The phone was in the freezer.

That was the detail that stopped everyone cold. Not the blood — though the blood was everywhere, soaked into the carpet, spattered across the walls, pooled in places that told a story nobody wanted to finish reading. Not the missing man, or his two cars sitting untouched in the lot, or the PlayStation-on, shoes-left-behind quality of abandonment that filled every room.

The phone.

In the freezer.

Tucked in there alongside a couple of credit cards, like someone had put leftovers away for later. Like the killer had paused, mid-cleanup, mid-exit, and made a deliberate decision about what to do with the one device that could locate a person, receive their calls, hold their messages.

And that decision was: put it somewhere cold.

Kenosha, Wisconsin. May 2020. A man named Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. had vanished from his apartment on 15th Street, leaving behind nothing but blood and unanswered questions.

And a phone in the freezer.

And a woman who already knew who to blame.

Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. was forty years old in the spring of 2020, and he had spent most of those years in Kenosha.

He was a local in the fullest sense — born there, schooled there, graduated from the University of Wisconsin with a degree in criminal justice, which would later strike people as one of the grimmer ironies in a case full of them. He worked in property and construction. He was close with his mother, close with his siblings, the kind of man who showed up for family events and remembered birthdays and sent texts back promptly.

He had two kids from two different relationships. He was a devoted father.

He was also a passionate, borderline-religious Chicago Cubs fan, which in Wisconsin takes a certain commitment to personal identity.

Since around mid-February of 2020, Rosalio had been dating a new woman. Her name was Sadi Beichum. They’d met on Facebook — the way a lot of things started and ended in 2020, when the world had narrowed to screens and distance and everybody was living a little more online than usual. They had only been together about three months when everything happened.

Sadi liked him. She would say later he was the love of her life.

She would also, from the very first day anyone asked, have a name ready for who she thought had killed him.

That name was Zachariah Anderson.

Tuesday, May 19th, 2020.

Sadi had not heard from Rosalio since Sunday evening — since the text he sent saying he was dropping his daughter off and then going to hang out with a friend named Mike. That was it. That was the last thing. Two days of silence from a man who, by every account from everyone who knew him, was not a man who went silent.

She tried calling. Voicemail.

She tried texting. Nothing.

She drove to his apartment at 3709 15th Street, got out of her car, walked to the building, and stopped.

Both of his cars were in the parking lot. He had two — a fact that struck people as a minor luxury, something vaguely life-is-good about it. Both were parked. Neither had moved.

She went around to the rear of the building.

The sliding screen door was open.

She called his name. She pulled back the blinds on the back window and looked inside.

She called 911 at 11:07 a.m.

“I did a wellness check on a good friend of mine I was dating,” she told the dispatcher. “I haven’t talked to him for like 24 hours and I just went to his house and his screen door is wide open. I knocked on the door and I saw something scattered on the outside door. I kept calling his name and knocking on the windows.”

 

 

“Were you able to see inside?”

“I pulled the blinds back and there’s blood all over the floor in the living room.”

“Can you see him at all anywhere?”

“I didn’t go any further,” Sadi said. “I’m afraid. I just saw blood on the floor and I don’t — that’s not normal. Something’s not right.”

Officers Ben Venuto and Chase arrived within minutes.

They walked through the open screen door.

What they found inside was not a crime scene you needed training to read. The blood was in the living room. It was in the kitchen. It was in the dining room. It was spattered across walls and pooled on the floor in patterns that told a story the body itself was no longer there to finish. Forensics would later determine that someone had opened the front door of the apartment and been attacked immediately — a sudden, overwhelming assault that pushed the victim backward through the living room, the attacker following, hitting and hitting until the movement stopped.

There was a straight line along one edge of the pooled blood on the floor.

The kind of line left by a rug. Or a carpet. Something rolled up around something heavy, and then dragged out.

The front door was locked.

The back screen door was wide open.

The killer had taken the time to lock the front door on their way out. And then left through the back, leaving that door hanging.

Rosalio’s wallet was on the couch. His phone was nowhere to be found.

Until the next day, May 20th, when police searched again.

They found it in the freezer.

Two credit cards tucked in beside it. Cold.

Sadi did not wait to be asked.

Before the detectives had even taken over from the patrol officers, before the investigation had formally organized itself around what was clearly a homicide, Sadi had a name. She offered it to the responding officers within minutes of their arrival.

Her ex. Zachariah Anderson.

“I’m not saying he did something,” she said, at first. “But he could do something.”

By the time she was sitting across from detectives in a formal interview, the hedge was gone.

Zachariah Anderson, she told them, was a stalker. He had been watching her for months. He was tracking her car with a GPS device — she was almost certain of it. He was monitoring her phone, hacking into it somehow. He drove past her house in the middle of the night. He knew things he shouldn’t know, showed up in places she hadn’t told him she’d be, was always somehow aware of her movements with Rosalio.

And he hated Rosalio. He had made that clear in his texts, his behavior, his absolute inability to accept that the twelve-year relationship between himself and Sadi was over.

She was so certain, so insistent, that she left the interview room mid-conversation to go get her daughter.

Their daughter. Hers and Zach’s. Olivia.

She brought Olivia into the room and said: tell them. Tell them what you know.

Olivia did her best. But at moments she had to ask her mother clarifying questions. And at moments her story contradicted her mother’s in small but noticeable ways.

“Why do you think dad did it?” she was asked at one point.

There was a pause.

“I don’t know,” Olivia said. “I don’t know what to think right now.”

It was the most honest answer anyone gave that day.

Zachariah Anderson was thirty-nine years old in May 2020, and his entire adult life had been braided around Sadi Beichum.

They had met in 2007. The following year, 2008, Olivia was born. In 2015, they had twin boys. For over a decade, they had lived the particular rhythm of a couple who were never quite together and never quite done — on again, off again, sharing custody, sharing a history, sharing the deep and complicated entanglement of two people who had made a family without ever quite committing to the same version of the future.

Zach was a Wisconsin native, second oldest of four boys, from a family that expanded as parents remarried and half-siblings arrived. He’d held a range of jobs over the years — waiting tables, painting, construction work — and most recently had been an audiovisual maintenance technician at Milwaukee Area Technical College. He was not flashy. He was not, by anyone’s account, easy to read.

The final break between Zach and Sadi had come on Christmas Eve, 2019.

It had devolved into shouting. Zach was cited for disorderly conduct. Sadi said: that’s it, we’re done, final straw, enough. They ended it.

About six weeks later, Sadi started seeing Rosalio.

Zach did not take this well.

By March, the situation had begun to deteriorate in ways that would prove, looking back, to be a roadmap of everything that came after. Zach showed up at Sadi’s apartment on March 5th, unannounced. She called the police. Zach’s version was that he’d tried calling and she hadn’t answered, the front door was open, and he was worried about his kids. The police arrived and he left without incident.

But from that moment, the temperature of the whole situation began to rise.

The texts Zach sent Sadi during April and May of 2020 were the kind of thing that makes investigators stop and reread twice.

On April 28th — less than three weeks before Rosalio disappeared — Zach sent Sadi this: Not much is going to hurt worse than watching someone go to bed with the person you love and listen to them explore their space with the lights out.

It was the kind of thing you write at two in the morning when you’ve been sitting with something too long and the thing has curdled.

On May 1st, he sent another: You always refuse to say we are done. You refuse to say it’s over. You act angry with me for taking interest in someone else while you and Booger sleep in the same bed.

Booger was his nickname for Rosalio.

These were not the messages of a man who had moved on. These were the messages of a man in the specific grip of the thing that makes rational people do irrational things — not just jealousy, but the jealousy of a person who cannot understand why the world has continued without them in the center of it.

On May 7th, Olivia accidentally dropped a phone while she was hanging out at her dad’s place. Sadi picked it up. It was one of Zach’s old phones — he’d given it to their daughter without factory resetting it. Sadi went through it.

She found his Amazon account in the app.

She found an order history.

Two mini real-time GPS car locators, delivered to Zach’s address about two weeks earlier.

This is the hook. This is the detail that runs through everything that follows like a wire — the GPS trackers, ordered, delivered, deployed. Not alleged. Ordered. There in the account. There in the purchase history. Two of them.

You order two GPS car trackers for one of two reasons: you are extremely security-conscious about your own vehicles, or you intend to put them on someone else’s.

Zach did not tell Sadi he had ordered them.

He did not tell her he had put them on her car.

But Sadi had suspected for months that someone was tracking her. She’d mentioned it to police. She had a mechanic friend look over her car. He hadn’t found anything, but she had not taken it to a professional shop.

Two GPS trackers. Ordered. Delivered. Unaccounted for.

On May 16th — the Saturday night before Rosalio disappeared — Zach sent one more text.

This one from a burner phone.

It said: You race down to Kenosha every chance you get to lay with some Down syndrome Mexican version of your father just to pull a noseful and laugh at anything he says as you desperately throw yourself at him. And in that you have your happiness.

It was sent at 11:23 p.m.

When police sat Zach down for questioning on May 19th — the day Sadi found the blood, the day Rosalio’s absence became an official investigation — they did not immediately tell him why they were really there. They said it was about the stalking complaints. They said it was related to the custody issues. They eased into it, the way investigators do when they want to see what a person does with their hands before they tell them what the meeting is really about.

Zach talked freely.

He described Sadi as someone who had changed dramatically in recent months. He said she was going out constantly since the bars in Wisconsin had reopened that May. He said she had been at the bar two days running with his kids in tow. He said he had been keeping an eye on things not because he was stalking her but because there was a custody hearing coming up and he wanted documentation. He wanted proof that she was not in a fit state.

He was recording conversations. He was watching. He was building a file.

“I have gone to check some information on her,” he told the detective, “and I have looked to verify some things like whether or not she’s going to the bar. But really just for the purpose of the custody battle.”

He was matter-of-fact about it. Almost bored.

“I’m not stalking her,” he said. “It’s fine. She’s got a right to go in her own direction.”

Then they asked him where he was Sunday night.

“Generally I don’t remember,” he said.

“Did you do anything that night?”

“I think I took a nap probably. Maybe went over to my girlfriend’s house somewhere. I’m sure.”

“Did you spend the night there?”

“I don’t — ask her.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I don’t remember.”

He had a girlfriend. Her name was Christine. His alibi for Sunday night was that he was with Christine.

Police went to Christine.

Christine said yes, he was with her all night.

Christine’s sister said no, she had not seen him at all.

And from Christine’s own phone records, the last text she had sent Zach on Sunday night was at 10:31 p.m.: All right, okay, whatever. Going to bed.

That was not the text of a woman whose boyfriend was in the same house. That was the text of a woman who had been trying to reach someone and had given up.

Zachariah Anderson did not have an alibi for Sunday night.

And Rosalio Gutierrez was dead.

They arrested Zach on May 19th.

They searched his house. They found a burn pit in the backyard that appeared to have been recently used. They found nothing in the house itself — no blood, no evidence, no sign of Rosalio.

But out front, in the minivan, they found two things.

The first: most of the carpet in the rear had been removed. Not worn out, not incidentally missing. Removed. Cut out and gone. Olivia, when asked, told police that when she had last been in that van on May 16th — three days earlier — the carpet had been completely intact.

On the section that did remain, there were what appeared to be bleach stains.

All of it went to the lab.

The second thing in the van was a receipt.

Walmart. The morning of May 18th — the day after the probable murder of Rosalio Gutierrez, the day before Sadi found the blood.

8:30 a.m.

The purchase included gloves, trash bags, and Clorox wipes.

And on the parking lot CCTV, you can see Zach’s vehicle arriving and parking at the far end of the lot. On a rainy morning in May. Far from the entrance. Far from the cameras that covered the parking spaces near the door.

His supporters would later point out that May 2020 was the height of COVID-19, that everyone was buying cleaning products, that this meant nothing.

But on that rainy morning, pulling into a Walmart to buy cleaning supplies because he was worried about a pandemic, Zachariah Anderson was not wearing a mask.

He was not worried about a pandemic.

The search for Rosalio went on for days.

Dogs. Drones. Officers walking grids through the empty fields and woods on the rural north side of Milwaukee where Zach lived. Teams checking every burn pit, every field, every accessible piece of ground in the area.

Nothing.

Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. was simply gone.

A man who weighed over two hundred pounds, who worked construction, who by all accounts was physically capable and not the kind of person who went down without a fight. The apartment had told that story too — the spread of blood, the volume of it, the evidence of a sustained attack rather than a quick one. Someone had been hit hard and repeatedly, in a space that bore witness to every moment of it.

But whoever had done that, and wherever they had taken him, they had covered their tracks well enough that the Kenosha wilderness held its secret.

Police kept digging into the digital evidence.

They found a folder on Zach’s laptop.

It was named: Rosalio Gutierrez.

Inside the folder: downloaded photos from Rosalio’s Facebook. Images, posts, information. A collection that had no innocent explanation. This was not someone stumbling across a public profile. This was someone building a file on a specific person. Watching, cataloguing, archiving.

The stalking of Sadi had extended, at some point, to the stalking of the man she was with.

The GPS trackers. The folder. The texts. The burner phone. The Sunday night with no alibi.

It was all building in one direction.

And then the lab came back with the results from the minivan.

It was close to two weeks after the van had been seized and sent for processing.

The wait was the worst of it, for investigators. They had a murder — clearly, obviously, there was no other reading of that apartment — but without a body, without the physical anchor of the crime, everything was circumstantial. Behavior. Pattern. Motive. All of it pointing at one man, none of it quite enough.

And then the forensics analyst called.

On the floor of the minivan — the van with the carpet cut out of it, the van with the bleach stains, the van with the Walmart receipt from the morning after — she had found a speck of something.

A pinhead. A pinprick. The smallest possible quantity that forensic testing can work with.

It was brown. It appeared to be biological material. She couldn’t do both of the standard forensic tests on a sample this small — she had to choose. She chose the test that would tell her whose it was, sacrificing the test that would confirm what it was.

The result came back: the DNA matched Rosalio Gutierrez Jr.

That was it. That was the key that turned the whole case.

Not a pooled stain. Not a handprint. Not a weapon or a piece of clothing or any of the things that make a murder case feel airtight. One pinprick of material on the floor of a minivan where the carpet had been recently removed. And it was Rosalio’s.

How else does it get there?

If Zach had never met Rosalio — which was what Zach himself insisted, that he had never had any face-to-face encounter with the man — how does a speck of Rosalio’s DNA end up on the floor of Zach’s van?

There was no innocent explanation.

On December 11th, 2020, six months after the murder, police came to Zach in jail — he had been held on the stalking charges since May — and told him his charges were being upgraded.

Not stalking anymore.

Murder.

Here is where the story doubles back on itself.

Because the case against Zachariah Anderson, as it moved toward trial in 2023, was not as clean as the headline version of it suggested.

There was no body. There still isn’t.

There was no murder weapon.

There were no fingerprints, no DNA, no physical evidence from inside Rosalio’s apartment that placed Zach Anderson there. Not a hair. Not a skin cell. Nothing.

The speck in the van — the pinhead of material that the lab analyst could not formally confirm was blood — was essentially the only physical link between Zach Anderson and the death of Rosalio Gutierrez.

“We could not confirm it was blood,” the analyst would say on the stand, when pressed. “I did no testing to determine that it was blood. Given the color and the way the stain looked, I would say it would be blood. But asked me very specifically: can you confirm that it’s blood? No.”

It might have been blood.

It might not have been.

And the defense had other things to point at.

Rosalio was not alone in his romantic life that Sunday night. He had been talking to a woman named Neridia — another woman he had met online, another relationship running in the background of his life. She had driven to his apartment that night, parked outside, texted him to say she was there.

And he had stopped answering at approximately 9:30 p.m.

Neridia told police she sat in the parking lot for nearly an hour, from around 9:30 to 10:20. She said she had a clear view of the front door of his building. She said she saw a Black woman and two Hispanic men enter. She said she did not see any white males — did not see anyone who looked like Zach Anderson.

That statement would later change. Two years later, just before trial, Neridia said she had actually been parked in front of the wrong building and couldn’t see the entrance at all.

Two years. Just before trial.

The timing of that change was not lost on the defense.

And there was the cell tower question.

Rosalio’s phone had registered an orientation change at 10:10 p.m. — it moved, changed position, the way a phone moves when someone picks it up or handles it. If Rosalio was killed around 9:30 p.m., as the phone records suggested, then whoever moved that phone at 10:10 p.m. was still in his apartment.

Forty minutes after the murder.

At 11:20 p.m. — seventy minutes later — Zach Anderson placed a phone call.

That call pinged off a cell tower near his home, on the opposite side of Milwaukee from Rosalio’s apartment.

Could he have been at Rosalio’s at 10:10 and back near his own home seventy minutes later?

According to Google Maps: technically yes, barely.

But the route would have taken him through roughly forty traffic cameras. Police checked. Zach’s vehicle did not appear on a single one of them.

The defense said: he could not have done it in that time using the highway route. If he took back roads, he would not have made it. The math did not work.

The prosecution said: none of that matters, because DNA doesn’t lie. The speck was Rosalio’s. It was in the van. Zach removed the carpet afterward. He bought cleaning supplies at 8:30 the next morning. He didn’t have an alibi. He had motive, obsession, GPS trackers, a surveillance folder, a history of watching this man’s every move.

He did it.

The trial proceeded in 2023.

Three years after Rosalio disappeared. Three years of Zach sitting in county jail, insisting he had never met Rosalio Gutierrez, never been near his apartment, had nothing to do with his death. Three years of Ken and Sadi and the family waiting for a courtroom to tell them what they already believed they knew.

The jury heard everything.

They heard the texts. The burner phone message. The GPS trackers ordered from Amazon. The folder on the laptop. The carpet cut out of the van. The Walmart receipt. The bleach stains. The alibi that fell apart under Christine’s sister’s testimony. The speck.

They also heard the defense’s arguments about the traffic cameras, the timeline, the neighbor who changed her story, the forensics analyst who could not confirm what the speck actually was.

They deliberated.

They came back with a verdict.

“The jury finds the defendant Zachariah Anderson guilty of intentional homicide in the first degree as charged.”

Zachariah Anderson was sentenced to life in prison. He will not be eligible for parole for forty years.

Before the sentence was pronounced, the judge asked Zach if he had anything to say.

He did.

“I don’t want to go into all the details of the case,” Zach said. “We had a lot of dispute about what was said, what was portrayed. I think the facts with a little more scrutiny tell a much different story than what the jury decided. I don’t think things played out fairly.”

He paused.

“What I can tell you is I didn’t kill anybody. What I can tell you is I didn’t stalk anybody. And what I can tell you is I didn’t dispose of any corpse.”

He looked at the judge.

“I’m innocent.”

The judge sentenced him to life.

Since his imprisonment, a website called Free Zachariah Anderson has appeared online. It includes videos he recorded in prison, a diary, legal arguments, and analysis of the case evidence. The website makes these points: the body was never found. No physical evidence placed Zach at the apartment. The speck could not be confirmed as blood. The timeline arguably doesn’t work. The key witness changed her story two years in.

The website also notes that Rosalio Gutierrez Jr.’s remains have still never been located.

Not anywhere.

Not after all the searches, all the dogs, all the drones, all the years.

There is a version of this story where Zachariah Anderson is exactly what the prosecution said he was.

A jealous, obsessive man who spent months watching the woman he could not let go of, who tracked her car, who catalogued her new boyfriend’s photographs, who stood in the dark outside her window, who sent texts from burner phones in the middle of the night. A man who watched Rosalio Gutierrez live the life he thought should be his, and who drove to that apartment on a Sunday night in May and did something terrible, and then spent the next twelve hours removing carpet and buying cleaning products and hoping the fields near his house would keep their secret.

That version is supported by the GPS trackers. The folder. The texts. The Walmart receipt. The speck of DNA. The missing carpet. The non-existent alibi.

There is also a version where the speck means something other than what the prosecution said it meant.

Where a woman with a drug habit and a child custody battle and a man in her life she wanted to keep pointed at her ex and said: him. He did it. I know he did it. And where the police, who arrived at a blood-soaked apartment with no leads and no body and a county full of people to disappoint, decided she was right and built a case around that decision.

That version is supported by the traffic cameras. The timeline. The witness who changed her story. The forensics analyst who could not confirm her own key finding. The complete absence of Zach Anderson’s DNA from the scene of a murder so violent it covered every wall.

Both versions are possible.

Only one was decided.

And somewhere in the fields and woods and countryside of northern Wisconsin — or maybe somewhere else entirely, somewhere nobody has thought to look yet — Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. is still waiting to be found.

The phone in the freezer stayed with Ken Heisler — stayed with the people who worked the case, stayed with everyone who heard about it.

Not because it solved anything. But because it was the image that made the killer real. Made the person who did this specific and deliberate rather than abstract and theoretical. Someone had stood in that apartment after the violence was over, with blood on the floor and a dead man to dispose of, and they had made a considered decision about what to do with the phone.

They had put it in the freezer.

They had closed the door.

They had gone back to work.

That was not panic. That was not a person overwhelmed by what they had done. That was someone thinking — even in the middle of something that should have made thinking impossible — about the next step and the step after that.

The phone could be tracked.

Cold temperatures affect GPS signals.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was instinct, the kind of instinct that comes from watching too many crime shows, from knowing vaguely that phones can be located and wanting to do something about it without having a specific plan.

Rosalio’s wallet was still on the couch.

His shoes were still there.

His cars were in the lot.

The killer took the phone and nothing else.

And on the first search, when investigators went through the apartment looking for it — no phone, no phone, no phone — it sat behind the freezer door in the dark, getting colder.

They found it the second day.

Two credit cards tucked in beside it.

Cold.

Here is what does not change regardless of which version is true:

Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. was forty years old. He had two kids he adored. He had a Cubs jersey he would have worn to the grave under different circumstances. He had a new relationship with a woman who said he was the love of her life, and a daughter who loved him, and a mother and siblings who could not get him on the phone for two days and then found out why.

He died in his apartment on a Sunday night in May, surrounded by the things he owned — the wallet on the couch, the two cars in the lot, the ordinary inventory of a life not finished. Someone came through his front door and he never made it back to any of it.

He was never found.

His daughter is older now. His kids are older now. His mother has had to learn to live with a loss that has no location, no grave, no physical site to visit and grieve beside.

That is its own particular cruelty — the missing body, the unlocated person. The family that cannot have a funeral because there is nothing to bury. The wound that does not close the way wounds do when there is an ending.

Zachariah Anderson is in prison, eligible for parole in forty years.

He says he is innocent.

The jury said otherwise.

And Rosalio is still out there, somewhere in the American countryside, in the ground or the trees or the fields, unknown and unfound, waiting for someone to bring him home.

The GPS tracker.

That was the detail that set everything in motion — not the violence itself, not even the blood, but the quiet, premeditated act of ordering two real-time locators from Amazon and having them delivered to his address. Of putting them on cars that were not his. Of following someone’s movements through an app, from the comfort of a phone screen, knowing where they were going before they got there.

It first appears as a fact in Sadi’s account — the Amazon history she found on Olivia’s borrowed phone, the proof that the paranoia she had been feeling for months was not paranoia at all.

It surfaces again in the investigation — as the organizing principle behind all the stalking behavior, the late-night drives, the knowing where Rosalio lived, the knowing when the apartment would be empty and when it would not.

And it sits at the end of the story as a symbol of something broader than this one case. The particular horror of a modern obsession — not dramatic, not visible, just a small device attached to a car frame under a wheel well, transmitting location data to a phone screen, turning a person’s ordinary movements into a surveillance map. The intimacy of knowing where someone is without their knowledge. The control of it. The way it lets obsession pretend to itself that it is just paying attention.

Two trackers. Ordered. Delivered.

For two cars.

One for Sadi’s.

Nobody knows what happened to the second one.

May 19th, 2020.

Sadi stood in a parking lot in Kenosha looking at two cars that hadn’t moved.

She walked around to the back of the building.

She opened the screen door.

She called his name.

She saw the blood on the floor and she called 911 and she said: something is not right.

She was correct.

Something was not right.

Something had been not right for months — in the texts from burner phones, in the trackers on the cars, in the folder full of downloaded photographs, in the Sunday night that nobody could account for, in the receipt from a Walmart at eight-thirty on a Monday morning, in the carpet cut out of a van.

Something had been building toward this apartment and this blood and this phone in the freezer for as long as two people who couldn’t let go of each other had been making choices that kept bringing them back to the same point.

The question the jury answered: who pulled the trigger?

The question nobody has answered yet: where is he?

Rosalio Gutierrez Jr. has been missing since May 17th, 2020.

He is still missing.

If you know something, the Kenosha Police Department is still listening.

The body has to be somewhere.

Somewhere in this country, in this ground, in these fields that don’t say what they hold — he is there.

Waiting to be found.

Waiting to come home.