my chest. “It’s holding on by a thread. It’s grey. Ugly.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Am I sick? Do I have cancer? An aneurysm?”

Leo shook his head. “Strings don’t break because you’re sick. They break because you’re done.”

“Done?”

“Done with your story,” Leo said. “Or because you cut it yourself.”

I stared at him. “I’m not suicidal, Leo.”

“Not that way,” he said. He looked at the supply shelf, distracted by a box of colorful bandages. “You cut the people who hold you up. When you cut everyone else off, gravity gets heavy. The main string can’t hold all the weight alone.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Call your mom. He had said that earlier.

I hadn’t spoken to my mother in six years. Not since the day I left home, screaming that I never wanted to be part of her suffocating, small-town life again. I had buried myself in work, in the ER, in the adrenaline of saving strangers while ignoring the people who actually knew my name.

“Is that why Mike died?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Did he cut people off?”

“No,” Leo said. “Mike’s string just ran out. It happens. But yours…” He looked at me, his eyes filled with a sudden, terrible pity. “Yours is snapping because you’re pulling too hard.”

“How long?” I asked. The question hung in the air, heavy and final.

Leo looked at the digital clock on the wall. 19:15.

“I don’t know time like that,” he said. “But it’s getting thinner every time you lie.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re lying right now,” Leo said calmly. “You’re lying to yourself that you’re okay. You’re lying that you don’t miss her.”

Suddenly, a loud banging on the door made me jump.

“Doctor? Open up! You can’t just lock a patient in there!” It was Brenda. And behind her, the angry voice of Leo’s mother.

“Leo,” I whispered, desperation clawing at my throat. “How do I fix it? How do I stop it from snapping?”

Leo shrugged. “You can’t tie a knot in a broken string, Sarah. You have to grab a new one.”

“Open this door!”

I stood up and unlocked the door. Brenda burst in, looking furious. Leo’s mom pushed past her, grabbing Leo and pulling him into a hug.

“We are leaving,” the mother spat at me. “I’m reporting you. This is insanity.”

“Wait,” I said, reaching out.

But they were already moving. Leo looked back at me over his mother’s shoulder as they walked down the hallway. He didn’t wave. He just held up his hand, fingers spread.

Five.

He curled his thumb in.

Four.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my hands trembling so bad I almost dropped it.

It was my sister. We hadn’t spoken in two years.

I answered. “Hello?”

“Sarah?” Her voice was wrecked, choked with tears. “Sarah, you need to come home. It’s Mom. They found her… she collapsed. They don’t think she’s going to make it through the night.”

I looked down the hall. Leo was gone.

“Three,” I whispered to myself.

Chapter 4: The Severance

“Sarah, you can’t just leave!” Brenda was chasing me down the ambulance bay, her nursing clogs slapping against the wet concrete. “We have a full waiting room! You’re the attending!”

I spun around, my keys digging into my palm until it hurt. “My mother is dying, Brenda. I am leaving.”

“But—”

“If you try to stop me,” I said, my voice dropping to a register I didn’t recognize, “I will quit. Right now. I will walk out and never come back.”

Brenda stopped. She saw something in my face—maybe the same thing Leo had seen. The fraying rope. The desperation. She took a step back, her expression softening from anger to concern. “Go. I’ll call Dr. Evans to cover. Just… drive safe.”

I didn’t wait. I jumped into my car, the engine roaring to life.

As I peeled out of the parking lot, my chest tightened. It wasn’t anxiety. It was a physical, crushing pressure, like a band of iron being torqued around my ribs.

It’s fraying, Leo had said.

I merged onto I-90, the rain turning the highway into a blur of red taillights and glare. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white.

“Three,” I whispered.

I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. 20:00. The drive to my childhood home in Rockford was ninety minutes. If I drove fast, I could make it in sixty.

But it wasn’t the time I was worried about. It was the vision.

As I sped past a sedan in the slow lane, I glanced over. I saw the driver—a middle-aged man singing along to the radio. And I saw it. A thick, luminous silver cable extending from his chest, disappearing up through the roof of his car and into the dark sky. It pulsated with light.

I blinked, swerving slightly. You’re hallucinating, Sarah. It’s stress. Sleep deprivation.

I looked at the next car. A woman applying lipstick in the rearview mirror. Her string was there too, but it was dimmer. Thinner.

I looked down at my own chest.

There was nothing but a dull, grey mist. And in the center of it, a single, frayed thread, vibrating violently with every beat of my heart. It looked like a piece of yarn that had been pulled and pulled until the fibers were snapping one by one.

Pop.

I felt it. A sharp sting in my left ventricle.

“Oh god,” I gasped, clutching my chest with one hand while steering with the other.

“Two.”

I slammed on the gas. The speedometer climbed. 80. 90. 100.

I wasn’t racing to save my mother anymore. I was racing to save myself. Leo was right. I had cut everyone off. My ex-husband. My friends from med school. My sister. My mother. I had sterilized my life to be the perfect doctor, the unshakeable rock. But a rock doesn’t have strings. A rock just sinks.

And I was drowning.

Chapter 5: The House of Ghosts

The house looked smaller than I remembered. The siding was peeling, the oak tree in the front yard overgrown. It looked like a place that was holding its breath.

I parked crookedly in the driveway and ran through the rain. The front door was unlocked.

“Mom?” I shouted, bursting into the foyer. The smell hit me instantly—lavender and dust. The smell of my childhood.

” quiet!”

My sister, Emily, stepped out of the living room. She looked exhausted. Her hair was messy, her eyes rimmed with red. She was wearing the same flannel pajamas she’d probably been wearing for days.

She stopped when she saw me. Her eyes narrowed. “You came.”

“Is she…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The pain in my chest flared again, a hot poker between my ribs. I stumbled, grabbing the bannister for support.

“She’s still here,” Emily said cold, crossing her arms. “No thanks to you.”

“Emily, please,” I wheezed. “I’m here now.”

“You’re here because you’re scared,” Emily spat. “I can see it in your face. You’re not here for her. You’re here because you don’t want to feel guilty.”

“I’m here because I’m dying!” I screamed.

The silence that followed was heavy. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly.

Emily stared at me. “What?”

“I…” I straightened up, trying to breathe. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Or a breakdown. I don’t know.”

Emily looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in years. She didn’t see the confident Dr. Sarah, the Chief Resident, the success story. She saw her little sister, shaking and pale.

She sighed, the anger deflating out of her. “Come in. She’s in the den. We moved a hospital bed in there.”

I followed her. As I walked behind her, I saw it.

Emily’s string.

It was thick, vibrant, glowing with a warm gold light. But it was tattered in places, scarred. And it was attached to something inside the den. It was pulling her forward.

We walked into the room. It was dimly lit. In the center, surrounded by machines that beeped with a rhythm I knew too well, lay my mother.

She was skeletal. Her skin was the color of parchment. But as I approached the bed, I didn’t look at the monitors. I didn’t check the IV drip or the oxygen saturation.

I looked at the string.

It was barely there. A wisp of smoke rising from her chest, drifting upward, thinning out into nothingness.

“Mom,” I whispered.

I fell to my knees beside the bed. I reached out to take her hand. It was frail, the bones prominent.

“She hasn’t opened her eyes since yesterday,” Emily said softly, standing behind me. “The hospice nurse said it could be hours. Maybe minutes.”

I looked at the grey thread on my own chest. It was vibrating in sync with the wisp on my mother’s chest. They were resonating.

“One,” I whispered.

Chapter 6: The Transfer

“What are you counting?” Emily asked.

“Time,” I said. “We don’t have any left.”

I looked at my mother’s face. I remembered the last time I spoke to her. I had told her she was suffocating me. I told her I didn’t need her small-town worries dragging me down. I had cut the string with a pair of surgical shears, precise and brutal.

“Mom,” I choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The monitor beeped faster. Her heart rate was spiking.

“Sarah, do something!” Emily cried. “You’re a doctor!”

“I can’t fix this!” I yelled back, tears finally spilling over. “Medicine doesn’t fix this!”

Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, expecting Emily.

But the hand was small. Cold.

I whipped my head around.

Leo was standing there. In my mother’s den. In Rockford. Ninety minutes away from the hospital.

He was wearing the same Ninja Turtles shirt. He was holding the rabbit.

“Leo?” I gasped. “How…”

Emily looked at me, terrified. “Sarah, who are you talking to?”

“The boy,” I said, pointing. “He’s right there!”

“There’s no one there, Sarah!” Emily grabbed my arm. “You’re scaring me!”

I looked back at Leo. He ignored Emily. He walked right up to the bedside. He looked at my mother, then at me.

“It’s time to choose, Sarah,” Leo said. His voice echoed, not in the room, but inside my skull.

“Choose what?” I cried.

“Gravity,” Leo said. “You can let her go and float away with your broken string. You’ll drift until you stop. Just like Mike.”

He pointed to the ceiling.

“Or?”

“Or you can tie a knot,” Leo said.

He reached out and touched my mother’s hand, then pointed to mine.

“But you have to give her some of yours,” he said solemnly. “You have to bleed a little.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Tell the truth,” Leo commanded. “The real truth. The one that hurts.”

I looked at my mother. Her breathing was hitching. The wisp of smoke on her chest was flickering out.

I squeezed her hand. I squeezed it so hard I thought I might break her fragile bones. I closed my eyes and stripped away the doctor, the ego, the anger.

“I wasn’t busy,” I sobbed, my voice raw. “I wasn’t working all those holidays. I was alone. I sat in my apartment and ordered takeout and pretended I was important so I didn’t have to admit I was lonely. I missed you every single day. I’m just a scared little girl, Mom. Please. I need you.”

The room seemed to vibrate.

Suddenly, a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. It wasn’t static. It was agony. It felt like my chest was being ripped open.

I screamed, clutching my heart. The grey thread on my chest snapped.

I fell forward, my forehead resting on my mother’s hand. Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision. I was falling. The orderly, Mike, had fallen. Now it was my turn.

So this is it, I thought. One.

The monitor let out a long, continuous tone.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

“Mom!” Emily screamed.

But as I drifted into the dark, I felt something. A tug. A sharp, violent yank at the center of my being.

I gasped, sucking in a lungful of air that tasted like ozone and lavender.

I opened my eyes.

The flatline tone was still ringing. But my mother’s hand… her hand was squeezing mine back.

Chapter 7: The Knot

The flatline tone stopped, replaced by a chaotic, uneven rhythm.

Beep… pause… Beep…

“She’s back!” Emily shrieked, scrambling to hit the silence button on the alarm. “Sarah, look! She’s back!”

I wasn’t looking at the monitor. I was looking at the air between us.

The grey mist that had been leaking from my chest was gone. In its place was a thick, braided cord of light. It wasn’t smooth or perfect like the ones I had seen on the strangers in the cars. It was gnarly, scarred, and looked like it had been tied together in a frantic, desperate double knot. One end was buried deep in my sternum; the other was fused to my mother’s chest.

I took a ragged breath, the oxygen flooding my lungs feeling sharp and cold. The crushing weight on my ribs had vanished, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache—the kind of good pain you feel after a muscle tears and begins to knit back stronger.

“Sarah?” Emily was shaking my shoulder. “Are you okay? You looked like you passed out.”

I blinked, the room coming back into focus. The smell of ozone faded, leaving only the scent of lavender and old dust.

I looked into the corner of the room. It was empty. No little boy in a Ninja Turtles shirt. No rabbit. No countdown.

“I’m here,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. I squeezed my mother’s hand again. “I’m right here.”

My mother’s eyelids fluttered. They didn’t open fully, just a crack, revealing a sliver of hazel. Her lips moved, dry and cracking.

“Sarah,” she rasped. It was barely a sound, more a shape of air.

“I’m here, Mom,” I said, leaning my forehead against the metal rail of the bed. “I’m not leaving.”

“You… came back,” she breathed.

“I had to,” I said, tears dripping off my nose onto the sterile hospital sheets. “My string was too short.”

She didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tone. She managed a weak, lopsided smile, then drifted back into a sleep that looked natural, not like the prelude to death.

“What did you do?” Emily asked, staring at the monitor where a steady, strong sinus rhythm was now marching across the screen. “That’s… medically impossible. She was flatlining for twenty seconds.”

I stood up, my legs shaky but holding. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I didn’t do anything medical, Em. I just stopped fighting gravity.”

I walked to the window and looked out at the rain-soaked street. The world looked different. Brighter. The streetlamp outside wasn’t just a light; it was a hub. I could see faint, shimmering lines stretching from the house across the street to the one next door. Connections. Tethers.

We aren’t islands. We are a net. And I had almost cut myself out of it.

Chapter 8: The Tether

Two weeks later, I was back at Chicago General.

I hadn’t quit. Leo was wrong about that part—or maybe he was just testing me. I didn’t need to leave medicine; I just needed to practice it differently.

“Dr. Sarah?”

I looked up from my chart. It was Brenda. She looked wary, like she was approaching a bomb that might go off. “We have a Jane Doe in Bed 6. Overdose. No ID. Police are on their way.”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

I walked into Bed 6. The girl was young, maybe twenty. She was unconscious, intubated, her skin the color of ash. The nurses were working around her, adjusting drips, checking output.

I stood at the foot of the bed. I didn’t look at the monitors first. I looked at her chest.

Her string was there. It was a terrifyingly thin filament, vibrating with a high-pitched hum of tension. It wasn’t attached to anything. It was flailing in the air, whipping around like a live wire looking for a ground. She was alone. Completely, utterly untethered.

“Dr. Sarah?” the nurse asked. “Orders?”

“Stabilize her BP,” I said automatically. Then I did something I had never done in twelve years.

I pulled up a stool and sat down next to the bed. I took the unconscious girl’s hand.

“What are you doing?” the nurse asked, confused. “We have three other patients waiting.”

“They can wait,” I said softly.

I held the girl’s hand. I closed my eyes and focused. I imagined my own string—that scarred, knotted, ugly beautiful rope that connected me to a house in Rockford, to a sister who was currently texting me about dinner plans, to a mother who was sitting up and drinking tea.

I visualized lending this girl a little bit of my slack. Just enough to hold her down. Just enough to keep her from floating away into the dark.

I’ve got you, I thought. Grab on.

The girl’s heart rate monitor slowed. The frantic beeping smoothed into a steady rhythm. The flailing filament on her chest calmed down, draping gently over my arm where I held her hand.

I stayed there for an hour.

Later that night, as I was walking to my car in the parking garage, I heard a noise. The scuff of a sneaker on concrete.

I stopped and turned.

Standing by the elevator was a little boy. He was wearing a red hoodie, holding a toy truck. He wasn’t Leo. But he had that same look. That ancient, knowing stare.

He looked at me, then pointed a finger at my chest.

I held my breath, waiting for a number. Waiting for the countdown.

The boy smiled. It was a genuine, toothy smile.

“Nice knot,” he said.

Then the elevator doors opened, and his mother stepped out, grabbing his hand. “Come on, Tyler, let’s go.”

As they walked away, I saw the thick, glowing cable connecting the boy to his mother. It was the brightest thing in the garage.

I got into my car and started the engine. I didn’t turn on the radio. I just sat there for a moment, listening to the steady, strong beat of my own heart, feeling the tug of the people I loved, keeping me safe, keeping me heavy, keeping me here.

I pulled out my phone and dialed.

“Hey, Mom,” I said when she answered. “I’m just calling to say I’m on my way home.”

Do you believe that our connections with loved ones are what actually keep us alive, or is it just biology?

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