He\u2019d been digging through the wreckage for a week. From it he produced his little figurines, each of them warped and blackened, many of them fused with other things, plastics melted together or even metals. He dragged them from the things that hadn\u2019t burned: the brittled hulls of his kitchen appliances; the tiles and fixtures of his bathroom; the countless nails that once had held his walls together. It was August and the clothes that clung to him were black with soot and he tired easily in the heat. But he worked on, stopping only at noon when his neighbor brought him lunch, and again in the evening when he called him in for dinner.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d found one just now, the latest of his figurines. He crouched there among the wreckage turning it in his hand. Looking for color, for shape. For anything to recognize it by and so declare it hers. But he found neither color nor shape, he found nothing. And yet devotedly he rose and brought the little shapeless thing, the melted plastic nothing, to the flat of cardboard where he\u2019d laid the others.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
That night Charles lay beneath his tarp looking at his feet. The little shrine of figurines beside him. He wriggled the toes of one foot, then the other, making the little eyes that were his toenails blink in the darkness. Each of them a tropical blue, for his daughter had painted them the week before she\u2019d died.<\/p>\n
Already the blue polish was traveling upward, the unpainted crescent of newly-grown nail encroaching on it. The nails were past the length that he should have cut them, they were uncomfortable, and he told himself he would buy some nail clippers tomorrow. He\u2019d told himself that the night before, and the night before that.<\/p>\n
The girl had started painting them after her mother, Charles\u2019s wife, had died. That was two years ago. Before then she had painted her mother\u2019s nails. Charles liked the sensation of the little cap brush as it tickled against his toes. He could feel it even now, if he tried hard enough. He could see, even, the girl\u2019s tongue pressed between her lips in concentration. When he saw that he wanted to look away. But there was nothing to look away from; she was a phantom, she existed only in his memories.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, just as he would see the girl, he would see specks of color in the warped and twisted things laid on his cardboard. But these were phantoms too, they were not there, nor did those crude figures bear the shapes he sometimes attributed to them. They were all of them colorless, melted, and grotesque. Nothing in them that he could point to and say, Yes, this was hers, this thing I have torn from the wreckage of my house was my daughter\u2019s _________. And he needed to be sure. He needed to know with absolute certainty that whatever it was he would keep as souvenir of his daughter\u2019s life was hers. That she had made it, or at least had loved it and so made it hers.<\/p>\n
As it was, his painted nails were the only color beneath the tarp, tropical even in the graying night, and they were all he had of her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The next day, as Charles was digging, his neighbor came out waving his hands and practically running, stumbling across the lawn. \u201cCharles!\u201d he was saying. \u201cCharles! Nancy\u2019s found something!\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles straightened and rested his hands on his hips. He was tired, the morning already was very warm.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome out of there,\u201d Ford said. \u201cNancy\u2019s found something. Something of Claire\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d Charles said.<\/p>\n
\u201cA necklace. It has Claire\u2019s name on it and everything. Nancy just called from the carwash. She found it under the seat while she was vacuuming. Oh, won\u2019t you come the hell out of there?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA necklace,\u201d Charles repeated. Yes; the girl had been making them out of beads. He looked down at the blackened wreckage he stood among and all of a sudden it felt foreign, offensive. He stepped out from it to where Ford stood in the lawn.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019ll bring it home when she\u2019s done with her errands,\u201d Ford said. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you come on in and have lunch. We can have a drink to celebrate.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not so sure,\u201d Charles said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt has her name on it and everything,\u201d Ford said. He seemed more excited than he, Charles, even was, and Charles felt moved by that but also a little troubled. He wanted to be excited, he wanted to be relieved, but he knew he couldn\u2019t be until he saw the necklace for himself. \u201cOne drink won\u2019t hurt you,\u201d Ford said. \u201cHave you had one at all since it happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI haven\u2019t been able to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe might as well have lunch, at least,\u201d Ford said. \u201cMaybe you can quit a little early, just for the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles gave that some thought. \u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cI can do that I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
But inside, as Ford made them their sandwiches, Charles found himself staring at the bottle of wine that stood sweating on the countertop. It was the same kind of bottle he\u2019d watched Ford and his wife drink from each night at dinner. And he thought, looking from the bottle to the glass that Ford had poured for himself, that maybe his neighbor was right, that maybe it wouldn\u2019t hurt to have a drink.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, I think I will have a little wine,\u201d he said. \u201cWould you mind?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWould I mind?\u201d Ford said. \u201cWould I mind?\u201d And he hurried down a second glass and poured it and brought it to the table. He brought the sandwiches and raised his own glass. \u201cI can\u2019t tell you how happy I am for you,\u201d he said. \u201cFor all of us. It\u2019s been hard on us, watching you out there all day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Charles said. He did not meet Ford\u2019s glass with his own but he did drink. He set his glass down on the table and said, \u201cWhen will she be home, do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s just finishing some errands,\u201d Ford said. \u201cThen she\u2019ll get Mary from camp and she\u2019ll be home.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles nodded. He started on his sandwich. He was feeling the wine already, it had been so long since his last drink, and it felt good. Even the sandwich tasted better than usual, though it was the same turkey sandwich Ford made him every day.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe now that you have the necklace you can stop,\u201d Ford said. \u201cStop altogether I mean. Not just for the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have it yet,\u201d Charles said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou just as good as have it,\u201d Ford said. \u201cHer name and everything, right there, spelled out in beads. I can\u2019t tell you how relieved I am about it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles thought about that. He said, \u201cIf it\u2019s hers, I can probably stop. The things I\u2019m finding, they\u2019re nothing. They could be anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re ugly little things, aren\u2019t they,\u201d Ford said.<\/p>\n
\u201cUgly, yes. Because they\u2019ve got no color. If they had color, maybe they\u2019d be beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUgly, black little things,\u201d Ford said. He chewed mindlessly at his sandwich. \u201cJust burned up, twisted up junk.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Charles said. \u201cIf only they had some color to them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis necklace sure has some color,\u201d Ford said. \u201cAll the colors in the world, it\u2019s got.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles put his sandwich down. \u201cHow do you know that?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. You know how these girls are. No sense for subtlety.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you seen it?\u201d Charles said. \u201cHave you seen the necklace?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow could I have seen it? I told you Nancy just found it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought maybe you\u2019d seen it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sure I\u2019ve seen it before,\u201d Ford said. \u201cI\u2019m sure I saw Claire wearing it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI know which one it is, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWith this, now, you can finally move on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s possible,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can stop punishing yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a while neither man said anything. Then Ford said, \u201cDon\u2019t listen to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s alright.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do I know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s alright,\u201d Charles said. \u201cMaybe I can move on. Maybe you\u2019re right. The necklace will help, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sure it will,\u201d Ford said. \u201cI just know it will.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It was just afternoon when Nancy and Mary came home. The door opened and there they were. But they did not come immediately to the table, where Ford and Charles still sat, and so Ford called to them, \u201cWell? What are you waiting for? Let\u2019s see it.\u201d<\/p>\n
They stood there in the doorway. Nancy clutched her purse in both hands and Charles knew she had the necklace in there. But just as he knew that, he knew also that something was wrong. She did not come to the table. She just stood there with her daughter beside her. To Ford she said, \u201cI wish you hadn\u2019t said anything. I told you not to say anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ford turned to Charles. He\u2019d been smiling obscenely but now the smile was melting from his face.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told you to wait until I showed Mary,\u201d Nancy said. \u201cUntil we knew for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it,\u201d Charles said. \u201cWhat\u2019s happening?\u201d Though he already knew.<\/p>\n
Nancy came into the kitchen now. \u201cOh, Charles. I was wrong. It wasn\u2019t hers at all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI see,\u201d Charles said. \u201cBut it had her name on it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. But it was Mary\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles stared at Nancy, then at Mary, who had not moved from the doorway.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe all have our ways of mourning,\u201d Nancy said. \u201cYou see, Mary made it at camp. She\u2019s taking a class in beads there. I\u2019m so, so very sorry. I think it was her way of saying goodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl had begun to cry. \u201cIt\u2019s alright,\u201d Charles said. \u201cCan I see it, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n
Nancy produced the necklace from her purse. She laid it delicately in Charles\u2019s opened palm. He looked at it, then put it on the table.<\/p>\n
Ford said, reaching for the necklace, \u201cWait a minute. How do we know it wasn\u2019t Claire\u2019s? I\u2019m sure I saw her wearing something just like it. Mary?\u201d<\/p>\n
But Mary shook her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re so sorry,\u201d Nancy said. \u201cWe know what it would have meant to you. It was just Mary\u2019s way of mourning. We all have our ways. Though it must seem to you like a cruel kind of joke.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI understand. It\u2019s alright.\u201d He rose from his chair.<\/p>\n
Ford jumped up. \u201cI still think this could be hers,\u201d he said. He was turning the necklace roughly in his hands.<\/p>\n
Charles went for the door. The girl moved aside for him, and then for the first time she spoke. \u201cWould you like to keep it?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh,\u201d Charles said. \u201cNo, thank you. It\u2019s yours.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. I\u2019d like you to. I really would.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles looked at her. He looked over at Ford, who was already walking toward him, thrusting the necklace out for him to take.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright,\u201d he said. \u201cI guess I can do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The days elapsed, the nights. All of them hot, all of them the same. His hands became thick with calluses from the roughness of his work, from palming up the framing nails which countless lay about the wreckage. The necklace lay with the other things on the piece of cardboard. A false label for his false shrine. He had tried wearing it but it was too false, it felt too wrong, and so he\u2019d set it with his fused and blackened figurines where it made the only color among them. He added daily to his collection, crowding the cardboard with things that could not possibly have been his daughter\u2019s, and yet which made the sum total of his daily efforts.<\/p>\n
One afternoon as he was working, he felt something give way in his left shoe. He removed the shoe and the sock, both of them worn and blackened, to find that the nail of his big toe had broken. The exposed half-inch of it had shorn completely off leaving behind a shard, a potsherd of tropical blue that he had to fish out from his sock. He examined the sharp little thing. He pressed its pointed ends into the flesh of his thumb and forefinger. He tossed it away.<\/p>\n
The pile of wreckage he\u2019d picked through grew larger and larger, the unexamined waste flatter. The end of his labors confronted him. He slowed his pace, he got to sleeping during the day, though when asked about it by Ford or by Nancy he would just say that it was due to weariness, that he was tired. And how could they not believe him, who had for three weeks now moved piece by minute piece the ruins of his life, shifting them from one pile to another beneath the hateful August sun.<\/p>\n
The August sun, and then the September. Because one morning Mary was standing at the end of her driveway wearing her bookbag, and the road itself was busy again with cars. She waved to Charles, already awake and working languidly at his task. He waved back. She stood there another few minutes looking out at the road, and then she came over to him. She said, \u201cYou didn\u2019t like my necklace.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. No. It wasn\u2019t that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s okay. Tell me the truth. You didn\u2019t like it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly because it wasn\u2019t hers. It\u2019s a fine necklace.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe lost hers. That\u2019s why I made it. It wasn\u2019t really what Mom said about mourning. I don\u2019t really know what mourning is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh,\u201d Charles said. \u201cYes. I remember now.\u201d Or at least, he couldn\u2019t remember having seen his daughter in the necklace for some time.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was upset about losing it, so I made her a replacement.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was very nice of you,\u201d Charles said.<\/p>\n
The girl looked over at his tarp, his meaningless possibilities among which the necklace lay. \u201cBut I couldn\u2019t give it to her,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was still looking at the tarp. \u201cWhat will you do with them?\u201d she asked. \u201cWith all the things you found.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. Probably just throw them away.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can throw the necklace away too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI could give it back to you, if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mary shook her head. \u201cI should go back to my driveway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe bus will stop here if it sees you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s alright. I should go back.\u201d<\/p>\n
But the girl didn\u2019t go. She just stood there. Charles looked at her small body before him and said, his voice strained and foreign, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry Mary. I shouldn\u2019t have left her alone. She wasn\u2019t old enough. You aren’t old enough. You aren\u2019t old enough for any of this.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl said nothing. Finally she walked back to her driveway. The bus came loudly around the corner and stopped and Charles looked over at all the young faces pressed against the glass, staring. He knew what they were staring at. Mary got on the bus and the bus drove on and when it was gone he sat down and wept.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And then, one day, he was done. It was another school day, the bus had come for Mary, but he could not have told you the day of the week. The concrete slab his house had been built upon lay naked among the grass, which already had begun to grow back, and he stood there on its level surface staring at the mound of picked-through rubble. It looked too small to have been his house and so too did the slab he stood upon, it seemed impossibly small for how large his life had once felt.<\/p>\n
Ford, when he came out with Charles\u2019s sandwich, said, \u201cNow I guess you\u2019ll let them clear it away.\u201d<\/p>\n
“Yes,\u201d Charles said, though he didn\u2019t know who they were. He had not yet thought about that.<\/p>\n
Ford had come with not only the sandwich but a wooden box, too, and he said, \u201cHere. Why don\u2019t you use this instead of that piece of cardboard.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles took the box from him. It was a wine box and it had the name of the winery burned into it.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt will be good when they clear it all away,\u201d Ford said. \u201cGood for you. Good for Mary.\u201d<\/p>\n
“Yes,\u201d Charles said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry you\u2019ve had to look at that for so long. I\u2019m sorry Mary had to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, no,\u201d Ford said. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean it like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s alright,\u201d Charles said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want you to think I meant it like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles closed his eyes. He could feel the smooth wood of the box on his fingers, the depressions that made the winery\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe sure hope you build another house,\u201d Ford said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019d hate for you to move.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles gripped the box. He wanted to drop it and he had to grip it tightly so he didn\u2019t. But he wanted to, and not just drop it but smash it, smash it to splinters at the feet of this other man. Who still had everything, who had even just the right-sized box to give him, which box itself Charles had watched Ford take bottle and bottle from nightly, to enjoy with his family around him.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, we\u2019d understand if you did,\u201d Ford said. \u201cIf it was too much for you. If you felt you had to move, to let yourself–to recover.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles opened his eyes. \u201cI don\u2019t want to recover,\u201d he said. \u201cDon\u2019t you see? I don\u2019t want to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ford just looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you for the box. Now please.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ford kept looking at him. Finally he turned and walked away, leaving Charles alone on his small and naked slab.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He swept everything from the cardboard into the box and dropped it, box and necklace and figurines alike, onto the pile to be taken away. That night he lay under a blanket Nancy had given him, for the nights had grown cool. He could feel his jagged toenails catching on the blanket\u2019s fabric; three more had shorn off, he could not say when, and he\u2019d never bothered to trim them. He lifted up the blanket and peered down at his feet. At those crescented unpainted portions encroaching, encroaching. Even the painted portions now were worn and scratched. But not faded, at least; where the polish still clung it was as bright as he remembered it being when his daughter had applied it. The big toe on his right foot was the best of what remained but this too would have its polish worn away, scratched away, before it broke off like the others. And as he thought about that he told himself, or anyone who would listen, God maybe, that he was done trying to reverse time now. That he would stop trying to reverse time if only he could just freeze it, stop its ceaseless encroachment and obliteration.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They came to remove the wreckage. It was a salvage crew that Ford had found and if they seemed uncertain about the pile that met them, why not a single piece of it was on the slab itself but to the side, neatly combed through and replaced there, they gave no sign of it. They asked no questions, removing it all by hand and by shovel into a single solitary dumpster. Charles sat there watching them, his feet bare because his shoes by now had given out entirely.<\/p>\n
When they\u2019d finished and nothing but the slab remained, and his tarp, and his car which he had not once driven since coming here to find his house, impossibly, burned to the ground, he rose abruptly and walked over to the crew foreman to ask him something.<\/p>\n
\u201cBoltcutters?\u201d the man said. \u201cNo. You\u2019d think so, wouldn\u2019t you. But no.\u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cOh,\u201d Charles said. \u201cAnything like that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s like boltcutters?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Charles said. \u201cA hacksaw, maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man shook his head. \u201cWhat is it you\u2019re trying to do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI just need to cut something, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man shrugged. \u201cYou could try one of the shovels. Put whatever it is on the ground and just chop at it. But they\u2019re only transfer shovels. You saw them.\u201d<\/p>\n
Charles looked over now to the truck the men had come in. The shovels hung vertically on the slatted wooden wall of the truck\u2019s bed and they were the big, broad, scooping kind.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Charles said. \u201cThank you, though.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHardware store ought to have what you need,\u201d the man said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Charles said. \u201cThat\u2019s where I\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Though he hadn\u2019t driven the car since the fire, he had been in it once, and that to look through it for anything his daughter might have left. But, unforgivably, because what had taken him away that night was a date with a woman he\u2019d recently met, his first date since his wife had died, he\u2019d taken all of the girl\u2019s things from the car and put them in the house. And this, he knew, was why he was being punished: he had tried to move on.<\/p>\n
He parked and went into the store. It was a small store, family-owned, and some of the people who worked there knew him. He expected them all to hush when he came in, he braced himself for it, but they went on talking, just as they\u2019d been before the little bell above the door announced his presence. They didn\u2019t even comment on his bare feet. He went to the aisle where the tools were and found the boltcutters. There was just the one pair and he took it from its pegs and opened its arms as wide as they would go, watching the complex mechanics that powered the tiny jaws. That enabled them to cut through steel and, he couldn\u2019t see why not, even bone.<\/p>\n
He paid and left the store. He brought the boltcutters to his car and laid them on the passenger seat beside him. He sat there staring at them. He looked down at the big toe of his right foot, the expanse of blue polish. Then, in a sudden jerking motion, he picked the boltcutters up and opened them and set their jaws down on either side of the toe. He paused. He could feel the cold metal resting on his skin. He took the boltcutters away. He didn\u2019t think he could do it. But he knew that he must, because he had nothing else. He took them up again and with his arms opened wide to spread wide the arms of the boltcutters put them back around his toe. He started to squeeze the arms closed. He felt the cold metal pinching now, pressing urgently on the flesh of his toe. Do it, he told himself. You must do it. He closed his eyes. And then, in one enormous, tiny motion, he squeezed the arms of the boltcutters together.<\/p>\n
He heard a crunch, and felt a searing pain, and when he opened his eyes he saw his blood spurting out, spraying all over the footpedals of the car.<\/p>\n
He did not yet lose consciousness. He leaned over to pick up his severed toe, but he could not find it. His blood was spurting out everywhere. It dripped from the pedals like rain after a storm. He slid his hand desperately along the floormat. And then, at last, his fingers found something beneath his seat, and closed around it. It felt knobby and slick with blood, and strangely thin, almost stringy. He dragged the thing out from under the seat and held it up to better see it.<\/p>\n
And what he held was not his severed toe at all. There, depending from his hand, slick from her own father\u2019s blood, was the necklace his daughter had lost, her name spelled out in beads.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He wriggled the toes of one foot, then the other, making the little eyes that were his toenails blink in the darkness. Each of them a tropical blue, for his daughter had painted them the week before she\u2019d died.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":22760,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-22078","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-derek-pfeffer"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22078","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22078"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22078\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":22762,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22078\/revisions\/22762"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/22760"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22078"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22078"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22078"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}