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<\/h1>\n<\/h1>\nInstead I shut the lid and carried Linus\u2019s letter downstairs. Maggie used to explain why she kept working on a children\u2019s cancer ward even when it broke her heart: somebody had to be the person who didn\u2019t leave. I couldn\u2019t make myself promise eighteen strangers anything that night, but I walked back to the van, brought Maggie\u2019s cherrywood box inside, and slept in Linus\u2019s old armchair.<\/span><\/p>\n When I woke, the chair had left a crick in my neck and I\u2019d slept almost nine hours, longer than I had in months. I made coffee on a little propane burner and climbed back into the loft. This time I opened the notebook instead of counting the money.<\/span><\/p>\n Linus had given each of his eighteen people pages of notes: medications, allergies, family contacts, favorite meals, the names they preferred, and things that frightened them. Mabel Trenholm, eighty-three, had been a union bookkeeper and made chess pie on Fridays. She startled if you touched her shoulder from behind and feared dying in a hospital surrounded by strangers.<\/span><\/p>\n Hollis Dreyfuss, seventy-nine, had spent thirty-eight years underground and struggled with black lung. He was hard of hearing on the left, refused to admit he needed a cane, and had lost his wife Loretta to ovarian cancer. Linus had written that Hollis feared being a burden, which sounded exactly like something a man would tell a nurse only after trusting him for years.<\/span><\/p>\n I kept reading until my coffee went cold. Linus hadn\u2019t collected names for a case file alone; he had recorded the ordinary details that made each person more than a claim number. He knew what they wanted for supper and which days they were most likely to feel forgotten.<\/span><\/p>\n I decided I wouldn\u2019t call Vera until I met somebody from that board face-to-face. Mabel\u2019s address took me to the second floor of a divided house in Asheville, with peach-colored stairwell paint and a dried-hydrangea wreath on the door. I knocked twice, and after a slow clatter of footsteps she opened it with an oxygen tube beneath her nose and a barn jacket over her nightgown.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re not Linus,\u201d she said. I told her my name and explained that I\u2019d bought his shed. She looked me over, from my worn boots to my old work jacket, and asked, \u201cWhat on earth made you do that?\u201d When I admitted I wasn\u2019t certain, she stepped aside and said, \u201cCome in before my pie burns.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Her apartment smelled of butter and nutmeg. Linus\u2019s notebook sat between us on the coffee table as I showed her the page about the pie and the one about her fear of hospitals. She touched the paper with two fingers, then wiped her eyes with the tissue she\u2019d been holding all along. \u201cHe wrote it down,\u201d she whispered. \u201cHe really remembered.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Mabel told me Linus had come every Thursday for four years, usually with soup, and asked what she needed rather than deciding for her. He\u2019d been due the Thursday after his death, which she still couldn\u2019t quite accept. The official account was a stroke, she said, but she had trouble believing that was the whole story.<\/span><\/p>\n I told her about the eleven names and the red word beneath each photograph. She listened without interrupting, then said Quilling was still denying care she needed for her own health. She\u2019d spent thirty years reading union ledgers; she knew the difference between a mistake and a system that saved money by exhausting people.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019re asking whether I\u2019ll help you prove it, the answer is yes,\u201d she told me. \u201cBefore you even ask.\u201d Then she put a warm slice of chess pie in front of me, watched until I\u2019d finished it, and caught my wrist as I stood to leave. \u201cWho did you lose, son?\u201d she asked, and I finally managed to say, \u201cMy wife.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Outside a Food Lion in West Asheville, I called the number taped to the USB. A woman answered without saying her name and went quiet when I mentioned Linus. \u201cHe told you not to call unless you trusted me,\u201d she said. I told her I trusted that Linus had trusted her, which was all I had. She told me to meet her at eight that evening at the Blue Ridge Grill in Hendersonville, and not to bring the drive.<\/span><\/p>\n Part 3 Vera Pembroke arrived four minutes after eight. She was sixty-one, short gray hair, glasses on a chain, navy barn coat, and a posture shaped by years at a desk. She noticed the M tattoo on my wrist before she\u2019d finished sitting down, and when I told her it stood for Marguerite, my wife, she asked whether Maggie had died of ovarian cancer.<\/span><\/p>\n I stared at her. Vera had spent three years running appeals at Quilling Health Partners, and she knew the cases the company internally called \u201csunset cases\u201d: costly cancers that could progress faster than the appeals process. She had left the company in 2022, but she remembered exactly how the system worked because she\u2019d helped build it.<\/span><\/p>\n In 2019, she said, Quilling rolled out an algorithm under the public name Claims Efficiency Modernization. Inside the company it was Project Sunset. Its model flagged expensive claims by age, prognosis, and predicted likelihood that a patient would keep appealing, with particularly harsh barriers for older members with multiple serious diagnoses and for high-cost oncology cases.<\/span><\/p>\n For flagged requests over $15,000, Vera said, denials could be generated automatically until the patient completed three written appeals, each using exact medical codes and specifically formatted letters from physicians. She described meetings where managers called the system efficient while knowing very sick people often couldn\u2019t finish those steps. \u201cI helped make it hard for them to get to the third letter,\u201d she said, looking at her coffee.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMaggie was thirty-two,\u201d I said. Vera nodded. The model hadn\u2019t targeted only old people; certain cancer diagnoses and prognoses triggered the same treatment at any age. She told me she\u2019d examined the pattern of denied oncology claims in Youngstown, and Maggie\u2019s name appeared among them. The room seemed to grow smaller even though the diner was nearly empty.<\/span><\/p>\n I asked how many cases she knew about. Across fourteen states, her working spreadsheet had 4,261 names, she said; 2,980 of those patients had died. That didn\u2019t mean she could prove which death each denial caused, and she made a point of saying so. But she could show a pattern, and Linus had been collecting individual records and doctors\u2019 letters to put real people behind those numbers.<\/span><\/p>\n Linus had tracked Vera down after she quit and mailed her a letter. It took her seven months to answer, but she\u2019d eventually driven to the shed, where they began comparing her knowledge of the system with the cases he\u2019d gathered. They worked for more than two years, careful not to claim what their records couldn\u2019t support.<\/span><\/p>\n Three weeks before his death, Linus told her a gray Ford Explorer with Tennessee plates had appeared near his road on three nights. The medical examiner had ruled his death a stroke; neither Vera nor I had evidence of a crime. Still, she believed the strain of being watched had frightened him, and she was worried that anyone finishing his work would attract the same attention.<\/span><\/p>\n By the time the diner closed, Vera had explained the problem as plainly as she could. Between her spreadsheet, Linus\u2019s physician letters, the eighteen folders, and the USB, there might be enough to expose Quilling, but there was no legal strategy, no journalist, and no protection for the people who\u2019d speak publicly. \u201cYou can leave this right here,\u201d she told me. \u201cOr you can help finish it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I thought of Mabel\u2019s hand on my wrist and Maggie sitting on our kitchen floor with that denial letter. \u201cI\u2019m staying,\u201d I said. Vera agreed to meet me at the shed at noon the following day, and I paid for our coffee with the last cash in my pocket. For once, spending it didn\u2019t feel like I was trying to outrun a loss.<\/span><\/p>\n Over the next three weeks, I drove the county roads to visit the seven people on Linus\u2019s board who were still alive. I took Mabel to her cardiologist when her ride canceled, helped Hollis sort out a missing oxygen delivery, and sat listening while Clement Rafferty told me about a mule he had owned in 1974. I was still learning their histories, but I knew enough to come back when I said I would.<\/span><\/p>\n At the Blue Ridge Miners Respite, I finally met Odette Pennington, a seventy-four-year-old widow who was always delivering groceries or giving somebody a ride to dialysis. She was five-foot-two, strong from years of farm work, with silver hair pulled into a low ponytail. She handed me grocery bags before she bothered with introductions, and I followed her into the kitchen.<\/span><\/p>\n Her husband, Rayfield, had died in a mine in 1998. Her son Caldwell was twenty-three when another collapse took him in 2006, shortly after he\u2019d become engaged. After the second funeral, Odette had spent months barely eating or leaving home, and Linus had visited every Sunday, drinking her coffee and letting her talk about Caldwell as many times as she needed.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHe never said he was saving me,\u201d she told me as she put away the groceries. \u201cHe said he was sitting.\u201d When I explained what I\u2019d found in the shed, she didn\u2019t ask what the evidence might be worth. She asked whether I was eating, whether the surviving people had their medicine, and whether I understood that Quilling might try to frighten us away.<\/span><\/p>\n The next day she brought ham-and-Swiss sandwiches, tomato soup, and homemade pickles. Vera arrived with two laptops, one kept off the internet for sensitive material, and we opened Linus\u2019s USB on it together. The first folder held a 147-slide training presentation for Project Sunset; the second had samples of denial letters with patients\u2019 names removed.<\/span><\/p>\n Part 4 The third folder contained internal emails. One from September 2024 bore CEO Nolan Quilling\u2019s name and discussed adjusting the model after an engineering problem had allowed too many high-cost oncology requests through. He wanted tighter thresholds for older members and patients with hospice-eligible diagnoses. Vera explained that Maggie\u2019s cancer had been in a high-risk category even though she was young; the message didn\u2019t identify Maggie, but it showed leadership directing the policy she had encountered.<\/span><\/p>\n I sat with that email open until Odette pushed a sandwich into my hand. I wanted the names from Linus\u2019s board and the denials examined by someone who couldn\u2019t simply be shouted down by the company\u2019s lawyers. Vera knew an investigative reporter, Ingrid Volstead, who had written about Medicare Advantage denials. We agreed the first step would be to ask whether Ingrid would look at what we had.<\/span><\/p>\n Vera sent a short message with no attachments. To make an investigation possible, we knew we\u2019d need patients willing to go on the record. Mabel had already offered; Hollis, when I approached him over Thursday soup, said he would speak because his wife Loretta hadn\u2019t lived long enough to tell her side herself.<\/span><\/p>\n That night I drove toward the shed and stopped when I saw a gray Ford Explorer half-hidden among pines near the road. Tennessee plates. I backed away without approaching it and called Vera from a Waffle House parking lot. She told me to preserve any evidence and avoid an encounter; there was no way to know yet who was in the vehicle or why it was there.<\/span><\/p>\n When I returned, the Explorer was gone. I photographed tracks at the roadside and a boot print near the woodpile, but I couldn\u2019t link either to the SUV, much less to Quilling. I bolted the shed door and slept lightly in Linus\u2019s chair, listening to the wind in the oaks and wondering what his last months had been like.<\/span><\/p>\n Ingrid Volstead, an investigative reporter with ProPublica, came from New York in early November, practical black boots and a notebook full of small, exact handwriting. She spent several minutes looking at the corkboard before asking me to explain where the property came from, who had handled each document, and why the USB had been locked in a box. Her questions made me feel accused sometimes, but she told me directly that belief wasn\u2019t enough to publish a story like this.<\/span><\/p>\n She interviewed Mabel in the apartment with the hydrangea wreath. Mabel spoke about her own breast cancer, denied Herceptin treatments, her husband Franklin\u2019s black lung, and four years of Thursday soup from Linus. When Ingrid thanked her, Mabel replied, \u201cYou can thank me by printing what you can prove.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Hollis spoke from his porch with an oxygen tank beside him, his cane leaning against a chair he claimed he didn\u2019t need. He described Loretta\u2019s cancer and the three immunotherapy requests that had been denied before she died in 2022. He agreed to be photographed and quoted because, as he put it, \u201cLoretta didn\u2019t get another chance. I did.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Vera answered questions for nine hours, including ones about her own responsibility for Project Sunset. Odette spoke about Linus, not just the files he collected but the people he kept company with. Ingrid took copies of documents through a careful verification process, sought independent medical review, and promised Quilling an opportunity to respond before publishing.<\/span><\/p>\n She warned us it could take six to eight weeks, and asked us not to talk to other reporters or post our suspicions online while her team checked the facts. We agreed. A public accusation we couldn\u2019t back up could harm the very patients who\u2019d trusted us.<\/span><\/p>\n Then a man claiming to be a local reporter called Odette and asked whether the Miners Respite was under investigation for financial problems. She ended the call. The following morning, an obscure local blog published a vague article questioning an Asheville support charity, with enough details to point readers toward her organization but no records supporting the suggestion.<\/span><\/p>\n The rumor spread through neighborhood Facebook discussions. Donations became uncertain, and Odette spent one afternoon in the Respite garden staring at dead chrysanthemums before coming back inside to sort food deliveries. She\u2019d worked too long to let an anonymous story interrupt supper for people who depended on it.<\/span><\/p>\n A few days later, a courier arrived at my shed with a civil complaint. Quilling Health Partners alleged trade-secret misappropriation, interference, and defamation, and demanded $40 million in damages. I\u2019d never had forty thousand dollars, much less forty million; I sat on the step with the papers in my lap and laughed once because I couldn\u2019t think of any other sound to make.<\/span><\/p>\n Vera introduced me to Avram Pettibone, a sixty-eight-year-old civil-rights lawyer with a two-attorney office on Haywood Road. He told me a lawsuit wasn\u2019t a verdict and that we had to respond through the court, preserve the documents, and let him assess the claims and possible defenses. He couldn\u2019t promise a win, but he was willing to stand between me and a legal team that could afford to keep sending paper indefinitely.<\/span><\/p>\n Soon afterward, another blog ran a story painting me as unstable: a grieving man sleeping in a van, receiving mental-health treatment, and buying property with overdue taxes. What it left out was that I had gone to three counseling appointments after Maggie died and that I\u2019d paid the shed\u2019s old tax bill when I bought it. Seeking help had been turned into something shameful, while the records I\u2019d found were barely mentioned.<\/span><\/p>\n Part 5 I put my phone facedown and went outside to sit on Linus\u2019s collapsed woodpile. I stayed there for hours. I wasn\u2019t planning to give up the case, but I couldn\u2019t make myself get up; I kept imagining Maggie reading strangers\u2019 comments about me and wondering whether I\u2019d dragged her memory into a fight I couldn\u2019t win.<\/span><\/p>\n Odette found me there when she arrived carrying a Dutch oven of black-bean soup and a bag of cornbread. She set the food on the shed step and sat beside me without touching me. After a while, she told me Caldwell\u2019s fianc\u00e9e had been Lorelei Boatwright, Alma\u2019s daughter\u2014the Alma whose picture was outlined in black upstairs, whose dialysis had been denied.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSome days after Caldwell died, all I could manage was to sit there,\u201d Odette said. \u201cLinus sat with me. That\u2019s what I\u2019m doing now.\u201d She stayed quiet until I lowered my hands from my face, then went inside to warm the soup. I followed her because she was right about one thing: I hadn\u2019t eaten, and there were people waiting for me tomorrow.<\/span><\/p>\n Ingrid\u2019s investigation was published on a Tuesday morning at five Eastern under the headline \u201cThe Algorithm That Said No.\u201d I stood barefoot beside Linus\u2019s desk with my phone in my hand and read about the system Vera had helped design, the physicians\u2019 opinions Linus had saved, and the people who had been denied recommended care. It was a report about records and decisions, not a claim that every death had one simple cause.<\/span><\/p>\n There was a passage about Maggie. It named her as Marguerite Hadlock, a thirty-two-year-old pediatric nurse from Youngstown who had died after denials for cancer treatment, and it named me as her husband. I sat down on the floorboards and read those sentences until I could say out loud, \u201cThey printed her name.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n The article also told Linus\u2019s story, including his death from a reported stroke and Vera\u2019s account of his worries about being watched. It did not say he\u2019d been murdered. That distinction mattered to me; he\u2019d spent his last years trying to prove things carefully, and I didn\u2019t want fear to turn his own death into an accusation we couldn\u2019t establish.<\/span><\/p>\n The response spread far beyond the mountains. Patients in other states recognized the appeal instructions, reporters sought interviews, and lawmakers demanded explanations. A senator announced plans for legislation addressing automated denials, while regulators began examining Quilling\u2019s practices; none of that meant a law had already passed or that the investigations had already reached findings.<\/span><\/p>\n Federal authorities subsequently opened investigations, including inquiries involving Medicare claims and possible securities issues. Quilling\u2019s share price fell sharply, its CEO Nolan Quilling resigned from the board, and the company withdrew its civil suit against me. Avram reminded me that withdrawal wasn\u2019t an admission of wrongdoing, though I was relieved to stop reading my own name above that forty-million-dollar demand.<\/span><\/p>\n A proposed class action brought claims on behalf of affected patients and families. Six weeks after the story was published, Quilling signed a $340 million settlement agreement; the legal and administrative steps around payments would still have to be completed. I didn\u2019t confuse a payment with proof that medicine could have saved every person in Linus\u2019s notebook. I knew only that the denials had been real and that families had finally been heard.<\/span><\/p>\n Maggie\u2019s estate was allocated $340,000, represented by me as her surviving husband. When the check became available, I left it in Linus\u2019s desk drawer for eleven days, unable to decide what to do with money that existed because Maggie wasn\u2019t here. I\u2019d lived in a van with her ashes beside me and hadn\u2019t known whether I could afford gas some mornings; now a sum I couldn\u2019t imagine had her name on it.<\/span><\/p>\n On the twelfth day, I went to Avram\u2019s office carrying the check and a notebook. I wanted to establish a nonprofit called Linus\u2019s Door, with Thursday visits, Sunday meals, rides to appointments, and practical help appealing denied care. I wanted Odette to lead the day-to-day work, Vera to organize the appeals support, and Avram to handle legal questions.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow much are you putting into it?\u201d Avram asked. \u201cAll of it,\u201d I told him. He took off his glasses and reminded me that I was allowed to keep some money for a place to live, a dependable vehicle, or whatever ordinary comfort I had gone without since Maggie\u2019s illness. He was right, and I knew he was trying to protect me from making a decision out of guilt.<\/span><\/p>\n But I could still hear Maggie explaining why she stayed in pediatric oncology when the hard days outnumbered the easy ones. I told Avram I wanted the money to keep helping people in a way she\u2019d recognize. He didn\u2019t tell me it would bring her back. He wrote down \u201cLinus\u2019s Door\u201d and began discussing the paperwork and the responsibility we\u2019d have to handle the funds properly.<\/span><\/p>\n We formed the North Carolina nonprofit that spring and kept our visits going while the tax-exempt application was processed. Thirty-one volunteers soon joined us to help seventy-four older miners and widows across four Appalachian counties. Nobody had to join a political cause to receive supper, a ride, or help making sense of a denial notice.<\/span><\/p>\n Odette ran pot roast dinners at the Respite on Sundays. Clement never missed one while he could still come, and Hollis and Mabel argued over football when they weren\u2019t checking on each other. I kept driving the Astro to pick up anyone who couldn\u2019t get there, and I kept living in the shed because it had become, against all reasonable expectations, the first place I\u2019d wanted to come home to.<\/span><\/p>\n Final The original eighteen cards stayed on Linus\u2019s corkboard, though I moved it into the loft so the main room could be a place to sit down, not a room where visitors felt they were being counted. Four more of the seven people he\u2019d left behind died over the following months, including Clement and Wendola Pine. I kept the names and dates straight, and beside each person we had managed to visit near the end I drew a little blue circle: we were there.<\/span><\/p>\n Mabel, Hollis, and Verona Tilgman were still with us. Verona was eighty-eight and drove herself to church, and Mabel still made chess pie even when her treatment exhausted her. I didn\u2019t pretend the volunteers had beaten age or illness; what mattered was that nobody had to wonder whether a Thursday could pass without someone noticing.<\/span><\/p>\n One spring afternoon, Odette came to the shed carrying a small cedar box she said Linus had left in her closet shortly before he died. She hadn\u2019t remembered it until she was clearing out some old hats. When I opened it, I found a faded photograph dated April 1998: a younger Linus standing in front of our shed, with two small oak saplings on either side and the same leather notebook I now used resting in his hands.<\/span><\/p>\n On the back, in blue ink, Linus had written that his wife Dinah died of breast cancer on March 11 and that her insurer had called the medication she needed experimental. He had bought the shed because he couldn\u2019t bear to do nothing, though he didn\u2019t yet know what he would do there. Later, in older handwriting, he\u2019d added four words: \u201cSomeday someone will come.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I stared at the saplings in the photograph and thought of the huge oaks outside. I hadn\u2019t known Linus was a widower. I hadn\u2019t known that before he ever helped Winnie, Mabel, Hollis, or any of the others, he had stood where I stood, wondering how a person was supposed to live after losing the one who made a house feel like home.<\/span><\/p>\n Odette sat in the faded blue armchair while I climbed to the loft for a blank card. I wrote Dinah Fairchild\u2019s name and the words \u201cThe reason there was a shed,\u201d then pinned it above the eighteen. Beside the board I\u2019d already made a card for Maggie, circled in purple: \u201cMarguerite \u2018Maggie\u2019 Hadlock. Loved by Theron. Loved us anyway.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n That June, I carried Maggie\u2019s cherrywood box into the small garden behind the shed. I\u2019d planted a young peach tree there in March, and its first little fruit had begun to blush. I knelt at the base of it, dug a hole by hand, and told Maggie I wanted her to be in a garden instead of riding on my dashboard forever.<\/span><\/p>\n I poured her ashes slowly into the earth and covered them with my hands. A flat river stone I\u2019d brought back from a visit with Clement marked the place. I told her Mabel sent her love and that I was going to start wearing my ring again\u2014not because I\u2019d stopped missing her, but because I could finally wear it without feeling like I was lying to the world about where she was.<\/span><\/p>\n Back inside, I took the gold band from its felt bag and slipped it onto my finger. It still fit. I remembered the morning Maggie burned a pancake and laughed at herself in my flannel shirt, and her final afternoon, when she\u2019d asked me to tell that story again; she\u2019d died while I was telling it, and for a long time I\u2019d been angry that I hadn\u2019t found better words.<\/span><\/p>\n There in the lamplight, with dirt still caught in the creases of my hands, I understood that she\u2019d fallen asleep hearing us laugh together in a kitchen we\u2019d loved. I couldn\u2019t change her ending. I could stop punishing myself for the last ordinary thing I\u2019d given her.<\/span><\/p>\n By September, Linus\u2019s Door had received its IRS tax-exemption determination letter. The following October, I was twenty-eight, a little heavier, and finally sleeping through most nights. The shed still had gray siding, a rusty roof, and the same cracked pane Linus had never replaced. There were more names on newer cards now\u2014Delpha Winterbottom, Toliver Hayworth, Prudence Ashford, Sybil Comerford\u2014not because our grief had grown, but because neighbors had started telling us about people we could help.<\/span><\/p>\n One evening I stood between the oaks listening to voices through the open door. Vera was helping a widow named Sybil Comerford put an appeal together, Odette was heating chicken and dumplings, and Mabel, whose delayed cancer treatment was finally helping, and Hollis were arguing about the Panthers with the stubborn affection of people who looked forward to disagreeing. My old welding jacket hung loose in the elbows, and my wedding band caught the last daylight when I picked up my gloves.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSupper\u2019s on, Theron,\u201d Odette called from the doorway. I took one more look at the peach tree beyond the shed, then went inside. Mabel immediately informed me I\u2019d tracked leaves onto the rug and left my gloves where someone could trip over them, and I went back to fix both things before taking my seat.<\/span><\/p>\n Linus never got to meet me, but his room still had a light on, and there were people at the table who knew one another\u2019s names. I couldn\u2019t promise I would save anybody. I could promise to return on Thursday, and, for that night, to stay for supper.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Instead I shut the lid and carried Linus\u2019s letter downstairs. Maggie used to explain why she kept working on a children\u2019s cancer ward even when it broke her heart: somebody … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":18043,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18042","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-drama-sory"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=18042"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18044,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042\/revisions\/18044"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/18043"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=18042"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=18042"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=18042"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n