\u201cMiss\u2026 I think there\u2019s someone down here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt my heart stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Through a gap in the bedspread, I saw little black shoes, standing perfectly still in front of my bed. Then, skinny knees bent, and a pale little boy\u2019s face appeared, with huge eyes full of fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was Ethan, one of Chloe\u2019s classmates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He saw me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I saw him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had the cell phone pressed to my ear, but the 911 dispatcher had barely just answered. If the boy screamed, everything would come crashing down.
I put a finger to my lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan swallowed hard. His eyes filled with tears. Then he lifted his head and said with a trembling voice:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt was a ball, Miss. That\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis walked into my bedroom. I stopped breathing. Her shoes stopped so close to me that I could see a dried coffee stain on the sole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStop making things up,\u201d she said in annoyance. \u201cI already told you this room is off-limits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she crouched down a bit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pressed the cell phone against my chest. I was certain she was going to discover me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But in that exact moment, Chloe spoke from the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMiss, Sophie is crying again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis let out a heavy sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her shoes walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan stayed a second longer in front of the bed. He looked at me as if he wanted to ask for help without opening his mouth. Then he ran after the others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c911 Emergencies, what is your situation?\u201d the dispatcher\u2019s voice whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I covered my mouth and answered quietly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere is a teacher inside my house with my daughter and other children. She took them out of school. She\u2019s with them in my house without permission. I just heard they\u2019re going to take pictures of them. There is a little girl crying. Please, send help.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dispatcher asked for my address. I gave it to her in a whisper, letter by letter, number by number, while I listened from across the hallway as they moved furniture, opened my linen closet, and dragged the folding table I kept for holiday parties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStay hidden if they haven\u2019t seen you,\u201d the dispatcher told me. \u201cA unit is on the way. Do not hang up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t hang up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The problem was that Ms. Davis came back in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time, she wasn\u2019t alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I heard a man\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs this it?\u201d
\u201cYes,\u201d she answered. \u201cBut hurry. The mom works until three-thirty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The male voice let out a low laugh.
\u201cVery trusting lady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt a fire rise in my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t a parent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t school staff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a stranger inside my house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I saw him walk in through the gap in the bedspread. Black pants, expensive sneakers, a large backpack slung over his shoulder. Ms. Davis opened my closet door and took out a white sheet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis will work,\u201d she said. \u201cMake it look clean. Homey. Poor little things, but not too much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man replied:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe photos worked well last time. People donate more when the kids look sad, but cared for. If they look too abandoned, they ask questions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Donations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Photos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Children taken out of school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My house being used as a stage set.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dispatcher was still on the line. I brought the cell phone closer to the floor, as if it could listen for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis left the room with the sheet. The man stayed for a moment, looking around. He opened my dresser drawer. He took out a perfume. Smelled it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNice place for someone you claim is a single mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s not a single mother,\u201d Ms. Davis said from the hallway. \u201cShe\u2019s a widow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The word pierced me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody at the school knew that, except the administration and the teacher. I had filled out the enrollment papers with a trembling hand, still not used to writing \u201cdeceased\u201d where the name of my husband, David, used to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEven better,\u201d the man said. \u201cWidows work more. They ask fewer questions.\u201d
I had to bite my lips to keep from coming out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I heard Chloe\u2019s voice:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMiss, my mom doesn\u2019t let anyone into her room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour mom isn\u2019t here,\u201d Ms. Davis replied. \u201cAnd if you want to keep coming, be quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Keep coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I crawled slowly toward the opposite edge of the bed. The dispatcher asked if I could provide more details. I whispered that there were at least five children and two adults. That one was a man. That there was a camera. That the teacher had a copy of my key, although I didn\u2019t know how.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hearing myself say that, something dropped like a stone in my memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two weeks earlier, Chloe had lost her keys. She cried so much. Ms. Davis told me not to scold her, that it happens to kids, that she had helped look for them around the classroom. That afternoon, they appeared inside her backpack, in a pocket where my daughter swore she had already checked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t lose them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They took them from her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They made a copy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My hands shook with rage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From Chloe\u2019s room, instructions began to echo out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou, sit here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t smile so much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou, hug your little sister, even if she isn\u2019t your sister.\u201d
\u201cLook down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cChloe, stand by the window.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My daughter asked:
\u201cWhat is this for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis answered with a sweet voice, that same voice she used at the school gate:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTo help children who have nothing, Chloe. You want to help, right?\u201d
\u201cYes, but\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen don\u2019t ask ugly questions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man said:
\u201cThat girl works. She has a kind face.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t stay under the bed anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because I was brave. Because I was a mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I came out slowly, with the cell phone still connected. I stood up in my bedroom, feeling my knees weak, my hair sticking to my forehead, my hands freezing. I walked down the hallway without making a sound and peeked in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The scene I saw will stay burned into my mind forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In my daughter\u2019s room, they had hung my white sheet on the wall. They sat the kids on the floor, around an old backpack that belonged to none of them. The man was holding a professional camera. Ms. Davis was combing a little girl\u2019s hair with her fingers\u2014not with tenderness, but like someone arranging a prop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe was by the window. She was wearing a gray shirt over her uniform, one I didn\u2019t recognize. Her socks without the blue stripe were on the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s when I understood why she came home with different ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They dressed them up for the photos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They changed their clothes.
They put them back as if nothing had happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGet away from my daughter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My scream shattered the house.
Chloe turned around. When she saw me, her face crumbled.
\u201cMom!\u201d
She ran toward me, but Ms. Davis grabbed her by the arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the last straw.
I charged in like a wounded animal and pushed her with so much force that she let go of my daughter. Chloe crashed into my chest and I hugged her with one arm, while with the other I held the cell phone high.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe police are on their way,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd the call is being recorded.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis turned pale.
The man lowered the camera.
\u201cMa\u2019am, calm down. This is a social project.\u201d
\u201cThere is no social project in my house. There is a teacher kidnapping children during school hours.\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t kidnap them,\u201d Ms. Davis yelled. \u201cThey came because they wanted to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan started to cry.
\u201cYou said if we didn\u2019t come, you were going to tell my mom they were going to take my scholarship away.\u201d
Another little girl raised her trembling hand.
\u201cShe told me my dad would get mad if I said anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis turned toward them furiously.
\u201cShut up!\u201d
\u201cDo not ever speak to them like that again,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man moved toward the exit. I planted myself in the doorway.
\u201cYou aren\u2019t leaving either.\u201d
He laughed.
\u201cAre you going to stop me?\u201d
\u201cNo. They are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the distance, sirens could be heard.
They weren\u2019t loud at first. Barely an echo on the street. But it was enough to wipe the confidence right off the man\u2019s face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis started to cry.
\u201cMary, please. You don\u2019t understand. I just wanted to help. The school doesn\u2019t provide resources, the parents don\u2019t cooperate, the foundation paid for supplies, groceries\u2026\u201d
\u201cWhat foundation?\u201d
She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man glared at her with hatred.
\u201cShut up.\u201d
\u201cWhat foundation?\u201d I repeated.
Ms. Davis pressed her lips together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe was clinging to my waist. I could feel her body trembling against mine.
\u201cMom, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. Miss said it was a beautiful secret.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knelt down without letting her go.
\u201cNo, my love. You didn\u2019t do anything wrong. Nothing. Adults who ask for secrets that hurt are the ones who are wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then there were loud knocks at the door.
\u201cPolice!\u201d
I screamed:
\u201cIn here! Please, in here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man tried to run toward the kitchen. I managed to yell, and one of the kids accidentally kicked the black backpack. It fell to the floor. Out spilled folders, USB drives, photocopied IDs, and several sheets of paper with the children\u2019s names on them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The police officers entered seconds later.
Ms. Davis raised her hands as if she were innocent.
\u201cIt\u2019s all a misunderstanding.\u201d
But the camera was still on.
And my cell phone was too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mrs. Miller appeared behind the police officers in her floral housecoat, her hands over her mouth.
\u201cI told you!\u201d she cried. \u201cI knew something wasn\u2019t right!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The officers separated the children, detained the man, and searched the backpack. In a folder, they found fake forms with logos of organizations that looked official, but weren\u2019t. There were also printed photos of children crying, children sitting on strangers\u2019 beds, children holding signs with phrases they had never written.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a list, my house was listed as a \u201csecure location.\u201d
My daughter was listed as the \u201chost child.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt the urge to vomit.
\u201cHost for what?\u201d I asked, looking at Ms. Davis.
She wasn\u2019t crying anymore. Now she was rigid, as if she had shut down inside.
\u201cIt was just a place,\u201d she said. \u201cWe needed a real house. Campaigns with fake backgrounds are noticeable. People donate more when it looks intimate.\u201d
\u201cAnd that\u2019s why you stole my key?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer.
One of the police officers held up a keychain. There it was: a copy of my key with a yellow tag that read \u201cC\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe burst into tears.
\u201cI didn\u2019t know, Mom. I didn\u2019t know.\u201d
I hugged her so tight I almost lifted her off the floor.
\u201cI know. I know, my love.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The other children began to speak. First in pieces. Then more. Ms. Davis had been taking them out in small groups. Sometimes she said they were going to rehearse for a play. Sometimes that they had the principal\u2019s permission. Sometimes that they were helping poor children and that it made them \u201cgood kids.\u201d She threatened them by saying she would take away their support, accuse them of being liars, or make their parents angry if they said anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told Chloe something worse.
She told her that, since her dad was gone, she had to be \u201cmore mature\u201d and help me, because I worked too much and wouldn\u2019t understand.
She used my daughter\u2019s pain as a leash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When they took Ms. Davis away in handcuffs, she didn\u2019t yell. She just looked at me with a quiet, venomous rage.
\u201cYou ruined something that was bigger than you,\u201d she said.
I looked her dead in the eye.
\u201cNo. I saved something that was mine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turned to look at Chloe.
\u201cYou loved me.\u201d
My daughter hid behind me.
\u201cI believed you,\u201d she said in a tiny voice. \u201cIt\u2019s not the same.\u201d
Ms. Davis looked down for the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The parents started arriving later. The school notified them late. The police notified them better. They came running\u2014some in work uniforms, others holding hard hats, one mom with an apron covered in flour. Every child broke down in someone\u2019s arms. Every hug was a silent scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan\u2019s mom hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
\u201cMy son said you were under the bed,\u201d she told me through tears. \u201cHe said he didn\u2019t give you away because you had a mom\u2019s face.\u201d
I didn\u2019t know what to answer.
I just looked at Ethan. He gave me a sad smile, the smile of a boy who had to be brave before his time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We didn\u2019t sleep that night.
Neither Chloe nor I.
I had an emergency locksmith change the locks. I put a chair against the door, even though the locksmith told me it wasn\u2019t necessary anymore. I scrubbed my daughter\u2019s room as if I could wash away the fear with bleach. I threw the white sheet in a garbage bag because I never wanted to see it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe sat on my bed hugging her pink backpack.
\u201cMom,\u201d she said suddenly, \u201care you going to change my school?\u201d
I stayed quiet.
\u201cI don\u2019t know. First, I want to know what you want.\u201d
She looked at me surprised, as if no one had asked her that in a long time.
\u201cI want nobody to tell me secrets.\u201d
I sat next to her.
\u201cThat, I can promise you.\u201d
\u201cAnd I want Mrs. Miller to keep looking out the window.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed and cried at the same time.
\u201cI don\u2019t think we can stop that even if we wanted to.\u201d
Chloe managed a small smile.
Then she got serious.
\u201cMiss Davis said that if I told, you were going to think I was bad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt something crush my chest.
\u201cMy love, listen to me carefully. If an adult ever scares you, if they ask you to keep secrets, if they tell you I won\u2019t believe you, you come to me. Even if you\u2019re wrong. Even if you\u2019re not sure. Even if you\u2019re embarrassed. I am your mom before anything else.\u201d
\u201cWhat if it\u2019s a teacher?\u201d
\u201cThem too.\u201d
\u201cWhat if it\u2019s someone good?\u201d
\u201cGood people don\u2019t force you to hide.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe thought about that. Then she got under the covers and asked me to leave the light on.
I left it on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The following week was a storm.
Statements. The District Attorney\u2019s office. Psychologists. Furious parents. The media outside the school. The principal repeating that she knew nothing, that Ms. Davis was \u201cvery responsible,\u201d that they never imagined she would leave with students during school hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I listened to everything with freezing hands.
When it was my turn to speak at the PTA meeting, I brought Chloe\u2019s pink backpack. I set it on the table in front of everyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis backpack went every day into a school where my daughter was supposed to be safe,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd yet, someone took her out. Not once. Several times. Do not ask me for calm. Do not ask me for discretion. Do not ask me to think about the institution\u2019s prestige. Think about what it means that a nine-year-old girl believed she had to protect her teacher from her own mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After that, more children found the courage to speak up.
One girl said they made her repeat phrases in front of the camera: \u201cwe have no food,\u201d \u201chelp us,\u201d \u201cmy mom can\u2019t.\u201d Another boy said Ms. Davis gave them candy so they wouldn\u2019t cry. Another confessed they took them to different houses, not just mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The network was bigger.
It wasn\u2019t a desperate teacher.
It was a business built on the trust of children.
And the trust of parents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mrs. Miller became famous on our block. The people who used to call her nosy started bringing her bread, fruit, casseroles. She accepted it all with dignity, as if she had been appointed the official guardian of the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One afternoon, I went to see her with Chloe.
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I told her.
Mrs. Miller frowned.
\u201cFor what?\u201d
\u201cBecause I didn\u2019t believe you.\u201d
She looked at my daughter and then at me.
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter that you didn\u2019t believe me at first. It matters that you listened in time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chloe gave her a drawing. It was our house. In the window was Mrs. Miller in her floral housecoat. At the door was me, drawn huge, with open arms. And behind me, Chloe.
At the top, she wrote in crooked letters:
\u201cMy mom did come back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I broke down right there, in the neighbor\u2019s living room, over a plate of sugar cookies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Months passed.
Chloe changed schools. At first, she would throw up before going in. Then she would just squeeze my hand. Then she started letting go of me at the door. The first day she walked in without looking back, I stood on the sidewalk crying\u2014not out of sadness, but out of relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Davis and the man faced charges. The investigation continued. More files appeared, more families, more fake donations collected using the faces of children who never gave permission. Not everything was resolved quickly. Justice never runs at the speed of pain. But at least this time, silence no longer protected the guilty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One night, before going to sleep, Chloe asked me:
\u201cMom, was I dumb for believing her?\u201d
I put my phone away and lay down next to her.
\u201cNo. You were a child. Children believe in adults because they should be able to.\u201d
\u201cAnd now I can\u2019t believe in anyone?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stroked her forehead.
\u201cYes, you can. But you can also ask questions. You can doubt. You can say no. You can run. You can scream. You can tell me. Believing in someone doesn\u2019t mean obeying everything they say.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stayed quiet.
Then she murmured:
\u201cThat day, when I saw you come out of the hallway, I thought you were like a superhero.\u201d
I gave a sad laugh.
\u201cMy love, I was shaking.\u201d
\u201cBut you came.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hugged her.
That was the only thing that mattered.
I showed up.
Even if it was late. Even if I was hiding under a bed. Even with fear. Even feeling ridiculous. I showed up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes I still dream about those footsteps in the hallway. About the sneakers stopping in front of my bed. About Ethan\u2019s voice saying there was someone underneath. I wake up sweating, walk to Chloe\u2019s room, and watch her breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door stays open.
The hallway light stays on.
And in the window across the street, on many nights, you can see a familiar shadow moving the curtain.
Mrs. Miller.
The nosy neighbor.
The crazy lady.
The one who saw what no one else wanted to see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Today, it doesn\u2019t bother me that she looks.
On the contrary.
Sometimes I raise my hand to wave.
She waves back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I learned something I will never forget: monsters don\u2019t always break windows or force locks. Sometimes they ask for emergency numbers \u201cjust in case.\u201d Sometimes they smile at the school gate. Sometimes they use a sweet voice and put smiley-face stickers on notebooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And sometimes, they walk right in with a key.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I also learned something else.
A mother who listens to a doubt, a neighbor who dares to insist, and a little boy who decides to stay quiet for just a few seconds can break an entire chain of fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Since that day, every morning, when I drop Chloe off at school, I don\u2019t just say:
\u201cBehave.\u201d
Now, I kneel down, adjust her ponytail, and tell her:
\u201cTrust your heart. If anything feels wrong, you tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nods.
Then she hugs me.
And before walking in, she always turns around one last time.
Not out of fear.
But to make sure I am still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I am.
Always.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cMiss\u2026 I think there\u2019s someone down here.\u201d I felt my heart stop. Through a gap in the bedspread, I saw little black shoes, standing perfectly still in… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-340","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/340","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=340"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/340\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":343,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/340\/revisions\/343"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=340"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=340"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=340"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}