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The practice room looked like it always did at the end of a long day: mirrors fogged at the edges, scuffed tape lines peeling from the floor, a pile of hoodies in one corner that smelled faintly of detergent and defeat. The track thumped through the speakers, clean and punishing. On the count, eight bodies hit the move like a single idea.
“Again,” Chan said, already reaching for the remote.
“Again?” Hyunjin wheezed, bent at the waist, hair hanging in a wet curtain. “Hyung, the floor and I are married now.”
“You get one more honeymoon,” Chan said, mouth curved but voice rougher than it should’ve been. He coughed into the inside of his elbow, small and neat, the way a person tries to cough without making it a thing .
Changbin watched the mirrors instead of the leader. The reflection told on Chan in ways he wouldn’t: the way his shoulders stayed a fraction too high between counts; the way his jaw locked when he stopped moving; the too-bright flush on his cheeks that wasn’t only from cardio. Chan always ran hot in the studio, sure, but this was warm . The kind of warmth that made the skin around his eyes look glassy.
“Hyung,” Seungmin said mildly, sidling up and pressing a water bottle into Chan’s hand. “Drink.”
“I’m good,” Chan said, not drinking.
“That’s a lie,” Seungmin replied, even milder. He pushed the bottle closer until it nudged Chan’s hoodie. “Drink or I will start singing trot at you.”
“Threats now? You’ve changed your tactics,” Chan said, but he took a sip. It was almost nothing, a wetting of the mouth. His throat worked harder than it should’ve. He clicked the remote. “From the bridge.”
They went again. The beat snagged and flipped. Felix hit the floor into a clean slide, Jisung filled the space with that hungry, elastic energy that made choreographers trust him, and Jeongin counted under his breath like a metronome wearing sneakers. Chan slotted into his part with muscle memory and sheer will. He kept glancing past himself in the mirror, eyes not tracking the line but hitting the clock. Not good.
When they finished, Minho clapped twice and let the sound mean “good job” and “I caught that” at the same time. “Hyung,” he said, deadpan, “you came in half a count early on the turn.”
“I was testing your skills.”
“You failed,” Minho said.
That earned a few weak laughs. The air in the room wasn’t heavy with dread or anything dramatic. It was just… off. Like the smell of something burning three rooms away. You can ignore it for a while, convince yourself it’s nothing, but it eats at the edges of your focus.
“Let’s take five,” Chan said.
They took five the way they always did: sprawling where gravity dropped them, scrolling, stretching, complaining about nothing. Felix skated over in socks to the little table against the wall, cracked open a plastic container, and fanned the smell of egg rolls toward the group like a benevolent deity.
“Heroes,” Jisung moaned.
“Felix, marry me,” Hyunjin said, already chewing.
“Get in line,” Jeongin said.
Felix glanced at Chan. “Hyung, eat at least one.”
“Later,” Chan said without looking up. He had his laptop cracked open on a crate, a waveform glowing like a city at night. “I just want to check the pre-chorus harmony.”
“You checked the pre-chorus harmony eight times yesterday,” Changbin said.
“Nine,” Jisung corrected, crumbs on his lip.
Chan smiled in their direction, automatic, and nudged the volume down on his computer. The hand on the trackpad trembled, a tiny tremor that would’ve looked like nothing to anyone who didn’t spend most of their life watching him. He steadied it with his other hand and kept working.
Seungmin took a seat beside him on the floor, not close enough to crowd. “What’s the temperature in here?” he asked the room. He didn’t look at Chan when he said it.
“Hot,” Hyunjin said. “Why? Are you cold?” He reached to flick Seungmin’s ear out of habit.
“Don’t touch me,” Seungmin said without heat.
“Manager-nim says we have a radio thing at ten tomorrow,” Jeongin announced, reading from his phone like a newscaster. “And a live at eight. And vocal checks in the afternoon.”
“Great,” Chan said, eyes on the screen. “Love a full day.”
“ We love a full day,” Lee Know corrected. “You look like you haven’t had a full night since the dawn of K-Pop.”
“Rude,” Jisung muttered, but he was peeking over, too. The whole group had developed this collective radar; it pinged when Chan’s smile got thinner than the rest of his face.
Felix slid an egg roll onto a napkin and walked it over like a peace offering. “It’s still warm,” he said. “Eat it before Hyunjin declares eminent domain.”
“I—” Chan hesitated. Up close, the flush under his skin was more red than pink, and there was a shine along his hairline that wasn’t just sweat. He must have felt the scrutiny because his eyes sharpened for a second, defensive and sheepish at once. “I’ll eat later. Promise.”
“You say ‘later’ the way some people say ‘next life,’” Seungmin said. It wasn’t cruel. It was a fact.
Chan huffed a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m fine.”
It’s reckless, honestly, the way he weaponizes I’m fine . He doesn’t throw it like a shield; he folds it around himself like a blanket and tries to keep walking.
The five minutes stretched to eight. They went again. Chan ran the counts, corrected spacing, clapped them into the drop, adjusted a wrist angle that only he would notice. He did all the leader things, and he did them well. But between the beats, the tells bled through. The way he braced on the back of the chair when he leaned over the laptop, as if standing all the way up was too expensive. The way his sentences shortened as the hour lengthened. The cough that kept returning, not dramatic, just stubborn.
“Hyung,” Changbin said finally, low enough to float under the music. “Are you sick?”
Chan’s eyes flicked to him in the mirror. “I’m good.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m just… tired and sore,” Chan said, and rolled his neck like he could reset himself with a click. “We’re fine. You’re all doing great.”
“Uh-huh,” Changbin said. He didn’t press. He just filed the answer away like he always did, next to a thousand other tiny, stubborn details.
They ran the choreography one last time because Chan asked, and because they would have even if he didn’t. When the song cut out, they ended in a messy clump that dissolved into laughter and groans. Hyunjin slid to the floor. Jisung dropped to a knee and then kept going until he was flat on his back, a starfish with regrets.
“Let’s call it,” Minho said, already half out of his shoes. “If we keep sweating we’ll evaporate.”
Felix was packing up the food, humming under his breath. Jeongin filmed a quick story no one would see until the morning. Seungmin collected stray towels with the resigned precision of a person who knows exactly who will forget them.
Chan hovered by the crate with the laptop, hands on the edge like a person steadying themselves on the railing of a moving train. The screen reflected in his eyes, blue and sharp. The rest of the room blurred at the edges.
“Chris,” Felix said gently, breaking the spell. “Are you okay?”
Chan startled like he’d been caught with contraband. He glanced around at all of them and seemed to remember the choreography of normal life: smile, nod, and reassure. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. You guys head back. I’ll—” He stopped, recalibrated mid-sentence. “I’ll tidy up here.”
“Tidy up?” Jisung said, suspicious. “Since when?”
“Since today,” Chan said. He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his brow bone. He left them there a second too long, as if the pressure helped. “I want to bounce a quick reference for the bridge, just a minute. You guys go ahead.”
None of them jumped to argue. It was a familiar dance, and he was good at it. He smiled again, brighter this time, and it almost worked. Almost.
Seungmin’s gaze cut to Changbin. The look said: Your turn. Changbin gave the shallowest nod. They’d push later. If you shoved too hard at the wrong moment, Chan got lighter on his feet, slipperier, all smile and “seriously, I’m fine,” and then you were arguing with a ghost.
Hyunjin clapped Chan’s shoulder as he passed. “Don’t glue yourself to the chair,” he said, pretending it was a joke. “We need your spine intact tomorrow.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Chan promised. “Twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen,” Jeongin bargained, already halfway out the door.
Felix lingered long enough to slide the napkin with the egg roll closer to Chan’s elbow. “Eat something please,” he murmured. He squeezed Chan’s wrist; his hand came away warmer than it should have. Chan didn’t seem to notice.
They filed out in twos, the chatter spilling into the hall, soft and fading. The door swung shut. The bass in the walls died. In the sudden quiet, the room seemed bigger, the hum of the AC louder. Chan stood alone in the mirror, a man made of work and light, and the light looked a little too bright.
On the crate, the laptop blinked with a notification. He blinked back, swayed almost imperceptibly, and reached for the mouse.
The clock over the mirror blinked 11:47, then 12:02, then 12:29. Time bled into itself. He didn’t notice.
The pre-chorus looped for the twelfth time, faint through one earbud. Chan pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and clicked with the other, chasing a frequency that didn’t exist. His handwriting sloped uneven across the page: half words, half scribbles. He leaned closer to the screen, eyes burning.
“Just one more bounce,” he whispered to no one.
But every “one more” became another half-hour. He coughed again, the kind that shook his chest, and sat there waiting for it to pass. The food Felix left sat untouched. The egg roll had gone cold.
By 1:15, he wasn’t even editing anymore, just staring at the same few bars of the track like maybe if he glared long enough, the mix would fix itself. His vision doubled when he blinked, so he didn’t. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eye socket until stars sparked, then sat back. The sudden tilt of the chair made him sway forward, catching himself on the edge of the desk.
His throat hurt. His head hurt worse. His body begged for horizontal, but he had convinced himself hours ago that stopping wasn’t an option. The group depended on him. The company depended on him. He was the leader. That meant you worked, even when you couldn’t.
_______
Changbin laid in bed staring at the ceiling, phone in hand, but his focus kept drifting back to the practice room. Twenty minutes, Chan had said. Maybe thirty if he got carried away. That was almost two hours ago. He sat up with a groan, grabbing the hoodie at the end of his bed.
“Where are you going?” Seungmin asked drowsily from across the room, half buried under his blanket.
“Left my charger,” Changbin lied smoothly.
Seungmin squinted at him but didn’t argue. “Don’t wake me when you come back.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Changbin muttered, slipping out the door.
The walk back felt longer at night. The building was hushed, fluorescent lights buzzing in occasional patches, stairwell echoes bouncing back at him like footsteps that weren’t his. By the time he reached the practice room, he could see the strip of light under the door. Still there.
He pushed it open. “Hyung?”
The sight made his stomach knot.
Chan sat slumped at the desk, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair sticking damp to his forehead. His head lolled slightly, chin dipping toward his chest. The laptop’s glow made his skin look waxy, lips pale against the flushed red on his cheeks. His hand dangled uselessly off the edge of the table, fingers twitching every few seconds.
“Hyung,” Changbin said again, sharper, stepping inside.
Chan startled faintly, eyes dragging open. It took a long beat for them to focus. “B-Binnie?” His voice cracked, low and broken, like it cost him to say the word. “What’re you… doing here?”
“Wondering why you weren’t back two hours ago,” Changbin said, trying for steady but hearing his own voice wobble. He crouched beside him. “Hyung, you look wrecked.”
“I—” Chan’s breath caught on a cough that tore through him. He doubled over, clutching his chest, shoulders shaking. When it finally passed, he slumped back into the chair, eyes closed, breathing shallow. “I’m fine,” he whispered automatically.
“No, you’re not.” Changbin pressed his palm to Chan’s forehead before Chan could flinch away. The heat there made his stomach drop. “You’re burning up.”
Chan gave a weak smile, the kind that begged to be believed. “Just tired. I need… need to finish the mix.”
“You can’t even hold yourself up!” Changbin snapped. His voice echoed in the empty room, too loud. He softened it immediately. “Hyung, please. Look at you. You’re done.”
Chan tried to push himself up, gripping the desk for leverage, but his knees buckled before he made it halfway. His body listed dangerously to the side, and Changbin grabbed him under the arm, heart hammering.
“Whoa, hey. Easy. I’ve got you.”
For a long second, Chan’s body resisted, all stiff lines and stubborn pride. But then the fight bled out of him. His weight sagged heavy against Changbin’s side, head tipping down heavier than it should’ve been.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, words slurred. “Didn’t… mean to…”
“Don’t apologize.” Changbin’s grip tightened around his waist, half lifting him. “Nothing to be sorry for. Just lean on me, okay? That’s all you need to do.”
Chan made a faint noise of protest, but it died halfway out. His body sagged against Changbin, heat bleeding through the fabric of his hoodie.
“You’re done for tonight,” Changbin said firmly. He tried to keep his voice steady, grounding. “No more laptop, no more mixes. We’re going home.”
Chan’s breathing hitched, uneven. “But the… bridge—”
“Screw the bridge,” Changbin cut him off. “You matter more than a song. Got it?”
Chan didn’t answer, just let his eyes flutter shut, his body going slack in Changbin’s arms. For a terrifying second, Changbin thought he’d passed out completely, but then he murmured, so faint it barely counted. “Okay.”
Changbin swallowed hard, shifting his grip to support more of Chan’s weight. He cast one glance back at the glowing laptop screen, the track looping endlessly in silence, then nudged the power button until it dimmed to black.
“Let’s get you out of here, hyung,” he whispered, steadying Chan for the long walk back.
The hallway felt colder than the practice room, though maybe that was just the shock of stepping out with Chan leaning heavily into his side. Changbin adjusted his grip, one arm hooked around Chan’s waist, the other bracing his leader’s arm over his shoulders. Every few steps, Chan stumbled, his sneakers scuffing the tiles.
“You’ve gotta lift your feet a little, hyung,” Changbin murmured, voice soft like he was coaxing a kid. “One step at a time. We’re almost there.”
Chan made a faint noise that might’ve been an agreement. His head lolled forward, chin brushing his chest, and Changbin tightened his hold again.
It was a long walk to the dorms. Too long, in fact. Each stretch of corridor seemed endless, each flight of stairs a small mountain. Chan’s breathing was uneven, shallow huffs against Changbin’s shoulder. His weight dragged more with every step, the fever eating through what little strength he had left.
“You weren’t kidding about being gone fifteen minutes, huh?” Changbin tried, more to keep himself steady than anything. “Just multiplied it by, what, six?”
Chan let out something halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Math genius.” His words slurred, barely there.
“Yeah, yeah. Save your energy. You’ll thank me later when I’m carrying you like a sack of rice.”
Chan made no reply this time, only sagged heavier. By the time they reached the dorm door, Changbin’s shoulder ached, but he didn’t care. He fumbled the keypad with one hand, muttering, “Don’t you dare pass out on me now,” until the lock clicked open.
The dorm was dark, only the faint glow of a street lamp leaking through the living room curtains. The quiet pressed in that only came after a day so long even Jisung couldn’t stay awake to complain.
“Alright, home stretch,” Changbin whispered.
He half-dragged, half-guided Chan down the hall to the shared bedrooms. When he nudged the door open, the faint rustle of sheets broke the stillness. Felix shifted under his blanket, head lifting.
“Hyung?” he croaked, voice thick with sleep. “What’re you—” His eyes adjusted, widening when they landed on Chan slumped against him. “Oh, hyung .”
“Shh,” Changbin hissed. “Don’t wake the others. He’s burning up since he overdid it again.”
Felix pushed the blanket off, instantly awake. He scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor. “Here, let me—” He moved to Chan’s other side, steadying him so Changbin could readjust. “Chris, can you hear me?”
Chan’s eyes cracked open, unfocused. “Lixie?” he mumbled, the syllables sluggish.
“I’m here.” Felix’s voice softened into pure worry. “We’ve got you. Just hang on.”
Together, they maneuvered him toward the bed. Chan collapsed onto the mattress the moment they let go, curling slightly like his body couldn’t hold itself upright anymore. Sweat dampened the collar of his hoodie, and strands of hair clung to his flushed forehead.
Felix tugged the blanket down, guiding Chan onto the pillow. “Get this off him,” he said, tugging gently at the hoodie.
“Yeah.” Changbin crouched, coaxing Chan’s arms free. “Sorry, hyung, just for a second—”
Chan mumbled incoherently but didn’t resist. Once the hoodie was off, Felix tossed it into the corner and grabbed the nearest towel, dabbing at Chan’s damp skin.
“Go get some water,” Changbin said quickly. “And the thermometer, I think it’s in the bathroom drawer next to the meds.”
Felix nodded and hurried out. Chan stirred faintly, eyelids flickering. “Don’t—don’t tell the manager,” he whispered, the words almost lost.
Changbin’s chest tightened. He brushed damp hair back from Chan’s face. “Hyung, forget the manager right now. You need rest. We’ll handle the schedule tomorrow, I promise.”
“No… can’t—”
“You can ,” Changbin interrupted firmly. “You have to . Look at you, you’re already half gone. The world isn’t gonna fall apart if you take a day. Let us deal with it, okay?”
Chan blinked at him, confusion swimming in his glassy eyes, but he didn’t argue. His head sank deeper into the pillow.
Felix returned with water, a small bottle of fever medicine, and a cold pack wrapped in a towel. He pressed the pack gently against Chan’s forehead, watching his face twitch at the touch.
“There we go, hyung. This will cool you down a little.”
“Thanks,” Changbin muttered, relief loosening the knot in his chest. He took the thermometer and coaxed it under Chan’s arm. “Just hold it for a bit, hyung. Don’t move.”
Chan barely seemed to register it. His breathing evened out a little, though it was still heavier than normal.
The thermometer beeped eventually, and Changbin pulled it free, squinting at the number. 102.2°F. Too high. He cursed under his breath.
“Figures,” he muttered. He shook the medicine bottle open, poured water into a cup, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Hyung, sit up for me. Just for a second.”
Chan groaned but let them lift him, his head lolling against Changbin’s shoulder. Changbin pressed the pills into his hand and guided the cup to his lips. “Swallow. That’s it.”
Chan swallowed with visible effort, then sagged back, utterly spent.
Felix pulled the blanket over him, smoothing it down. “He’s already half asleep,” he whispered.
“Good.” Changbin sighed, running a hand over his face. “He needs it. Tomorrow’s schedule can wait. I’ll talk to manager-nim in the morning. No way he’s stepping out of bed like this.”
Chan’s lips moved faintly, forming words too soft to catch. Changbin leaned closer. “What’s that, hyung?”
“Sorry,” Chan breathed. The word cracked, fragile. “I’m… supposed to…”
“No.” Changbin cut him off, voice rough but gentle. “You’re supposed to rest . That’s it. That’s all you’re supposed to do tonight.”
Felix brushed Chan’s hair back again, settling the cold pack in place. “We’ll cover you, hyung. Don’t think about anything else.”
This time, Chan didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered shut fully, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. Within minutes, the tension in his face smoothed out, leaving him asleep at last. Changbin and Felix stayed there, one sitting on the floor, the other perched at the edge of the bed.
Changbin exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “He never stops until his body makes him. It’s like he doesn’t know how.”
Felix nodded, gaze still on Chan’s sleeping face. “I think next time we need to stop him as soon as we see the signs. Even if he gets mad.”
The room was quiet again, except for the steady hum of the air conditioning and the soft, exhausted breathing of their leader finally resting.
________
The dorm was still quiet when sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting pale stripes across the floor. Normally, mornings were loud. Jisung yelling about someone stealing his charger, Jeongin humming through toothpaste foam, Felix banging pans at ungodly hours. But this morning, the quiet held.
Changbin stirred awake on the floor, his back sore from leaning against the bed frame. He blinked blearily, the events of the night before settling back into place as soon as he saw Chan curled under the blankets, still pale, sweat-damp hair plastered to his temple. Felix was sprawled at the edge of the mattress, one arm dangling protectively close, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-watch.
Changbin pushed himself up carefully. He touched the back of his hand to Chan’s forehead. Still hot, but not quite the furnace it had been. Relief loosened his chest a little.
He slipped out to the kitchen, the sound of running water greeted him. Seungmin was already there, hair messy, yawning as he rinsed mugs. He raised an eyebrow at Changbin’s appearance.
“You weren’t in your bed.”
“I stayed with Chan-hyung,” Changbin muttered.
Seungmin’s expression softened. “He got sick didn’t he?”
“Yeah, a pretty high fever. He was totally gone last night, couldn’t even walk straight.” Changbin rubbed the back of his neck. “I gave him meds and Felix and I got him settled. He’s still out.”
“Good. He needs to stay out.” Seungmin dried his hands and leaned against the counter. “No way he can make today’s schedule.”
“Yeah.” Changbin exhaled. “I’ll call him.”
A shuffle behind them announced Hyunjin, bleary-eyed, hair a bird’s nest. “Who’s not making the schedule?” he mumbled.
“Chan-hyung,” Seungmin said flatly. “And don’t argue.”
Hyunjin blinked awake faster at that. “What happened?”
“He worked himself sick,” Changbin said grimly. “Fever, dizzy, nearly passed out. He’s still knocked out in bed.”
Hyunjin’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Of course he did.” He rubbed his face. “Tell me what to do.”
Within the hour, the dorm was buzzing again, but quieter this time. Muted, careful, like they were all collectively holding their breath.
Jisung padded in, still in pajamas, balancing a tray with toast and tea. “This is all I can make without burning down the kitchen,” he announced.
Felix had woken up too, hair sticking out in all directions, voice soft with sleep. “He probably won’t eat much, but we should try.”
“Medicine first,” Seungmin reminded, already checking the thermometer again.
Minho appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Manager-hyung isn’t happy, but he said to keep him in bed today. He’ll juggle the radio and live schedules.” His eyes swept the room, sharp as always. “That means one of you is on watch duty. No excuses.”
They ended up all drifting into the room anyway. By midmorning, half the group was gathered around Chan’s bed, like satellites orbiting their sun even when it flickered.
When Chan finally stirred, it was slow. His eyelids fluttered, face pinched like waking itself was painful. A weak groan slipped out as he shifted under the blankets.
“Hyung?” Felix leaned close. “Are you awake?”
Chan blinked, squinting against the light. His voice came out rough. “Lixie…?”
“I’m here.” Felix smiled softly. “You’re at the dorm. You were out cold all night.”
Chan’s brows knit. “The schedule…” His voice cracked, a rasp barely above a whisper.
“Taken care of,” Changbin said firmly from the other side. “The manager knows. You’re not moving an inch today.”
“But—”
“No ‘but.’” Seungmin’s tone was sharp, brooking no argument. “You couldn’t walk straight last night. You’re burning up. You’re not going anywhere.”
Chan winced, closing his eyes again. “Sorry…”
Jeongin cut in quickly. “Hyung, stop apologizing. Seriously. Just let us help you take care of yourself.”
Chan opened his eyes again, glassy with fever. “Didn’t… want to fall behind.”
Hyunjin huffed, half exasperation, half affection. “Then maybe don’t carry the whole world on your shoulders next time. That’s why you’ve got us.”
Minho leaned against the doorframe, voice dry but steady. “We can survive a day without you running yourself into the ground. Promise.”
For once, Chan didn’t argue. His head sank deeper into the pillow, too exhausted to fight them all at once.
Felix perched carefully on the bed’s edge, holding the cup of tea. “Hyung, can you drink a little? It’ll help your throat.”
Chan made a weak noise of agreement. They helped him sit up, propping pillows behind his back. He sipped slowly, hands trembling around the cup until Felix steadied it for him. Even that effort left him slumped, eyelids drooping.
Changbin set the medicine in his palm. “Take these, then you can sleep again.”
Chan obeyed without complaint this time. His usual resistance, his insistence on being strong, had been burned away by the fever. He looked younger like this, just a tired boy in need of rest, not the leader who held everyone else together.
As soon as the pills were down, his head tipped against the pillows, eyes closing before they’d even resettled him.
“You’ll be alright, hyung,” Felix whispered, brushing damp hair off his forehead.
“Yeah,” Changbin added, adjusting the blanket around him. His voice was rough but steady. “We’ve got you. Just sleep.”
Chan’s breathing evened out again, drifting back under.
For a while, none of them moved. The room was filled with the soft hum of the air conditioner and the steady rhythm of Chan’s breath.
Finally, Jisung whispered, “He’s gonna hate missing a schedule.”
“Too bad,” Seungmin replied. “He needs to hate being sick more.”
Hyunjin stretched out on the floor, folding his arms under his head. “We’ll cover the gaps and the manager can deal with the rest. What matters is that he doesn't keel over again.”
Minho snorted softly. “Good luck stopping him next time.”
“If it happens again, one of you is coming with me. I had to drag him all the way here and it was not fun,” Changbin said firmly.
The others glanced at him, then at Chan sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks. Slowly, they nodded.
By midday, the dorm had settled into a strange calm. The schedules and pressures of idol life ticked on outside, but inside, time slowed. They spoke quieter, moved softer, all orbiting around the fact that their leader finally was resting.
And for once, Chan didn’t have to carry them. They carried him instead.