By Joshua John Smithe
For the past 10 years, Scott Pape, or ‘The Barefoot Investor’ as he is known to the country, has had a simple mission statement: to help as many people as he can to improve their financial wellbeing. All walks of life; all levels of wealth. Barefoot is a simple country man, motivated to work hard and learn harder, passing on life’s lessons to anyone who will lend an ear—something he learned from his father.
When his best-selling book – subtitled ‘the only money guide you’ll ever need’ – was released a few years ago, readers across the country felt instantly understood: Barefoot had a refreshing ability to distil complex financial topics into simple and practical money advice that people could actually use. It was a fresh breath of cool country air; a welcome change from the jargon-heavy tips and tricks offered by the city-slicker financial advisers or ‘get rich quick’ pretenders.
Barefoot found himself in high demand for TV and radio spots, which were great platforms for reaching mass audiences. For at least the next two Christmases, it was estimated that around 83% of Millennials were gifted a copy of The Barefoot Investor from their parents.
Barefoot’s reach was phenomenal, but he wanted to get more hands-on with his knowledge. He wanted to work directly with the communities who needed his help the most. So, Barefoot started hosting seminars around the nation – joined by his trusty assistant Dora, who was great at sorting out tech issues – getting into the nitty gritties of how everyday folks could take financial stress out of their lives and better prepare for their futures.
One morning, Barefoot gave an introductory seminar to an intimate group in a small country church. This was Barefoot’s favourite kind of audience: country people.
Country people were polite, participatory, and they smiled the same way he did. Barefoot would trade sold-out, corporate conventions for an intimate country gathering any day of the week – heck, even Sundays.
And the feeling seemed mutual. Barefoot’s story of his own family’s financial recovery from literal ashes after losing their home to a bushfire made him all the more relatable to country communities, many of whom had suffered the same fate.
This particular town, more rural than regional, was fairly run down. The old white church – the venue for the seminar – had paint peeling from every panel and looked as though it had once hosted witch trials. Despite this, Barefoot thought, the place had a rugged charm. Barefoot felt his work might inspire the townspeople to clean up their lives in more ways than one.
The positive energy during the seminar was palpable. As Barefoot got to the bit about ‘Barefoot Date Night’, a monthly evening of financial planning with your significant other over drinks and nibbles, couples linked hands and listened intently to how they could truly work together on their finances – even make it fun.
‘Or,’ Barefoot would always add with a wink, ‘if you’re having trouble in the romance department, my number’s on the back of the handout.’
That always got a laugh. Everyone in the room knew, of course, that they were all romantically accounted for. They would probably all see each other on their Barefoot Date Nights, at the one place to eat out in town that wasn’t the local pub.
As the laughter faded, Barefoot noticed his assistant, Dora, at the back of the room, speaking on her phone in a panicked whisper. Barefoot politely gestured for her to step outside to finish the call, but Dora had already hung up, and was power-walking toward the front of the church. When she reached Barefoot’s side, she whispered urgently in his ear. Barefoot gave a curt nod, and turned to his audience.
‘I’m sorry folks,’ he said, ‘there’s a family emergency I need to attend to. I’m so sorry about this. I’ll be in contact personally about rescheduling the rest of this seminar. I’m truly sorry, I hope you can understand.’
Dora and Barefoot hurriedly gathered their things and jogged out, past the audience and through the church doors.
The audience fell silent for a moment, glancing around at one another. They were collectively concerned, but equally wondering how long they should wait before leaving.
One couple stood up after about 30 seconds. The rest soon followed.
On the drive home, one of the wives said to her husband, ‘Wasn’t it nice how he said he would be in contact personally? Rather than saying he would get his assistant or one of his staff to email us? Such a nice personal touch. Wasn’t that nice?’
The husband agreed.
‘How did this happen?!’ Barefoot said as he and Dora sped down the freeway. Barefoot’s unbridled distress confirmed to Dora that she had made the right call not to let him drive.
‘We don’t know exactly. But what we do know is that your son is fine. The kidnapper said he won’t hurt him as long as we do exactly what he says.’
‘Fuck,’ Barefoot said. ‘Fuck.’
And suddenly it was quiet.
‘How’s Liz?’ he continued, composing himself, knowing this is what Liz would need from him.
‘She’s a bit stressed, obviously. But I told her we were coming home as soon as possible. Now, you won’t like this, but she reiterated several times that she didn’t want you to call the police. The kidnapper expressly told her not to.’
‘Of course he did. Did she say what he wanted? The kidnapper.’
‘Money.’
‘How much?’
‘He didn’t say. He wants to talk to you directly.’
‘Are you kidding me!? Do I know this guy?’
‘It didn’t sound like it, no. But I can’t say for sure.’
When Barefoot and Dora finally arrived at the end of the long gravel driveway leading to Barefoot’s spacious single story farmhouse, Barefoot threw himself out of the passenger seat and ran inside to find his wife sitting at the kitchen island – surprisingly calm. Barefoot took her in his arms and they reassured each other that everything would be fine, that they’d been through tough times before, and that they would come out the other side stronger than ever, just as they always did.
Liz handed Barefoot a piece of paper, on which she had written the kidnapper’s phone number. It had helped her to put this piece of paper in someone else’s hands. Barefoot looked at the number, then back at his wife, who wasn’t holding it together as much as she had initially tried.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she repeated, her arms now wrapped around her torso as though she would otherwise fall apart. ‘But we can’t handle this on our own. We can’t. I know I said we shouldn’t call the police, but we have to, don’t we? We have to. How will he find out if we call them? We’ll tell them to come in unmarked cars. We can’t deal with this ourselves. We can’t risk it.’
Barefoot reassured his wife once more that everything would be fine, that he would sort everything out. He would do whatever was required to get their son returned home safe.
This was Barefoot’s way of saying, ‘I’m still assessing our options.’
Over Liz’s shoulder, Barefoot noticed Dora standing by the door, arms folded sheepishly, watching on. Barefoot waved her over to assume the support role. Liz was solid as a rock, but a hostage negotiation involving their son wasn’t a conversation he wanted her to hear. Assuring his wife that he was just sorting out the details, Barefoot stepped outside to the deck, and closed the glass doors behind him.
This was where Barefoot made all his important phone calls. The view of the sweeping farmland soothed him. The long, thin grass, trees slow-dancing with the wind. Cows lounging in patches of shade. And deep in their backyard, the barn built by his father. Barefoot took a deep breath, checked the number on the piece of paper, and dialled.
After three rings, someone answered.
‘Is this The Barefoot Investor?’ The voice was unexpectedly clear. Years of seeing kidnappings in movies had led Barefoot to assume that the kidnapper would be using one of those voice-changing machines. He wasn’t. The kidnapper sounded young, maybe in his 30’s, and kind of rough. It wasn’t a voice he recognised. Barefoot cut straight to the chase.
‘Yes. It’s me. Now listen, I don’t know who you are, but if I’ve done anything to upset you, I’m sorry. We’ll give you anything you want, just please don’t hurt our son. Is he there?’
‘Your son is fine. And my request is simple. I want $2 million, delivered in cash, to the bridge on the Eastern Freeway. Where it intersects with Murray Road. At midnight tonight. Then I’ll tell you where to find your son. Is that clear?’
‘I need to know if my son is ok before we can talk about any of this.’
There was a moment of silence, then some muffling in the background.
‘Dad? Are you there?’ It was Barefoot’s son.
‘I’m here, mate. I’m here. Are you okay?’
Barefoot glanced inside. Dora and Liz were watching through the window. Barefoot gave them a tiny smile to let them know everything was ok. Liz gave a tinier smile back.
‘Yeah Dad, I’m fine. Don’t stress. We just need to pay this guy off and he’ll drop me off somewhere for you to come get me.’
For a boy of just ten years of age, Barefoot’s son was awfully calm under pressure. He must have gotten it from his mother. Having said that, Barefoot had to take some credit for his son’s steady demeanour—all the financial education at such a young age had probably imbued his son with maturity and pragmatism beyond his years. Barefoot promised his son he would get him home safely.
‘Now, do we have a deal?’ the kidnapper said.
‘Look, I can’t get that kind of money together before midnight. I don’t just have millions lying around. I’m a financial adviser. Not a billionaire.’
‘But you are a millionaire, right?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
‘Then it’s not a problem.’
‘It’s just, as you would probably expect, I have a very strict financial plan whereby my money is in very specific places at any given moment. I’m not that liquid.’
‘What does liquid mean?’
‘Liquid? It means that a lot of my wealth isn’t in cash. It’s in assets and investments.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Find a way.’
Barefoot had a moment of panic as he realised he was agreeing to give up a very significant amount of money. More than he’d ever paid for anything. Not that it was anything in comparison to not having his son back.
But after so many years of strict financial planning with Liz on Barefoot Date Nights, they were about to bust their monthly budget wide open. Their first failed month. The streak was over.
(And yes, they still did Barefoot Date Nights. Of course they did, it was his brand. Not that they needed to, necessarily. Their finances were pretty ‘set and forget’ by now—but Barefoot liked to practise what he preached..)
Barefoot didn’t particularly like that his mind had gone to this place. His wife certainly wouldn’t care in the slightest if their monthly financial target wasn’t met. But hey, the mind does strange things in times of stress. And as Barefoot had always said, that’s why you need a financial plan.
Barefoot agreed to scrape the money together for the kidnapper, and keep the police out of it, as requested.
Barefoot spent the afternoon reallocating funds from his monthly budget. Then, he dug up his barrel of emergency cash, which he kept hidden under the floorboards in the barn.
As night fell, Barefoot prepared himself for the dropoff. He drove to the spot the kidnapper had specified, dumped the money, and waited down the road. Then, 10 minutes later, as instructed, he returned to that same spot to collect his son. It all went down rather smoothly. Barefoot’s son was safe.
Barefoot never even saw the kidnapper’s face.
Two months later, Barefoot was spending the afternoon with his son, caring for their hens.
They had about 30 hens across three separate coops. Barefoot was explaining to his son that when you’re inspecting a hen – which you need to do regularly – you should always look for missing feathers. A hen with missing feathers is probably being bullied by the other hens.
His son, largely uninterested in hens, was instead trying to argue to his father that pancakes were the best breakfast item. Better than waffles, he contended, which seemed to come out of the packet stale. Better than crepes, too, which were too thin. And definitely better than pikelets, which were just small pancakes, and therefore not as good.
This, Barefoot thought as he set down another inspected hen, was a wonderful reminder of what family really was: groups of people who care deeply about each other, forever doing their best to show an interest in the things one another has to say.
Having said that, Barefoot did have to concede that pancakes were best, but mostly because they were the most fun to make. He promised they would make some next week, as long as his son could memorise the six things to check for when inspecting a hen. This, they agreed, was a fair deal.
As his son chased after the next hen, Barefoot’s phone started ringing. An unknown number.
Barefoot had a rule about never picking up calls from unknown numbers, given his status. But at this moment in time, he also happened to be waiting for a call back from his physiotherapist about a neck thing, and when you’re waiting for a specific call from someone, you can’t help but think that every call is going to be that call. Barefoot broke his own rule, and picked up the phone.
It was a telemarketer, of course—it always was. Barefoot was a nice guy, but not nice enough to maintain polite conversation with telemarketers when he was spending time with his kids.
After he hung up the phone, Barefoot paused once more and looked out over his beloved farm. His land. His family’s land. What a beautiful place they lived in. Quiet, too. Only the occasional distant sound of a car or two whizzing past from the freeway a few acres over.
Something else he loved about his farm: the thin wire fences, lazily circling the paddocks, as though he didn’t really need to define which part of the land was his, and which wasn’t. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, a world without fences?
Barefoot gazed lovingly back down at his son, who was chasing after a particularly stubborn hen. Barefoot was about to head back to the chicken coop when his phone rang again: it was the unknown number. Again. That really grinded his gears. Barefoot answered. ‘I asked you nicely to please take my number off your list.’
‘This isn’t a telemarketer,’ a voice said.
Barefoot recognised it straight away. The kidnapper.
‘Why are you calling me? What’s this about?’ Barefoot said, his eyes darting to his son.
‘Your family is safe. Don’t worry, that’s not why I’m calling. I said I wouldn’t bring anyone physical harm if you followed my instructions, and I’m a man of my word.’
‘Then what?’ Barefoot interrogated.
‘You know that two mil you gave me? Well, ever since I’ve had it, I’ve just been impulse spending, you know? Nice clothes, fancy dinners, expensive brands at the supermarket. That kind of thing. I’m worried I’ll blow it all before I retire, and my family deserves better than that. They really do. I need some financial advice.’
‘Are you kidding me?!’ Barefoot said, pacing the deck. Barefoot’s son glanced up quizzically for a moment, then resumed chasing a hen after getting the ‘it’s all good’ thumbs up from his dad.
‘I just thought,’ the kidnapper said, ‘I thought you seemed like such a nice guy on the phone, and on those interviews on TV. Plus, you taught me what liquid means. I just figured you might be able to help me a little bit, like you do for people with your book. My Mum bought me a copy for Christmas, but I’m not a very good reader. I get distracted after, like, two pages. It’s never been diagnosed or anything, but I’m pretty sure I have ADD or ADHD. One of those. I always forget which is which.’
Barefoot faced a serious moral dilemma. He considered his mission statement – to help as many people as he could improve their financial wellbeing. All walks of life, all levels of wealth. Would this particular man’s moral compass suddenly change all that? Doesn’t this man, despite being a kidnapper and a thief, deserve financial literacy, too? Would similar logic apply to decisions about whether to assist rapists and murderers in prison?
What about all the businesses he advised, would he have to do his own due diligence on their ethics first?
Where would it end?
But if he did help this man, would he be able to stomach it? Wouldn’t he just be enabling the kidnapper’s erratic behaviour, letting him think he could threaten his family whenever confronted with financial hardship?
Could he rationalise this line of reasoning to his wife? Perhaps not. But, it would be a lesson in forgiveness, something he would love to teach his kid one day. That felt like the most appropriate justification.
‘Ok,’ Barefoot said. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘Sweet,’ the kidnapper said. ‘So, I wanna buy some shares, but, like, I don’t know which ones, or how to actually buy them?’
Barefoot took a seat at the outdoor dining table, took off his shoes and let out a deep breath.
‘We need to start with the basics. Buying shares is just one investment strategy. Your first problem is overspending. Let’s start there.
‘What you want to do, as I explain in my book, is divide your income into three ‘buckets’. First, a ‘blow’ bucket. This is for your daily expenses, bills, and splurging.
‘Second, a ‘mojo’ bucket. This is emergency money, for when things get tricky.
‘Third, a ‘grow’ bucket. This is for long-term savings and retirement.
‘Now, when you get paid every week, or every fortnight, or whenever, you want to split your money into separate bank accounts. 60% goes into a ‘Daily Expenses’ account. 10% goes into a ‘Splurge’ account –you can use that money for your fancy dinners and nice clothes.
‘The other 30% is split into two other savings accounts. One is for medium-level emergencies, what I like to call the ‘Fire Extinguisher’ account. Ransom money, for example.’
This got a laugh from the kidnapper, which pleased Barefoot. Barefoot knew how essential it was to get a laugh from the audience midway through explaining a concept, to help break things up.
‘The final savings account is for your medium-term goals, which I call the ‘Smile’ account. This is for your big ticket items, like holidays. Following so far?’
‘Um, yeah, I think so.’
‘Good, good. It’s really easy to set it all up, using automations on your banking app. I recommend ING, for the interest rates. And don’t worry, I’m not getting a kickback from ING—I just genuinely think they’re the best!’
The kidnapper seemed to be thinking it over.
‘Actually, no, I’m a bit confused,’ he said. ‘Can you explain it again?’
Barefoot’s son began calling out from the chicken coop. He had finished with the hens and was wandering toward the deck. Barefoot was struck by a great idea. He would get his son to help him with the kidnapper’s money problems! What better way to teach this lesson in forgiveness than to have his son teach it to himself?
Barefoot told the kidnapper to hang on for a moment.
Barefoot explained the situation to his son, how this act of kindness was a reflection of their family values, his own personal beliefs, and also that it was their responsibility as privileged citizens to help the less fortunate.
Barefoot’s son didn’t need the spiel, it turned out. He was happy to help. But it needed to be quick because he was starving from chasing hens.
‘Ok, I’m back,’ Barefoot said, putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on the table.’I’ve asked my son to pitch in. I trust you remember him?’
‘Oh yeah, sweet,’ the kidnapper said. ‘He’s a good kid. How are you, mate?’
‘Yeah, not bad thanks,’ Barefoot’s son answered. ‘School’s alright. Mrs Wilson is still riding me about that geography project I was telling you about. Footy’s good though.’
‘Yeah, nice one.’
Barefoot stepped in, attempting to steer the conversation back to its educational course. ‘Now, you were saying you didn’t quite understand the concept? Let me reiterate.’ Barefoot explained the buckets concept again, glancing at his son every now and then. His son had, of course, heard about the buckets hundreds of times before.
When it was over, the kidnapper said, ‘I think I’m getting it. But just to clarify, what’s the difference between a bucket and a bank account?’
‘That’s ok,’ Barefoot said, nodding to his son, ‘it’s simple, really. The buckets are like categories for you to think about how you spend your money. ‘Mojo’, for instance, is for emergencies, and getting rid of debt. Think of it like getting your mojo back. The bank accounts are where you put your money within those buckets. Make sense?’
‘Um, yeah, there’s just a lot of names. ‘Mojo’ and ‘Grow’ and ‘Blow’ and all that. Like, I get it, but the ADHD might be stopping me from fully getting it, if that makes sense?’
‘Come on, mate,’ Barefoot’s son interjected. ‘It’s not that hard. I’ve been working my money into funnels since I was five years old. Just make five bank accounts and spend your money according to the things each account is for.’
‘That makes more sense.So, why bother with the buckets mumbo jumbo if you’re just setting up different bank accounts?’
Barefoot found himself stumped. He’d never had to think of another way to explain this before. Everyone else understood the buckets, no problem. For God’s sake, half the country had switched to ING. It couldn’t be that hard. Maybe he should be getting a kickback, Barefoot thought, but that was a project for Dora for another time.
‘Ok, don’t worry about the buckets,’ Barefoot said.
‘Cool, can we talk about shares now?’
‘Fine,’ Barefoot relented. ‘So, basically you want to make sure you diversify your shares portfolio. Buy shares from different industries, and different countries, so you can achieve a good rate of return whilst also protecting yourself against individual business risk.’
‘Ok, sounds good. But what shares do I actually buy?’
‘Well,’ Barefoot said, ‘that depends on what you believe in. If you believe in a green future, invest in companies that build wind turbines, for example. If you believe in technological advancement, invest in companies developing the most innovative tech products. If you believe in space exploration, there are companies for that too.’
The kidnapper took another moment to consider.
‘Can’t you just give me some good stock picks?’
Barefoot and his son were both getting restless. It was late afternoon and the light was fading. They had both worked up a fierce appetite chasing hens and talking about pancakes. Barefoot figured that his son had probably got the memo about forgiveness and helping those in need, so he gave the kidnapper a few good stock picks and sent him on his way.
A year later, Barefoot was in his office writing his next book focused on financial advice for families. Given his theories didn’t change much, Barefoot was struggling to make this second book feel fresh and new, whilst also giving people the same Barefoot they had come to love.
Barefoot took a moment to regroup. Why was he putting so much pressure on himself? In all honesty, he didn’t need to write a second book. Out of nowhere, business had really spiked in the past few months. Book sales were up, subscriptions to his monthly newsletter were up, even his blog traffic was up. It seemed like all the work he had done on seminars had paid off.
Still, he had made a promise to his publisher, and didn’t want to let them down. Barefoot willed himself to keep writing. He would let nothing distract him. Except for the sharp, chirping ringtone of the phone from his pocket, which he had forgotten to put on silent.
The first thing Barefoot did was curse himself. He would usually put his phone on silent during a writing session. It was one of his essential habits for productivity. But on this occasion, he had forgotten.
The second thing he did was pull the phone from his pocket and stare at the screen in silent terror. It was an unknown number. Barefoot hadn’t had a call from an unknown number since last year.
This time, Barefoot took a deep breath, stuck to his guns, and let it go to voicemail.
Which was fine, until a text came through: ‘Call me back asap. It’s urgent. Thanks.’
If this was who he thought it was, then what was ‘urgent’? And more confusing, why did the message end with a ‘thanks’?
Barefoot’s mind began to race as he realised that neither his curiosity nor his anxiety could be cured. He couldn’t even call back: it was an unknown number. What was he supposed to do?
Barefoot shot a text to his wife, subtly checking that everything was going well in her day. She replied promptly – everything was good.
The unknown number called again. Barefoot tried to ignore it, but knew he would simply not be able to concentrate on his book if he didn’t take the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s me.’
This was a voice Barefoot knew well. His lawyer.
‘Yeah, hi, Francis. What’s up? Why are you calling on an unknown number?’
‘Oh, was I? Sorry, I just got a new phone. The thing’s been driving me nuts, I can’t figure out how to transfer all my contacts. So annoying, I spent ages on it the other day. Anyway, I digress… I’ve come across something you need to be aware of. Legally, that is.’
‘Is it a problem?’
‘It is a problem, yes, but one I can easily sort out. So, there’s this guy going around running these big seminars on financial wellbeing, and he’s using your material. This guy is a bit of a sensation, actually. He’s gone from being penniless to being worth more than $10 million in less than a year. People are lapping him up. Corporates, the public, everyone. Thousands are turning up to these things. And it’s not just the material that’s concerning. It’s what he’s calling himself, and the seminar: ‘The Closed-Toe Shoe Investor: A Supportive Structure for Financial Health’. Can you believe this bullshit? It’s like he’s mocking you.’
‘You’re joking…’
‘ Don’t worry. I’ve already made a few calls, and I should be able to put a stop to it by the end of the week. Otherwise it’s an easy lawsuit. Here, I’ll play you a snippet of one of the seminars.’
‘Thanks, Francis.’
Barefoot’s lawyer held his phone to his computer and pressed play on the video.
It struck Barefoot straight away. That voice.
Barefoot felt his lungs tighten with rage. His lesson in forgiveness had gotten him nowhere. Not only had this man kidnapped his son, taken his money, and then had the audacity to call him again to ask for financial advice – but he had now used that information to take his life’s work and rub it in his face!
Barefoot was going to sue him for every cent he was worth, every goddamn cent. It was his money to begin with anyway.
Barefoot opened his mouth to launch into a monologue about how his lawyer should throw the book at this maniac. But then he stopped.
‘Well hang on, let’s think about this for a minute,’ Barefoot said.
‘Think about what?’
‘I’ve actually had a spike in sales recently. Do you think this guy’s material is driving traffic toward my books, or away from them?’
‘I mean, I guess it’s bringing in more. Most people associate this kind of accessible, low-fuss financial advice with your brand. And to be honest, I’m not sure he’s a long term threat. I watched one of the seminars—I’m not sure this guy fully understands most of the stuff about money habits and spending. Some of it is good, but there’s a whole section on why buckets are a waste of money. He does seem to have a grasp on investment strategy though. Apparently he’s made some very successful stock picks. So, you probably will keep seeing more sales. But that’s not the point. This is a matter of copyright. It’s about protecting your intellectual property.’
‘But based on what you’ve said, why should I stop him? Think about it. He’s bringing in more sales, and ultimately, he’s helping people improve their financial literacy and wellbeing. That’s what I’ve always set out to do. Who cares if my name isn’t on it?’
‘I seriously urge you to think about this further. Maybe watch some of the seminar yourself first, and call me back.’
‘Nope. I don’t need to think about it. I say we let him go. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Francis, but I’ve made my decision.’
When he got off the phone, Barefoot rubbed his hands together with glee. Dammit Barefoot, you brilliant bastard, he thought to himself.
With the kidnapper driving in more sales, he wouldn’t have to worry about finishing this next book. Maybe he could retire now, move the family to the Bahamas – live on a property with no fences and tropical beauty as far as the eye could see! He could put his feet up and watch the waves and money roll in.
After all, the dream always was to make the money work for him. Barefoot had spent his entire career obsessing over investments. But who would have thought, after all these years, that ransom money would be the best investment he’d ever made?
Footnote: Let it be known that I am in no way affiliated with The Barefoot Investor, and I do not receive any kickbacks for sharing praise for Barefoot’s money advice. On a separate note, if Barefoot’s legal team is reading this and is debating whether to respond, consider this: if this story has taught us anything, it’s that any publicity is good publicity.
Joshua John Smithe is a Melbourne-based writer, filmmaker and poet. He also rides bikes, runs long, and eats croissants. That’s six things—some would say too many. His writing has appeared in Voiceworks, Minimum Wage Mag and the literary humour publication Points in Case. Then it disappeared for a while. But now it’s back.
HOME 