I felt the floor moving beneath me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because there was water up to my ankles. Not because a little girl was trembling in front of us, with pale skin and chapped lips. But because my name was there. On that wall. Written with the same black marker someone had used to list the children as if they were products in a warehouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Derek Hayes. Delivery guy. Compatible.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n A female officer grabbed my arm. \u201cYou stay upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I couldn\u2019t look away. There were nine beds. Nine. On each one was a damp blanket, a cheap toy, and a hospital wristband tied to the headboard. Some had names. Lucy. Matthew. Riley. Isaac. Sophia. Others just had numbers. Patient 12. Patient 14. Patient 17.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The little girl hugging the water jug looked up and stared at me as if I were someone she already knew. \u201cYou brought the water,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nobody spoke. The basement was bigger than it seemed from above. It wasn\u2019t just one room. It was an old tunnel, with brick walls, rusted pipes, and puddles reflecting the flashlight beams. In a corner, there were boxes of IV fluids. Gauze. Medical gowns. Empty vials. And a metal gurney with straps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of the police officers cursed under his breath. Mr. Arthur fell to his knees on the first step. \u201cI didn\u2019t do anything to them,\u201d he said, crying like a child. \u201cI only gave them water. If I didn\u2019t give them water, they would die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer who had stopped me approached him. \u201cWho brought them?\u201d Mr. Arthur closed his eyes. \u201cThe doctor.\u201d \u201cWhat doctor?\u201d The old man shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That was when we heard footsteps upstairs. They weren\u2019t police footsteps. They were fast. Heavy. Like someone who knew the house and was entering without permission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n An officer yelled: \u201cUpstairs! Upstairs!\u201d Two agents ran up the stairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a dull thud sounded. Then another. And then a gunshot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The little girl covered her ears. I crouched down next to her without thinking. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, it\u2019s okay.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t let them take Matthew,\u201d she told me. \u201cWho is Matthew?\u201d She pointed to a bed in the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There lay a boy of about eight years old, asleep or passed out. His face was so white it looked like wax. There was a wristband on his wrist. I got closer with my phone\u2019s flashlight. I read the name. Matthew Hayes.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt a chill that didn\u2019t come from the water. \u201cNo,\u201d I said. But my voice cracked. Hayes is a common last name. I repeated it to myself. In America there are thousands of Hayeses. Millions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then I saw something on the wristband. A date of birth. And below it, handwritten: Mother: Mary Hayes.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n My throat tightened. Mary was my sister. Mary had disappeared seven years ago. They never found her body. They never found anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The last time I saw her, she was three months pregnant and running a food cart outside the Queens subway station. One day she went out to buy nausea medicine and never came back. My mom died waiting for a phone call. My dad turned into a ghost. I learned to work and not ask too many questions because questions, in this city, sometimes rip away the little you have left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at the boy. He had a small brown spot under his left eye. The same one Mary had. The same one I have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMatthew,\u201d I whispered. The boy didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer came back down, gun in hand and a tense face. \u201cThere\u2019s a dead man in the kitchen,\u201d she said. \u201cHe was wearing a medical coat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur looked up. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t him.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean it wasn\u2019t him?\u201d \u201cIt was one of his assistants.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the sound on the pipe was heard again. Three knocks. But this time they weren\u2019t coming from the room. They were coming from behind the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer aimed her flashlight. At the back of the basement, there was an old piece of furniture wedged between empty water jugs. It looked like a wardrobe, but it had no clothes. It had hoses, cables, and a mirror covered in stains. A cop pulled it. A narrow door appeared behind it. It wasn\u2019t locked with padlocks. It was bolted from the outside with an iron bar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When they removed it, a colder draft came out. And a stronger smell. Hospital. Bleach. Old blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We walked in slowly. I shouldn\u2019t have been there. I knew it. But no one stopped me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hallway went down even further, as if the house had swallowed another house beneath it. There were white bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a gutter where the water from the jugs flowed. At the end, we found a clean room. Too clean. With green tiles. A surgical sink. A medical refrigerator. And a wall full of files.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer opened one. Then another. Then she froze. \u201cThey are compatibility studies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at me. She didn\u2019t need to say anything else. I grabbed the file right in front. It had my full name. Derek Hayes Miller.<\/em> Age: 32.<\/em> Blood type: O negative.<\/em> Work route: Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan.<\/em> Habits: works alone, no partner, lives with sick father.<\/em> Estimated capture date: Friday.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n That Friday was tomorrow. I couldn\u2019t catch my breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur crossed himself. \u201cThat\u2019s why I ordered so many water jugs,\u201d he said from the door. \u201cI wanted you to come every day. I wanted you to get suspicious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer turned to him. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you report it?\u201d The old man rolled up his sleeve. He had a long scar on his forearm. Not from an accident. From surgery. \u201cBecause I already did once.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then he confessed everything. He spoke fast, as if every word hurt him. He said he used to be an orderly at a private clinic near the Upper East Side, one of those places where tinted SUVs pull in and nobody asks too many questions. He said that\u2019s where he met Dr. Stephen Lawrence, a famous surgeon who donated money, posed in photos with politicians, and gave talks on transplants at hotels on Fifth Avenue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But at night, according to Mr. Arthur, Lawrence received children who didn\u2019t come from hospitals. They came from shelters. From flea markets. From broken families. From mothers who could never manage to file a police report because there was always a missing stamp, a missing signature, or a camera that \u201cwasn\u2019t working.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMary was one of them,\u201d he said. I felt something inside me break. \u201cDid you know her?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur couldn\u2019t look at me. \u201cI saw her arrive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I lunged at him. A cop stopped me before I could touch him. \u201cTell me what they did to her!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old man covered his face. \u201cThey forced her to give birth. The baby survived. She didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The basement fell silent. I stopped struggling. I didn\u2019t cry at that moment. There are pains that don\u2019t come out as tears. They come out as white noise. As if the world shut down and only one phrase kept repeating. She didn\u2019t. The baby did.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at Matthew. My nephew. My nephew had been just a few blocks away from me, under an old house, while I carried water on my shoulder and complained about the traffic on Broadway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer spoke to me. \u201cDerek, listen to me. We need to get them out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then all the lights went out. First it was a flicker. Then total darkness. The children started crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n From upstairs came a voice through a small intercom. It wasn\u2019t loud. It was calm. Polite. \u201cArthur, I told you not to do anything stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur froze. \u201cIt\u2019s him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice continued: \u201cOfficers, you are on private property. There are minors in delicate health. Any sudden movement could kill them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The female officer yelled: \u201cDr. Stephen Lawrence, come out with your hands where I can see them!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a soft laugh. \u201cI\u2019m not in the house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the smell of bleach became more intense. One of the female officers coughed. Another officer yelled from the hallway: \u201cHe\u2019s releasing gas!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur stood up as best he could. \u201cThe valve is in the old water tank.\u201d \u201cWhere?\u201d \u201cBehind the wall, next to the service stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer pushed me toward the exit. \u201cGo upstairs with the kids.\u201d \u201cMatthew won\u2019t wake up.\u201d \u201cThen carry him!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t think. I picked him up. He was light. Too light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The little girl with the water jug grabbed my shirt. \u201cI\u2019m Lucy,\u201d she said. \u201cDon\u2019t let go, Lucy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We moved forward through the coughing and the darkness. The flashlights trembled. The children walked barefoot through the water, hugging toys, blankets, anything that gave them the feeling of still being children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Upstairs, the house looked different. The water jugs had fallen over. The water flowed down the stairs like a river. In the living room, the man in the medical coat was lying dead next to an open box. I didn\u2019t look too closely, but I saw syringes, duct tape, and a notebook with license plates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time we made it to the street, there were already more squad cars. Neighbors in bathrobes. Women with groceries in their hands. A man recording with his cell phone from the corner. Brooklyn, which always seems to be half asleep among old brownstones, theaters, and new coffee shops, had woken up to sirens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Lawrence wasn\u2019t there. That was the worst part. The monster wasn\u2019t in his cave. He had only left his tools.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The paramedics loaded the kids into ambulances. When they tried to take Matthew, I wouldn\u2019t let him go. \u201cHe\u2019s my nephew,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A female paramedic looked at me as if she had heard that phrase too many times in horrible places. \u201cThen come with him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the ambulance, Lucy sat next to me. She didn\u2019t want to leave my side. Matthew was hooked up to oxygen. I was holding his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On his wrist, under the hospital band, he had a red mark. Three little dots. Like a bite mark. Or a signature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lucy saw me looking at it. \u201cThey did it to all of us,\u201d she said. \u201cWho?\u201d \u201cThe doctor. So he could find us if we ran away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The paramedic looked up. \u201cA microchip?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lucy didn\u2019t know what that was. She just hugged her knees. \u201cHe said we were his spare family.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We arrived at the hospital with cops trailing behind us. Matthew was taken straight into the ER. They left me in a white hallway, my hands smelling of bleach and my clothes soaked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A social worker asked me questions. Name. Age. Relation. Last time I saw Mary. I answered as best I could. Every answer opened a grave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At three in the morning, the officer showed up. Her name was Valerie Camp. Her face was tired, but her eyes were steady. \u201cWe found more files,\u201d she told me. \u201cNot just in the house. There are addresses in Astoria, the Bronx, Yonkers. This is bigger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd Lawrence?\u201d Valerie clenched her jaw. \u201cHe fled before we made entry.\u201d \u201cHow did he know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t answer. And that silence was the answer. Someone had tipped him off. Someone with a badge. Someone with a desk. Someone who didn\u2019t get their shoes wet going down into basements.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on the floor. I didn\u2019t care about anything anymore. \u201cMy sister was alive when Matthew was born.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie crouched in front of me. \u201cWe\u2019re going to search for her in the records.\u201d \u201cHe said she died.\u201d \u201cMr. Arthur said what he saw. They don\u2019t always show everything to the right witness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked up. \u201cDo you think she\u2019s alive?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie didn\u2019t make promises. I thanked her for that. She just said: \u201cI think Lawrence kept whatever could be useful to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n At seven in the morning, when the light began to shine through the hospital windows, Matthew woke up. I was half asleep in a chair. I heard a faint voice. \u201cAre you Derek?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I leaned in so fast I almost knocked over his IV. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He blinked. \u201cMy mom used to say that if I ever saw a man with water jugs, I shouldn\u2019t be scared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My chest tightened. \u201cYour mom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Matthew swallowed hard. \u201cShe would sing to me softly when the doctor wasn\u2019t around. She said you carried water as if you were carrying mountains. She said you were stubborn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I covered my mouth. Now I finally cried. I cried without shame. The way men cry when they can no longer pretend to be strong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere is she, Matthew?\u201d The boy looked toward the door. \u201cNot downstairs.\u201d \u201cWhere?\u201d \u201cIn the house with the dried flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before I could ask anything else, Lucy appeared in the doorway with a blanket over her shoulders. \u201cI know which one it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie, who was outside talking on her phone, walked in immediately. Lucy pointed to the window. \u201cThe doctor used to move us while we were asleep. But one time I woke up. I saw lots of purple flowers painted on a door. And I heard bells.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur, escorted by two cops, had asked to see me before they took him to the precinct. They brought him in a wheelchair. He looked like he had aged twenty years in one night. When he heard about the purple flowers, he lifted his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe old chapel,\u201d he said. Valerie stepped closer. \u201cWhat chapel?\u201d \u201cThe one they used as a cultural warehouse, out in Queens. Lawrence bought a house behind it. It has a courtyard with dried bougainvilleas. That\u2019s where he kept the mothers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood up. Valerie stopped me with a look. \u201cYou\u2019re not going.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s my sister.\u201d \u201cExactly because of that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I didn\u2019t stay. I\u2019m not proud to say it. I don\u2019t regret it either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I followed the squad car in my delivery truck, the seat still wet and smelling of old water jugs. I drove through streets I knew by heart: Queens Boulevard, Steinway Street, Ditmars Boulevard\u2014corners where there were always pastries, hot dog stands, old men sweeping sidewalks as if the city weren\u2019t hiding basements.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The house of dried flowers was behind a faded blue facade. It had dead bougainvilleas hanging like veins. The police went in through the front. I slipped in through a side alley I knew because I had once delivered water to a theater there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The back door was cracked open. That should have stopped me. It didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside was a courtyard with broken flowerpots. And at the back, a room. I heard a cry. Not a child\u2019s. A woman\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I walked in. There were three beds. Two empty. In the third, a thin woman, her hair prematurely grey, was staring at the wall. \u201cMary,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She turned her head. For a second, she didn\u2019t recognize me. Then her eyes filled with life and horror. \u201cDerek.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I fell to my knees next to her. I wanted to hug her, but she was covered in wires. \u201cI\u2019m here. Matthew is alive. He\u2019s at the hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mary closed her eyes and smiled. A small smile. Broken. But it was hers. \u201cI told you the water would find you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a door closed behind me. Dr. Stephen Lawrence was there. He didn\u2019t look like a monster. That was the most terrifying part. He was a clean man, with grey hair, expensive shoes, and steady hands. He was holding a small handgun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow touching,\u201d he said. \u201cThe family reunited.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood up slowly. \u201cIt\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lawrence smiled. \u201cNo, Derek. You just got here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He aimed at Mary. \u201cYou\u2019re compatible with Matthew. Your bone marrow can save him. It can also save other people who pay more than you would earn in ten lifetimes hauling plastic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took a step. \u201cYou kidnapped children.\u201d \u201cI kept bodies alive that the country had already abandoned.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He said \u201cbodies.\u201d He didn\u2019t say children. That\u2019s when I understood that, to him, no one had a name. Not Lucy. Not Matthew. Not Mary. Not me. Only files. Compatibles. Useful. Disposable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mary barely moved her hand. I saw she was holding something under the sheet. A pair of metal forceps. Lawrence didn\u2019t see it. I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I did the only thing I could think of. I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lawrence frowned. \u201cWhat are you laughing at?\u201d \u201cThat such a famous doctor doesn\u2019t know how to read a label.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pointed to my shirt. My work shirt. The one that said \u201cHayes Pure Water\u201d even though the company wasn\u2019t even mine. \u201cI\u2019m not O negative.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lawrence hesitated. For one second. Just one. But it was enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mary yanked a cable with the forceps. The lights flickered. I lunged at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The gunshot echoed in the room like thunder. I felt fire in my shoulder. But I didn\u2019t stop. I slammed him against the wall. The gun fell to the floor. Lawrence tried to reach for it. Mary kicked it under the bed with the little strength she had left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie rushed in with three agents. \u201cGet on the ground!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lawrence, for the first time, looked old. Older than Mr. Arthur. Older than all his sins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They took me to the hospital in the same ambulance where, hours earlier, I had ridden with Matthew. The bullet didn\u2019t hit bone. That\u2019s what they said. I was barely listening. I only wanted to know if Mary was breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was breathing. Weakly. But she was breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Over the following weeks, the news was everywhere. They talked about a trafficking ring. About doctors. Public officials. Missing files. Fake clinics. Rescued children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No one got the names right at first. The media wanted \u201cThe Water Jug House.\u201d \u201cThe Water Cult.\u201d \u201cThe Brooklyn Doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Lucy corrected a reporter on live TV. \u201cWe weren\u2019t anyone\u2019s house,\u201d she said. \u201cWe were children.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That sentence did more than a thousand police cars. Families started showing up. Mothers with folded photos. Fathers with old folders. Grandmothers who had spent years asking at police stations, hospitals, and morgues. Some found their children. Others found answers. Not always the ones they wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Arthur was arrested. He gave a statement too. Thanks to him, they found more houses. More names. More bodies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t forgive him. Not at first. Maybe never entirely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But one afternoon, Mary asked to see him. They brought him to the hospital in handcuffs. He couldn\u2019t look at her. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mary answered him with a voice that barely came out: \u201cDon\u2019t apologize to me. Take care of the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And he did. He testified against everyone. Even against those who thought they were untouchable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It took Matthew months to trust a closed door. Lucy couldn\u2019t sleep if there wasn\u2019t a glass of water next to her bed. Mary learned to walk again through the hospital hallways, leaning on my arm, making fun of my clumsy steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou still walk like a water delivery guy,\u201d she would say. \u201cAnd you\u2019re still bossy.\u201d \u201cSomeone has to raise Matthew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A year later, I drove past the old house again. It no longer had curtains. The facade was still crumbling, but the door was sealed by the authorities. On the sidewalk, there were unlit votive candles, fresh flowers, and a laminated piece of paper with the names of the rescued children. Lucy. Matthew. Riley. Isaac. Sophia. And others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stayed there for a while. The neighborhood was the same yet different. The noise of the delivery trucks. The smell of fresh bread. The food carts opening. The distant echo of a street musician.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The city was still swallowing secrets, yes. But that time, it had spit one out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Matthew was waiting for me in the delivery truck. He was no longer pale. He was still skinny, but his eyes were full of life. Lucy was with him, because Mary had adopted her in her heart long before any paperwork made it official.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you going to buy us donuts now?\u201d Matthew asked. \u201cI said after the delivery.\u201d \u201cYou always say that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lucy pointed at the water jugs. \u201cHow many are there today?\u201d I looked at the order. There were fourteen. I felt a pang in my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I saw the address. A soup kitchen near Washington Square Park. I took a breath. \u201cFourteen,\u201d I said. \u201cBut this time they are going to come out empty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Matthew smiled. I started the truck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Passing by the corner, I heard something. Three knocks. Tap. Tap. Tap.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I slammed on the brakes. I looked around. There were no basements. No locked doors. Just a man fixing a pipe on the sidewalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He saw me looking startled and raised his hand. \u201cSorry, man. The wrench got stuck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I nodded. I kept driving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But since then, every time I hear three knocks on a pipe, I stop. It doesn\u2019t matter if I\u2019m running late. It doesn\u2019t matter if it\u2019s raining. It doesn\u2019t matter if the customer gets mad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because in this city, you never know when a noise is just a noise. And when it\u2019s someone, underground, trying to stay alive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I felt the floor moving beneath me. Not because there was water up to my ankles. Not because a little girl was trembling in front of us,… <\/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-3540","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3540","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=3540"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3540\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3543,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3540\/revisions\/3543"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3540"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3540"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3540"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}