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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Precautions: The usual plus mentions of abuse, implied violence, bullying, underage binge-drinking off-screen, OC-centric chapter, OC with an incredibly thick Jersey accent, and the making of a Purple Dragon Punk.
Special precaution: one-sided adult-minor attraction in part of this chapter. There's NO minor-Adult action here or in the future, implied or otherwise. This instance is just a case of two friends separated by a year and the older fighting a crush on the younger that developed when they were still both children...in other words, he's being a responsible adult but it sucks.
Suggested Listening: Breaking Benjamin, "Diary of Jane," The Rasmus, "Save Me Once Again."

13: Raph and Kimber – Scattered Breadcrumbs
Jersey City, a rough neighborhood, June 13, 2007
Never in all of history has a sudden pounding on the front door been a good sign, especially around midnight. To the sixteen-year-old on the outside, however, it seemed her only choice. Left arm cradled close to her chest, right eye bruised and nearly swollen shut, she hammered the peeling wood with all her might. Every now and then, one moss green eye darted around, scanning fearfully for someone who was safely behind bars. Finally, the prayers she never said were answered.
The door opened. “What?!” the tall dark-haired man rasped at her, one hand fisted on the doorframe. Once it hit him what he was seeing, though, his face fell. “My God, Kid,” he swore, his voice scratchy as he scanned the street, “what happened to ya?” Did he think answers would spring up from the army of potholes, she wondered halfway between tears and anger? She sniffed, fighting to contain tears that would only sting.
“Daron,” she asked, her voice hoarse and cracking. “Does Daron Williams live here?” Perplexed, he hollered the boy’s name over his shoulder. Within moments a lanky blond teenager slouched down the hallway. Still clad in his camouflage trousers and ratty black tee shirt from the day before, he knuckled his sore eyes, scowling in annoyance.
“Ron,” he snarked at his stepfather, “whatever it is, I didn’t do it—ask Hun.” All attitude fled when he recognized the brunette on the other side of the front door. “Kimber!” he burst out rushing to her side; as carefully as he could, he led her to the stained sofa in the equally shabby parlor. “What happened?!”
All she could do was cry.
As the night wore on, Daron’s mother joined them in the parlor, the two adults discussing their options. Once Kimber was put to sleep in Daron’s empty bed, he filled his parents in about her abusive father, Doug O'Bryan—more than likely the reason she arrived bruised and battered in the middle of the night. Though Kimberly O'Bryan’s family lived in the same small Missouri town Daron’s family was from, they always spent part of summer break with his relatives in New York. Normally Doug could keep it together while they stayed with his mother, Rosalyn; normally, Kimber and her mother Jenny were safe until they went home. ‘What changed?’ Daron wondered as he studied Kimber’s shivering form from the open doorway of his bedroom.
It wasn’t until morning came that answers were revealed via the early news. Doug O'Bryan’s mother and wife were both in the hospital; Jenny wasn’t expected to live, Rosalyn wasn’t expected to wake up, and one of Manhattan’s many cab drivers was dead. Doug was booked from the ER waiting room—his 'altercation’ with the driver resulted in a massive pileup on Forty-Third when the driver lost control, but, being drunk, Doug was relatively uninjured. According to the news anchor, Kimber had reportedly stayed at Rosalyn’s apartment with a headache but was nowhere to be found. “A headache?” Daron scoffed at the unhearing news anchor. “Her head’s the only thing not aching!”
Across the table, Leeann Williams shook her head, squeezing Ron’s massive, hairy hand for comfort. They were sure it wasn’t exactly legal, but Kimberly wouldn’t be going home. As far as the Williams family was concerned, she was home.
July 4th, 2008, Daron’s Apartment in Jersey City
“C'mon, Daron!” Kimber teased, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. Though she grinned with an innocent joy, Daron’s thoughts were far from innocent—rather, they were centered on the spiky electric blue bangs falling in her eyes, the almost husky tone her voice had developed after puberty, and the way her shirt was far too small and low-cut for her bust size. “Ya gonna miss t'a show!” On the fire escape below, Daron Williams blushed darkly, hiding his face from his long-time friend.
Much had changed in the past year. City life suited the newly-dubbed Kimber Bryant and she’d quickly taken to the city she now lived in. After a year of intense personal training, she’d obliterated her mild Midwestern twang, taking on its sharp, nasal Jersey counterpart with more ease than Daron had when he dropped the bulk of his twang years before. Ron Black’s ongoing lung problems finally claimed his life in early Spring and Leeann fell into a deep depression. When Daron and Kimber found a place of their own, Leeann left Jersey, retreating to the less-complicated Midwest to start over.
Now, three months into Daron’s new life with Kimber as his flat-mate, he was dead certain letting her move in was a drastic mistake. At this rate, he reminded himself harshly, she’d realize he didn’t see her as a friend. It wasn’t a matter of money—he made enough with his 'hacker for hire’ work to support them both. The problem wasn’t Kimber…it was him. It was only a matter of time before his attraction became obvious.
Shaking himself out of his mental grumblings, he clambered up the rest of the creaking steps. Over by the rooftop access shed, she sprawled across a ratty blanket watching the darkening skyline eagerly. Daron stood frozen, stunned as ever by the woman she’d become. No longer was she the nervous, underfed child he’d met in Missouri. Now, she was taller than him and voluptuous, and had more curves than she knew what to do with. Full hips, a full bust, a generous round behind…other than her thick assumed accent and her penchant for baring her cleavage and dying her hair in obnoxiously bright colors with drink mixes, she was almost a carbon copy of his every adolescent dream. Naturally, she was underage and saw him as only a friend.
Without a word, he settled on the blanket beside her, pausing only to tug a flyaway lock of hair and duck the answering swing. As dusk fell, the air filled with an endless supply of sparks and shimmers from celebrating neighbors. Despite the awe-inspiring display around them, Daron’s eyes never left the teenager at his side. Even when a sudden thump sounded at the edge of the rooftop, he couldn’t look away.
“Fancy meetin’ ya here, Shrimp.” Chills raced down Daron’s spine; he knew that voice. His stomach in his throat, he turned to acknowledge the leering blond behemoth perched on the protesting AC unit behind them. On either side of him stood two of his top cronies in their usual attire of camouflage trousers and wife-beater tank tops—twins, one clean-shaven with a spiky purple Mohawk, the other bald with a long braided purple goatee. Both wore their purple dragon tattoo proudly on a bulging crossed arm, the first on the left and the second, the right. As much as Daron feared the mammoth gang leader, it was laughable when Hun traveled with those two. The matching tattoos, faces, and posing postures always reminded Daron of a pair of particularly ugly bookends; he’d taken to calling them 'the Bookends’ in response though they went by the names Lefty and Northpaw.
“H-Hey, Hun,” he greeted nervously as Kimber swung herself into an upright sprawl; even with his psychotic older half-brother staring him in the face, he found it hard not to stare at Kimber’s generous cleavage. Jailbait, he reminded himself silently. “What’s up?”
Hun spared him not even a glance. Instead, he shoved off the groaning hunk of metal and approached Kimber, circling like a giant blond buzzard. “Ya neva- told me ya gotta gal,” Hun jeered. “Here I thought ya was hopeless—she’s a lookuh.”
“She,” Kimber warned him harshly, “is right here. Don’t talk 'bout me like I ain’t here, Dillweed.” Failing to read the warnings in Daron’s eyes, she rose to her feet and started toward Hun. “Leave Daron alone, Jerk.”
“Kimber, don’t,” Daron muttered to her, pulling her back. “You can’t take him!” Though she halted in her steps and turned to stare at him, he knew it wasn’t over his advice. Grey-green eyes scrutinized him, making him feel even shorter than he already was. A moment later, they fastened on Hun in the same calculating manner. Daron knew she was seeing their familial resemblance; though she dropped out of High School when she ran away, he knew she was no fool. Silence fell while she analyzed what she’d noticed, drawing the obvious conclusion.
“Daron’s my kid brutha,” Hun smirked in answer to her unspoken question. The younger man wasn’t at all surprised when he found himself yanked backward into a foul-smelling armpit, one sweaty fist ground into his messy blond curls. “He’s neva mentioned ya.”
Kimber sniffed, her frown haughty. “Funny,” she drawled, “he’s neva mentioned you, either. Can’t blame'im, really…ya stink like a gym bag.” Despite the jab, Hun laughed. Without warning, he let Daron fall from his armpit to the roof, the impact eliciting a sharp yelp.
As Kimber rushed to his side, the Purple Dragon leader and his two cronies turned to leave. “We’ll be seein’ ya, Kimbuh,” Hun tossed back as he clambered down the fire escape.
Once Daron and Kimber were alone again, Daron squeezed her shoulder, fighting the urge to haul her in and hold her until the world was no longer crazy. Jailbait, he reminded himself again—jailbait who didn’t see him that way. “Don’t let him get to you,” he urged instead. “He’s always been like that—ignore him and he’ll leave you alone.” Several bursts of color later, he realized she never answered him. “Kim?” he asked, turning to scan her for any sign of unease.
She gazed stoically out across the cityscape, through the fireworks, through the smog and smoke, all the way through to the bay. She was prone to such moments; sometimes Daron wondered if she was seeing anything at all when they occurred. Of course, he reminded himself as he turned back to the pyrotechnic display before them, if he’d led her life, he’d want to check out of reality on occasion, too.
“I couldn’t protect ya.” The sudden admission caught him off-guard and he whipped around to stare at her. Her eyes were still trained on the skyline, still seeing nothing at all.
“What?” Daron burst out. “We—He—I—” Finally, he found the right pronoun. “Kimber, you don’t have to protect me—I’m a grown man! I don’t need protecting! Hun’s an asshole,” he reasoned gruffly, “but he’s not about to pound me for no reason. I don’t need protecting from my own family.”
“T'at’s what I said,” she shot back, grey-green eyes accusing from behind vibrant fringe. His arguments died in his throat. “I always told ya I di'nt need protectin’, always told ya my Daddy ain’t gaw'na hurt me…an’ ev'ry time, I was lyin’ t'rough my teeth. He was hurtin’ me long buhfor we met, Daron.” Finally, she turned away, fuming down at the gravel covered rooftop. “Blood don’t save ya—kin can still hurt ya. I’m livin’ proof'a t'at.”
“Even so, Kim,” Daron urged quietly, “it’s not up to you to protect me…I can protect my own self.” He tried not to take offense at her loud laughter; his worried frown twisted into a familiar lemon-sucking scowl. “What?”
“Protect ya'self?!” she almost cackled. “Ya kiddin’ me, right? Ya’re what, five-foot-nuthin’ an’ one-fiddy soakin’ wet? He’d tear t'rough ya like paypuh!” He slumped over, glaring out at the city below with his chin propped on his fists.
“Thanks for the vote'a confidence, Kimber,” he grumbled into his knuckles. “I’m so glad we had this talk.”
October 8th, 2008: Hun’s penthouse
The view from his penthouse never got old, Hun thought to himself with a self-satisfied smirk. And to think all it took affording it was sending his army of punks 'grocery shopping’ for valuables to fence. The massive blond leered like a snake, recalling the message he received that morning; his two o'clock appointment was late.
As though summoned by Hun’s recollections, Lefty popped his purple-spiked head through the open door. “She's—” The punk’s words were cut off by a sudden well-aimed blow to the temple. Stepping over his stunned body, Kimber stalked into the obnoxiously lavish room. Without a word she perched on the arm of the sofa across from Hun, one long booted leg crossed over the other, blatant disdain in her smoke-lined eyes.
“Well, well,” Hun leered, saluting her with his can of beer; she crinkled her nose but said nothing. “If it ain’t Kimbuh Bryant. What can I do ya fer, Kimbuh?” For a moment, she hesitated, visibly working herself up to the task and appalled at his roving eyes.
“What’ll it take ta keep ya 'way from Daron Williams?” she asked sharply. Hun gave a low, dark laugh, his piggish black eyes trailing all the way from hers to the toes of her boots, then back up twice as slowly.
“Depends,” he answered. “What’s on offer?” The litany of threats and insults her eyes shot at him intrigued him; he would definitely enjoy breaking her.
January 1st, 2010, Daron’s Apartment
Daron heard Kimber’s approach even before she made it into the building, and he smelled it before she made it to their door. When she burst through the front door belting out misrecited lines of “Auld Lang Syne,” he stood in the kitchen fighting to hold his temper. No more was she too young for his attentions—now she was too young for the tequila she reeked of. On unsteady feet, she ambled toward him with a manic grin.
“'ey, Dar'n!” she slurred, trying to sock him in the arm and missing by almost a foot; she didn’t notice. “Guez-what?”
“Why are you drunk?” he asked coldly, his arms crossed and his eyes sharp. Oblivious to the tension in the air, she shrugged, weaving toward the fridge with a crooked shrug.
“T'a guys wah-nned ta sell-ebrate,” she bragged between hiccups and giggles. “I got per—per—” She paused a moment, her brow crinkling in confusion as she searched for the word; when it appeared, she burst out in another grin. “Per-moted!” she crowed. “Hunny per-moted me, Dar'n!” Growing increasingly frustrated, Daron latched onto Kimber’s bare shoulder and purple-dyed hair and steered her to the kitchen table. “Ow!” she whined when he sat her roughly in the nearest chair. “T'at hurt!”
“Shuddup,” he snapped. A moment later he slammed down a bottle of water and a mug of coffee with nothing more than a barked, “Drink.”
“But I’ve a'reddy drunk?” she argued stupidly. “Don’ wanna drink more.”
“Kimber,” he warned. After some mumbled smarting off, she finally obeyed. “The fuckin’ hell were you thinking, Kimber?! You’re nineteen! Nineteen and you’re completely fucking SLOSHED! The Hell’s goin’ on in your head?!” It made no sense, but for once sitting still was taking more effort than moving; he lunged up out of his chair and paced the tiny kitchen like a miniature caged lion. “Why?!”
“I tol’ ya,” Kimber glared at him, barely able to hold the mug of coffee. “I got per-moted…I’m t'a messenguh now! Hun’s gonna send me when he needs somet'in done!” She giggled suddenly, her cheeks turning an even darker pink. “T'at Saki guy’s hot! He t'inks I’m perty.”
“No, no, no!” Daron groaned dragging one empty hand down his face. “You seriously agreed to be the go-between for the Foot Clan and the Purple Dragons?!” Kimber looked confused for a moment, glanced down at the coiled purple dragon tattooed in her cleavage. Finally, she looked up again with a bright grin.
“Yup!” she answered proudly. “I gotta raise, too!” It was at this point that Daron realized one glaring point: Kimber was far too drunk to realize what an idiot she was. He growled under his breath, scowling out the window. Lecturing her would have to wait until tomorrow when she’d learn firsthand why 'three tequila’ was followed by 'floor.’
March 14th, 2011
Morning light stabbing through the gaps in a worn knit blanket was followed by an army of jackhammers and a fifty piece orchestra echoing in Kimber’s head. Between pained groans and guttural oaths, she cursed Lefty and Northpaw with everything she could think of. By the time she’d run out of STDs and listed every terminal illness she could recall, the floor was no longer swaying under her feet.
As she darted from her futon to the bathroom to puke up last night’s liquor, Daron heaved a sigh. In his usual spot at the kitchen table, he counted backward from one hundred and engaged in a staring contest with his coffee cup. It had been a good month or two since the last time Kimber returned home drunk off her ass, but he wasn’t happy at all. She was still underage—still only nineteen—she had a good few years to go before she was legally old enough to drink. As the retching faded, Daron poured Kimber a mug of coffee and waited for her to show her face, his own safely buried in the classifieds.
Sure enough, she crept into the kitchen moments later, the very picture of shame. It was almost enough to make Daron feel sorry for leaving the blinds wide open on such a sunny morning…almost. As every time before, Kimber settled herself wearily at her place, downed the coffee without any alteration, then poured a second. Sometime between the fourth spoonful of sugar and the dash of milk, she spoke.
“Fa what it’s worth,” she murmured to her sagging neckline, “I’m sahrry.” Daron snorted, feigning interest in the newspaper before him.
“You’re only sorry because you’re hungover, Kimber,” he drawled. “Don’t add lying to your list of vices.” He didn’t need to look up to know she was hurt; although he was furious, it hurt being so cold to her, but being too nice only made her behave like a heathen. Four years and increasingly delinquent behavior hadn’t at all dimmed his attraction to her; if anything, it had become stronger regardless, and those feelings made her behavior hurt even more. “Who’re ya blaming for this one?”
She speared her fingers through her messy acid green hair; could she really blame him, she wondered? She stifled a sigh in her coffee. “Myself,” she admitted a moment later. “I’m t'a dumbass who assumed asking Nort’ for a Coke meant he’d gimme just a Coke…I’m t'a dumbass who still drank it after I tasted rum in it.” Behind his paper shield, Daron stiffened, filling in the blanks. “I told'im no booze, an’ believed 'e’d cooperate…” She scoffed bitterly. “Such a fuckin’ maw'ron.”
Daron hesitated unsure what to say. Normally she’d argue with him, try to justify what she’d done, act like he was being unreasonable. For her to actually take responsibility was completely unexpected. He lay down his paper and looked her in the eye, his words cautious. “You told the Bookends no alcohol,” he repeated slowly, “believed them when they agreed, then drank it anyway when one of them poured rum in your Coke?” Though she blushed hotly at the implications, she nodded, avoiding his eyes entirely.
“I’m a fuckin’ idiot,” she mumbled, fighting tears. “I should'a left—I should'a—”
“You shouldn’t'a gone there in the first place,” he interrupted sternly. “The Dragons’re trouble; being a Dragon ain’t gonna give you immunity, ya know…when shit hits the fan, you’re gonna get splattered just like everyone else.” Sure enough, she cracked a smile, finally meeting his eyes. “Stay away from those two, okay?” Daron broke eye contact to fumble with his coffee mug. “If you won’t leave the Purple Dragons, at least stay away from those two?” As he knew would happen, the smile fell from her face and she became equally fascinated by her cereal.
“I can’t leave,” she mumbled. “You know t'at. Don’t mean I can’t avoid Lefty an’ Nort'paw— t'ey’re jerks anyhow.” Across the table, Daron laughed darkly.
“Lefty and Northpaw,” he repeated dryly. “You sure they didn’t get those names over a lost bet?”
September 15th, 2011, a dark alley in New York
Kimber sprinted down the filthy, rubbish-strewn alley as though the reaper were on her heels. Every shadow held a glint of steel; every doorway and broken window hid jeering eyes. She was a Purple Dragon, Hun’s personal messenger, but there were some places even Purple Dragons never went. After losing track of time on the last bus, though, there she was in just such a place and certain she’d never make it home alive.
Shabby stoned men congregated around a crumbling doorstep, reeking of sweat, beer, and urine. Before an outstretched hand could snatch her shoulder, she ducked down another back street. Frantic green eyes darted all around her for something, anything she recognized. How could she have gotten so lost? How could find her way home?
Without warning, the ground swept up to meet her. With a shriek she scrambled onto her back, crab-walking down the alley away from the man who’d tripped her. He didn’t belong in this part of town, she was certain; everything about him screamed expensive, vain, and trouble.
At the mouth of the dead-end alley Kimber blindly scrambled down, a scantily dressed woman shivered under a lamppost, watching her with a sympathetic eye. She knew what Kimber now faced—it was old news to her, now.
Kimber backed further and further away from the suit-clad man looming over her. The cherry of his cigarette glowed angrily in the dark alleyway, a warning sign if Kimber had ever seen one. “You lost, little lady?” he asked warmly, but his expression spoke only of contempt. “Looks like you took a wrong turn.”
Kimber clambered to her feet again, feeling around her belt. Coming up empty, she swore silently; if Hun hadn’t insisted she be unarmed when she went about her duties, she’d be able to stab the menacing scum backing her up against the wall. She wasn’t the best brawler, but with Lefty teaching her knife-fighting, she wasn’t hopeless. “Back off!” she barked at him, balling up her fists. “I’m warnin’ ya!”
Not surprisingly, he wasn’t impressed. Stars swam in her vision at the blow; a pair of fine leather shoes greeted her when she hit the asphalt. Darkness followed the stars and shoes, then swallowed up the world around her.
When she woke, she was alone. Her assailant, now unconscious, was tied up and hanging upside down from the streetlamp the other woman once stood under. For a moment, Kimber sat blinking at the dangling pimp, trying to rationalize what had happened.
“Ya okay?” a husky voice asked from the shadows. She jumped, eyes darting around her for answers.
“Who’s t'ere?!” she yelped. “Whadda ya want wi'me?!” An angry growl emanated from the shadows behind an overfilled dumpster.
“Dat’s nice,” the unseen man snarked, punching the dumpster for emphasis. “I just saved ya skanky ass, an’ ya think I’m gonna hurt ya! Why’s everyone always assume dat?!” Now certain that he meant her no harm - ‘skanky’ accusation aside - Kimber stood and inched toward the dumpster, willing herself to keep calm.
“Sahrry,” she answered. “I just…I got lost an’ he…you helped me?” Though she couldn’t see more than a vague outline, the man nodded. “T'ank ya…can ya tell me where I am?” He shoved off the wall, retreating even deeper into the shadows.
“Somewhere ya shouldn’t be. Where ya belong, Kid?” She fought the urge to stamp her foot in indignation.
“I ain’t a kid!” she snapped. “I’m nineteen, dammit!” Her only response was snorted laughter. Despite his attitude, she told him the neighborhood she was looking for; though she knew it was silly, she could almost swear she saw a pair of white eyes gleaming in the dark before her. After she got the directions she needed, she turned to leave. Only a few steps away, she turned back again. “Wait—I di'n’t get ya—” She trailed off in confusion. The shadows behind the dumpster were vacant now…she was completely alone. “…name…?” After a moment she shook off her confusion and continued on her way.
Not too long after, she found herself at the back door of the apartment building she lived in with Daron. She still didn’t understand what had happened and wished her savior hadn’t fled. On the back porch, she paused a moment, scanning the dark alley for anything out of the ordinary. Finally, she slipped inside, never noticing the pair of golden amber eyes watching from the darkness.
She’d never have imagined who those eyes belonged to; nor did she realize what their owner would come to mean to her.
When did the lampposts become such great dancers, Kimber wondered with a tipsy giggle? All around her, the streets of Jersey City were bright and shiny in a way they never were when she was sober. All around her, the ever-present muck, mire, and misery had been replaced with a much more pleasant drunken illusion. With a loud belch followed by an even more unladylike cackle, she stumbled across the vacant street toward Daron’s apartment building.
From the gutters of the nearest tenement, Raphael watched her, golden amber eyes squinting in distaste. It didn’t take a genius to realize she was underage, or that she was as drunk as drunk could be. Of course, it was equally clear that she was all woman despite her young age. He shook his head with a low growl. It was disturbing how girls continue to develop earlier every generation, especially with the evidence of such staring him right in the face. For all he knew, she was only sixteen.
Where had he seen her before? As she stumbled along the cracked sidewalk, belting out a perfectly horrible mockery of King’s “Bohemian Melody,” he wracked his brain for the answer. Finally, halfway through yet another extra string of off-key “Mama mias,” the answer hit him. Only a month ago, he’d come across a young woman in the wrong end of town, trapped in a dark alley with Spencer the Snatcher. Thanks to his interference, she escaped a life of forced prostitution that night; though her hair was now plum purple instead of the acid green it had been, he knew without a doubt it was the same person. With new eyes, he watched the young woman stumble down the sidewalk…
…right into a parked car. He snorted under his breath, waiting for her to get back up. How had she managed to survive this long? Surely if she was this hopeless, she’d have forgotten how to breathe years ago. “C'mon, Kid,” he prompted under his breath, staring at the prostrate form on the grimy sidewalk. “Git up…ya can’t go home unless ya git up…” At his shoulder, Mikey piped up unbidden.
“She’s not getting up, Raph,” he remarked dubiously. “Why isn’t she getting up? Do you think she knows how to get up? OW!” Raph’s knuckles stung from the harder-than-usual brain-duster, but he at least felt better.
“Shut up, Mikey,” he grumbled. “She probably passed out. Cover me, will ya?”

UP NEXT: so much for happy endings in The Trail Leads Home

As before, I'm not including an extensive dialect glossary in chapters posted on this site to avoid going over the AN limit. Generally the accented words are spelled out phonetically to depict accent. If you can't figure out what's being said by reading it aloud, no worries, you can hit up the corresponding chapter on AO3 or FFnet - the full glossary and notes are at the end of each chapter on those sites, along with some general rules for dialect used.
One more chapter of flashback then we resume the main storyline.
- 13
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- 15
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A New Lease on Life