Vita Nova Sanctae Brigitae by Eleanor Hanley

My mom keeps making me promise not to kill myself, Alyssa says, her voice tinny through headphones. Her foot is on her desk chair—one of those rocking ones colleges put in dorm rooms so it’s hard to hang yourself—and she’s painting her toenails, knee pressed against her cheek as she looks intently down at her toes, just offscreen. On the desk is a bottle of dark green nail polish and an oblong, gold-plated flask from which she’s been taking furtive, frequent swigs.

Brigid gives a small laugh because she’s pretty sure Alyssa was trying to be funny and says, Well, are you going to?

Alyssa rolls her eyes and in a mocking, airy tone of voice says, No, I guess not. I got, like, three months of injections left, anyway.

Alyssa’s makeup looks smudged, but the resolution is bad and Brigid can’t tell. She examines the cuticle she’s been picking, single black bead of blood threatening to run down her thumb. Outside it’s dark and she can feel the pleasant sting of her laptop screen’s glow in the backs of her eyes. Yeah, she says, I gotta do my shot tonight. At least that’s not any more illegal today than it was yesterday.

Starting to think you DIY girls were the smart ones all along, Alyssa says. Even if you’re all going to get breast cancer or whatever, at least they can’t summarily fire your doctors.

Brigid laughs, says, Can’t fire boymoder Dr. Powers worshippers. Still, I think you got the better deal—science-fiction chip-in-your-arm and everything. Spiro makes me nauseous.

Sure, Alyssa says, but your mom doesn’t keep calling you to promise you won’t kill yourself.

Why would she call when she can just peek her head in my room and say she’s ‘very concerned about my academics?’

Alyssa laughs.

Gratifying feeling in Brigid’s chest, stupid rush of pride when she feels like she’s said something clever. Rare to make Alyssa laugh, even though they talk all the time. Palpable asymmetry since they met. Little Sean, the overserious and precocious freshman assigned a seat in English 10 next to the perpetually asleep Alyssa, who was a year older and went by a different name at the time. Alyssa woke up, but only enough to form a wholly distracting friendship with Sean, who grew increasingly less studious. Alyssa was the funny one, diligent only in her practice of making Sean laugh. Sean could never make her laugh like that, but maybe Brigid can—if we accept Brigid may be a separate entity to Sean with a separate personality albeit a frustratingly shared physicality, which is an idea she’s open to. Their seats were reassigned after six weeks.

Alyssa says, How is Alex doing, anyway?

Brigid sighs and says, Oh, I dunno. He’s kinda always the same. Not taking any of this very well, but what else is new.

I think some people just aren’t super equipped to handle the world, Alyssa says, smiling as if she’s telling herself some internal joke and screwing the wand into the nail polish bottle.

Brigid stares at the window, a warm darkened mirror from her bedroom’s low incandescence, the corner of her bed and her closed door, and says, I guess. I can’t complain about him too much, though. He’s doing my shot and I’ll feel like an asshole.

That’s fair.

A pause and then, blinking back to Alyssa, Brigid says, How’s school?

It’s Alyssa’s turn to groan. Oh, y’know.

That good, huh?

Sitting up straighter as if shaking something off and looking at the wall behind her computer, Alyssa says, No. No, it’s going alright, actually. It’s going bad, but it’s early days. I just gotta lock in.

I believe in you.

Making a little heart with her thumb and forefinger, Alyssa says, Thanks, in a tone of voice indicating she isn’t taking herself very seriously. Then, she chirps, How’s high school treating you?

Feeling her cheeks grow pink and avoiding eye contact with herself in the small rectangle in the corner of her screen, Brigid says, I got one you’re gonna love, actually.

Alyssa grins and leans back so far the chair almost topples over. Oh yeah? What’s that?

With a nervous, irrepressible smile, Brigid says, I’m leaving Physics the other day and this girl Anna pulls me aside—do you know Anna?

The only senior Anna I know is Anna Braeburn, Alyssa says.

Yeah her, Brigid says. She pulls me aside and in a real hushed voice she’s like, ‘You’re close with that girl Alyssa, right?’

Alyssa snorts and says, No fucking way.

Yes fucking way, dude, Brigid says. She looked so genuinely concerned and she asked how you were doing, ‘with everything in the news.’

Alyssa makes a grudgingly impressed, curious little frown and says, Huh. I went to catechism with that girl. Good for her, didn’t know she had it in her.

Brigid shrugs and says, I dunno, I guess. Low bar to witness the beginnings of a genocide and only have the reaction of, like, ‘Wow, I hope that girl who went to my church is alright,’ but sure.

Alyssa rolls her eyes and says she’s being hysterical again. Girls like them will probably be fine.

Right, totally, Brigid says with a wave of her hand. But then after that, she leans in further and—real quiet—goes, ‘I’m sorry if this is rude, but are you trans, too?’

You’re joking, Alyssa says.

Dude, I wish.

What did you say?

Brigid feels her cheeks very red at the recollection and she shrugs, saying, I dunno, what was I supposed to say? ‘Why do you ask, was it my sometimes visible binder or the lisp?’

The bright cackle that’s been threatening to break through surfaces and, quickly collecting herself, Alyssa says, Sorry. That’s crazy. She clocked you, not gonna lie.

Running her hand through her hair with the frustration of a cat flicking its tail, Brigid says, I know. I said no, but the whole interaction was so transparent and I probably looked so freaked out—I don’t think either of us were buying it.

It’d be hilarious if Anna goddamn Braeburn was your deliverance from boymoding, Alyssa says.

To you, maybe, Brigid says with a wary look. I dunno. I’m graduating soonish—I think the new strat might just be pleading the fifth.

And what happens when your mom peeks her head into your room to ask her little prince who this Brigid girl is?

Clasping her hands together in front of her chest and bowing her head, Brigid says, Let’s pray it never comes to that.

The sound of a creaking floorboard overhead. Her mom going downstairs—you can tell by the sound of the steps. Glance into the corner of her screen and it’s a quarter to ten. Strict bedtime in forty-five minutes; she’s got work in the morning. Probably just getting a glass of water—Brigid’s just gotta wait her out. Stick-on plastic shutter for her webcam open, as if people might actually be watching her. A buzz and her phone illuminates on a pile of homework, a text from Alex: 11? Picks up her phone and replies: sure daddy. Rush of embarrassment, double-texts: sorry, stupid. Then a final message: yea sounds good. Alyssa’s on her phone, too. Bare beige room behind her, colorful posters sticky-tacked to the painted cinderblock and a crooked dry-erase calendar with round letters reading, September♡, in pink Expo marker, even though it’ll be February tomorrow. In the foreground she stretches her hands into the air, clenched like fists, and pushes her chest out, twisting her torso into a shape resembling the letter S for a split second before her arms go slack and she blinks hard.

I’m fucking tired, she says.

Brigid says, Do you wanna go to bed? I gotta see Alex soon-ish anyway.

Alyssa says, No, no. Soon, but I’m not going to bed. Got a date, if you can believe it.

Brigid gives her a stern look and says, Don’t call Grindr hookups with rando chasers ‘dates.’

Alyssa rolls her eyes and says, You’re being very dramatic. It’s Saturday—date night.

Yeah, whatever, Brigid says, already annoyed by the conversation’s familiarity. I just worry about you.

Well quit it, Alyssa says. I’ll be okay. And apparently that’s my mom’s job.

Manages to eek a smile in the corner of Brigid’s mouth and she says, Right, my B.

Plus, he’s not exactly scary, she says, an affectionate smile flashing across her face. One of those dudes who lives in the DIY houses in Vine. I’m gonna get him to tell me about when Modern Baseball played at Candy Cane Lane and the police showed up.

I don’t understand you, Brigid says. Don’t get murdered by some midwest emo freakshow.

Alyssa’s kindly smile turned at her now and she says, I’ll try. Anyway—can you visit soon? I don’t really want to see Alex, but if he’s your only ride I’ll get over it.

Regrettably, he is my only ride, Brigid says. But I can probably get out there for midwinter break in a couple weeks, I just gotta clear it with Shel.

Tell your mom I’ll kill myself if you can’t visit.

I’m not going to do that.

*

Brigid slips out the sliding patio door and makes her way around the side of the house. Only door without a Ring camera, which is some 1984 bullshit, but whatever. Alex’s black Lexus is parked down the street, taillights dark. Settling into the plush leather of the passenger seat and bringing her knees to her chest, Brigid says, Way to flex the taillight kill switch.

Small grin on Alex’s face and he puts the car in drive, saying, Didn’t want to get you in trouble.

Your schizophrenia is very conscientious, Brigid returns, glancing at the out-of-place screen where the AC controls used to be. Did you get a new stereo?

New head unit, yeah, he says, handing her a USB-C cable.

Schmancy, Brigid says absently, scrolling through her liked songs and looking for that Underscores song she was thinking about earlier. She texts Alyssa: ily be careful, before slipping her phone in her pocket.

Alex is exactly as obsessed with his car as you’d expect a southeast Michigan transmasc drug dealer to be. Pretty much every time Brigid sees him he’s added some new modification either increasingly indicative of his paranoia or else engineered for the satisfaction of his most frequent passenger: her. Last time they hung out he bragged about turning both of the rear headrests into stash-boxes. Now, apparently, after she’d complained about not being able to use the aux with her new phone, he’s swapped out his whole radio. When Alyssa said his car radiates small dick energy Brigid tsked. Privately, of course, the impression stuck.

Alex asks, How’s Alyssa?

Oh, y’know, Brigid sighs. Her healthcare is illegal now and it seems like Western sucks, but she’s handling it about how you’d expect.

Alex gives a harsh exhale that’s probably supposed to be a laugh and says, Yeah, I can imagine.

It seems like Alex and Alyssa liked each other at one point, but by the time Brigid met Alyssa their acrimony was borderline public knowledge. When she asked Alyssa if she knew anything about DIY HRT, Alyssa grudgingly said, No, but that fuck Alex will probably do it for you, and gave Brigid his number. Brigid knows almost nothing about their relationship other than that they met in a breakout room when school was online and broke up over Facetime sometime in the summer of 2021. She’s always suspected their split had something to do with trans stuff. 

Brigid says, Why do you two hate each other again?

Nunya, Alex says. We don’t hate each other.

It’s a familiar refrain, but she enjoys the ritual of asking.

They don’t waste a lot of time when they get back to his place in Ypsi, a two-hundred year old house on a hill that the landlord keeps shabby in an attempt at 19th century authenticity. Brigid’s mouth starts watering when he turns off the car and then Alex presses her against a wall in the entryway and kisses her. Upstairs afterwards, Slowdive plays quietly from a bluetooth speaker on the nightstand and old-growth floorboards creak underfoot as he makes his way back from the bathroom and gets into bed.

We gotta do your shot, he says.

Brigid groans and presses her face into his chest. Boo, she says. I don’t wanna.

Come on, he says, gently nudging her before sitting up and pulling his t-shirt over his shoulders. It’ll be fun. Can I get you something for the edge? Pack a bowl or something?

She flips over and exhales hard into the mattress. The single-pane windows make his apartment drafty, and she can feel a breeze over the bare skin of her back. I just need a second, she says, her voice muffled.

Before long she’s sitting on his toilet with no pants on and he’s drawing the estrogen, vial inverted and pulling the plunger with a look of concentration on his face. He’s got the draw needle’s cap in his mouth and you can tell he thinks it makes him look sexy, which it only kind of does. The bathroom is old. An ancient and weirdly-shaped porcelain sink with separate hot and cold faucets and a phallic brass rod that used to have some kind of soap wrapped around it protrudes from the wall. She tips her head back and closes her eyes and then there’s the sound of the draw needle clattering into a sharps container and the rustling of plastic. Cool wipe on her bare thigh and then he’s saying, Alright—ready?

Opens her eyes to look down at him and gives a tight smile, saying, As I’ll ever be.

He pinches her thigh and inserts the needle. The shot itself never hurts; it’s the anticipation that gets her. Tightness in her jaw and stomach like she’s bracing to get punched, but the blow never lands. Instead there’s the slow and weirdly unsatisfying progression of oil into thigh and then it’s over. Phew, she says while Alex affixes a bandaid. Sighs deeply and closes her eyes. Consummate professional, this guy. Sells Adderall to the college kids—just to pay the bills—but hormones are his passion. When she hears the crackly draw of his vape she holds her hand out and wiggles her fingers without saying anything until he hands it to her. The treacly taste of vanilla overpowers her palate and the nicotine makes her veins feel like they’re buzzing. Actual buzzing sound then and she opens her eyes, her and Alex both staring at her phone on the floor. On the upturned screen, an incoming call from Alyssa. Their eyes snap into contact with one another and she snatches the phone, walking into the next room as she picks up.

Hello?

A man’s voice saying, Hey, uh—is this Brigette?

You can call me Sean, she says for some reason. Sorry—who am I speaking to?

Nervous laugh and the man says, I’m Reed. I’m with your friend. 

Silence and before Brigid can finish saying, Oka— Reed interrupts, saying, So, your friend is, like, way too fucked up, and she’s gotta go home, but she won’t get in my car, or whatever. Also I’m lowkey crossfaded, so.

Oh. Why—

So I was hoping you could come grab her.

Right, she says. You know I’m in Ypsilanti, right?

Why would I know that?

Brigid turns around and Alex is leaning in the bathroom door frame with a curious look on his face, mouthing, What?

Turning away, Brigid says, Okay, wait. So, explain to me again what’s happening?

Reed sighs. Your friend came over—

Surely you know her name, she interrupts.

Irritated sigh and he says, Your friend Alyssa came over. She was already kinda drunk and then we did some dabs with my roommates. Long story short, she got in a fight with my boy Patrick and then she threw up. She’s chilling in my bed right now, but I’d rather not clean puke out of my mattress and I’m not gonna call an ambulance or whatever, because I’m, like, twenty-seven and—

Right, Brigid cuts him off, unwilling to hear the rest of that thought.

Tap on her shoulder and Alex whispers in her unoccupied ear, Dude, what’s up?

Takes her phone from her ear and sees the time is a quarter to midnight. Puts the phone on speaker, a queasy awareness of what’s going to happen next in the pit of her stomach. Right, she says again. Can she chill for, like, a couple hours?

I dunno, bro, Reed says. She’s crying and shit—she’s gotta go home.

She watches as Alex’s brain visibly pieces together what’s going on and then he says, I can be there before one.

Reed says: Sure.

They dress quickly in silence. When Alex retrieves a truly barbaric looking knife from his underwear drawer, testing the violent spring-loaded mechanism before slipping it into his pocket, Brigid eyes him skeptically and says, Seems excessive.

Alex shrugs. I’d like to be at least a little scary.

It’s a while before she notices just how fast he’s driving, the speedometer’s illuminated needle pinned to the right in her peripherals. Sitting up straighter and pulling her seatbelt tighter, her jaw feeling very tense, she says, Can I play music?

Of course, he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

The highway signs say Albion when she finally asks, So… what happened with you two?

Alex laughs pretty hard, which relaxes her a little, but he doesn’t say anything.

When they pass another exit sign, he finally says, I don’t know what you want me to say, What’s she told you about it?

Not much, she admits. I get the impression it was something related to trans shit, but that’s a guess.

Little shrug and he says, Yeah, I guess. When they pass the exit for Marshall he says, We did argue about trans stuff. She was wishy-washy about coming out—this whole thing about how it’s easier for trans guys. She thought I was, like, way too freaked-out about the possibility of repression—with the DIY and whatever. Probably she didn’t like that I got T from sketchy places, but she never said anything. I don’t like to do the ‘I told you so’ thing, but.

Right—

But that isn’t really why we broke up.

Right.

It was a combination of things.

Totally.

Also, she cheated on me.

Oh—

But—with, like, a Grindr dude, so it wasn’t even, like, cheating.

I dunno, that sou—

But I maybe cheated on her, too, so I dunno.

Right.

They shouldn’t let high-schoolers have open relationships, I think.

She laughs politely.

Another minute and then he says, But, yeah. We still care about each other. Obviously.

Brigid, looking again at the speedometer, says, I can tell. 

*

The house’s first floor lights are all on. There’s a couch on the porch, and the distinct synthetic indigo glow of LED light-strips emanates from an upstairs window.

The first thing Reed says when he opens the door is, I just wanna say up front that I didn’t touch her.

Brigid says, Well that’s encouraging.

Holding his hand out to Alex, Reed says, Hey. I’m Reed.

Alex’s hands stay in his pockets and he says, Yeah. Cool. Alex. This is Brigid.

You can also call me Sean, Brigid says.

Confused raise of his eyebrow and Reed says, I’ll call you Brigette, dude—it’s chill.

Alex says, Can we come in?

Oh, yeah, sorry, Reed says. She’s upstairs.

Inside, the house is the standard fare of part-time DIY venues: flattened, formerly high-pile carpets over cold hardwood and too-many couches. The orange linoleum floors in the kitchen have stains so deep they’re probably uncleanable and the stairs creak as they follow Reed to his room. When he opens the door there’s an intense smell of weed and a dirty and complicated bong on the floor. Alyssa’s asleep in the bed, the duvet tangled around her legs. The light-strips cast a blueish tint on her skin.

I did not expect you to have a bedframe, Alex whispers.

Squatting down, Brigid pushes a strand of hair behind Alyssa’s ear and, nudging her shoulder, whispers, Hey Alyssa.

Alyssa squints as she opens her eyes and says, Brigid?

Her breath smells awful and Brigid, trying not to make a face, says, I’m here to save you.

Confused, Alyssa says, Do I look like I need to be saved?

Looking around the surprisingly calm room, Brigid says, Well—not really. But Reed called me and said you needed a ride.

Who?

I called, Reed says.

Alex chimes in, Do you not know his name?

Alyssa’s eyes open fully now and she says, Alex?

Alex says, Hi Alyssa.

Alyssa groans and flops onto her back.

Come on, Brigid says, let’s just get you outta here and then we can explain.

I’m not getting into the schizo-mobile, Alyssa says.

Alex says, It’s nice to see you, too.

Motioning his finger between the two of them, Reed says, Did you two used to…

Alex snaps, Mind your business, as Alyssa scrunches her face in disgust and says, Ough—don’t remind me.

Reed throws his hands up in surrender.

Alyssa blinks rapidly and, as if she’s finally waking up, drags herself to a seated position, putting her head in her hands. Brigid sits on the edge of the bed and says, Sorry. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Ah—s’okay, Alyssa slurs quietly.

Brigid asks, What happened?

Pointing to Reed with a haphazard throw of her finger, Alyssa says, Roommate called me a tranny.

Brigid looks up just in time to see Alex’s whole body go taught and Reed says, He didn’t call you a tranny.

Seeing the horrified look on Brigid’s face and the homicidal look on Alex’s, he quickly adds, He’s a skateboarder. He was talking about skateboarding. It’s a term in skateboarding.

Lotta eye-contact while saying it, Alyssa says.

With a hostile squint towards Reed, Alex says, Don’t act stupid.

Reed says, Well. I called for a reason.

Looking up, Alyssa says, Coulda let me sleep.

You threw up, like, twice, dude, Reed says.

Don’t call her dude, Brigid interjects angrily.

Oh my fucking God, Reed groans. Figure it out, please. It’s my house.

Alyssa blows a raspberry and says, Be nice to Brigid.

Alex rolls his eyes at Reed and places his hand on Brigid’s shoulder, correcting his anger into a soft tone of voice before saying, I’m gonna warm up the car, ‘kay?

Seeing the touch, Alyssa’s eyes narrow.

Wait, she says. Are you two fucking?

The bottom of Brigid’s stomach falls out and Alex sighs, saying, Oh Jesus Christ. Alyssa, you’re being insane.

I think they’re fucking, Reed says.

Three sets of eyes turn incredulously on him and he says, Fine. Fuck it. I’m finna do another dab. You gotta be outta here in ten—my roommate has class.

He closes the door behind him and the three of them make wide eyes at one another before Brigid says, What fucking year is it? and Alex murmurs, Really know how to pick ‘em. Alyssa groans.

Brigid tries to say, Let’s get out of— before Alyssa cuts her off and, looking at Alex, says, Is this some kinda kink of yours? Pre-ordering girls?

Alex laughs humorlessly.

Brigid looks back and forth between them helplessly, not knowing what to say. Nobody says anything for what feels like minutes and then Alex just says, Whatever. I’m gonna warm up the car.

When he leaves Alyssa looks up at Brigid and gives her a gentle smile. Well, she says, let’s go.

In the living room Alex and Reed look up from what seems like an intense conversation to see Alyssa, hobbling off the final stair and holding onto Brigid’s arm. Still slurring slightly, she says, Boys? Comparing notes?

Alex says, I’ll be outside.

Wanting to leave this guy’s house only just barely more than she wants to avoid the hostile silence of Alex’s car, Brigid makes brief eye contact with Reed and says, Well. Thanks for calling. Probably the right move.

Alyssa hiccups.

Alex holds open the car’s rear door and Alyssa says, How chivalrous, while Brigid murmurs to Alex, I’m gonna sit with her.

Alyssa curls up across two seats of the rear bench, her head in Brigid’s lap.

Making eye contact with Brigid in the rearview mirror, Alex says, Where am I going?

Alyssa moans, Gatorade…

Alex leaves them in the car in the Meijer parking lot, saying, Please don’t throw up.

Brigid tips her head to the ceiling. It’s silent save for the low whir of the heat. Eventually she says, Sorry for not telling you—about me and Alex. It’s not serious, or anything. Just fooling around.

Alyssa shrugs, her shoulder pressing into Brigid’s thigh.

Minutes tick by in the upper corner of the new screen in the dashboard. It’s a quarter past one in the morning, and the calendar app’s icon indicates it’s now Sunday the 1st. Brigid tips her head against the cool window and sighs, exhausted.

Into the silence Alyssa says, I haven’t had my shot in a month.

Eyes opening wider, Brigid says, What?

I’m out.

I thought you had, like, three months left.

I lied.

Oh.

Brigid looks down and Alyssa’s eyes are closed. She looks weirdly peaceful.

What happened?

Alyssa shrugs again, not opening her eyes, and says, Forgot to transfer my prescription to a pharmacy here. Ran out a couple weeks ago.

Fuck.

Yeah.

And you’re on Tricare?

Yeah. I’m fucked.

Why’d you lie about it?

Didn’t want you to worry.

But Alex has—

I don’t want his gray-market bullshit.

Another minute passes. Sound of heat through the vents and the occasional buffet of wind against the window. Then, a sniffling sound. Alyssa’s eyes pressed shut now and she’s crying, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. Brigid puts a hand on her head. Her skin damp with sweat. Reaching into a pocket of her coat, Brigid retrieves a package of Kleenex, pressing one against Alyssa’s sweaty forehead before passing her another to blow her nose. Eventually, in a wavering voice smaller than Brigid has ever heard from her, she says, Can you do it for me?

Alex doesn’t skip a beat. Sure, he says, closing the door and passing Alyssa the Gatorade. What’s your dose?

In a dark alley off to the side of Meijer, Alex turns on the dome light and asks Brigid to pass him her headrest. He pops off a piece at the bottom and out falls an individually wrapped syringe and a cardboard box. This is the backup vial, he says, reaching into the center console and applying hand sanitizer before retrieving an alcohol swab and bandaid.

She has to do it, Alyssa says.

Alex shrugs and passes the hand sanitizer to Brigid, saying, I’ll draw it up. Familiar cadence, vial inverted, look of concentration on his face in the rear-view mirror. Cap of the needle in his mouth and, mumbling, he says, Sorry. I only have twenty-three gauge—it’s gonna take a sec.

Eventually he recaps the needle and passes the syringe back to Brigid.

Alright, he says, opening the door, I’ll give you privacy.

Footsteps receding and then, taking a deep breath, Brigid says, Okay. Sit up. Which thigh?

Sitting up with a dazed expression, Alyssa says, Oh—I do sub-Q.

Can you show me?

Leaning against the door, Alyssa pantomimes the procedure. Then, fighting to keep her hands still, the cap of the needle in her mouth, two fingers from Alyssa’s navel and she inserts the needle at what she hopes is the right angle, pressing her palm on Alyssa’s stomach and depressing the plunger. When it’s over Alyssa lets out a relieved breath and Brigid slumps back into the seat, saying, Huh. Really thought that’d be a bigger deal. I could do that. 

Alyssa inhales shakily and says, Yeah. 

Fumbling to recap the needle, Brigid pricks her thumb. Fuck, she says, sticking her thumb in her mouth. When she removes it, twinge of blood mixing with saliva, both girls watch in silence as a single black bead slowly surfaces. 

I’m gonna fucking kill myself, Brigid groans. 

Alyssa says, Don’t joke about that, and they both start laughing. 

Eleanor is a writer living in Chicago with her fiancé and her cat, Luna. She’s working on a short story collection about boymoders. Tá sí ag foghlaim Gaeilge faoi láthair, ach níl sí an-mhaith.