EDC 101 result case

The Case for Carrying a Folding Scalpel

I did not start carrying a folding scalpel because I wanted something lighter or sharper or more tactical. I started carrying one because I got tired of pretending my regular pocket knife was still sharp.

There is a particular moment that repeats itself if you carry a knife long enough. You are opening a box, or trimming a loose thread, or breaking down cardboard in the garage. You press a little harder than you meant to. The blade drags instead of glides. You adjust your grip, angle it slightly, and tell yourself it is fine. It is not fine. It is just dull enough to make you notice.

Most of us respond the same way. We promise to sharpen it later. Later becomes next week. The knife stays in the pocket, quietly underperforming.

A folding scalpel with replaceable blades is a quiet admission that you are done playing that game.

On paper it sounds almost clinical. Disposable blade. Surgical steel. The kind of thing you would expect to see in a drawer labeled tools, not clipped inside a front pocket. It feels temporary, almost disposable by association. And that is exactly what makes it interesting.

When you carry a traditional folding knife, there is an identity wrapped around it. It has weight. It has history. It might have a patina that tells stories you cannot quite explain. You maintain it because it feels like something worth maintaining. There is pride in keeping it sharp.

A folding scalpel does not ask for pride. It asks for practicality.

The first time I carried one, it felt almost wrong. Too light. Too thin. It disappeared in the pocket to the point that I kept checking for it. When I used it, the blade was startlingly sharp. Not in a dramatic way. Just clean. Effortless. Tape parted without that sawing motion I had grown used to. Paper did not crumple before it cut. There was no negotiation between blade and material.

And then, after a while, it dulled. Instead of reaching for a sharpening stone or convincing myself it still had life left, I swapped the blade. Thirty seconds. Done. Back to that clean, precise edge.

There is something almost rebellious about refusing to romanticize the edge.

In EDC culture, we talk a lot about tools aging with us. The knife that lasts decades. The pen that develops wear marks in all the right places. The flashlight that earns its scratches. A folding scalpel interrupts that narrative. The handle might stick around, but the working edge is temporary by design. It accepts wear and solves it by replacement, not restoration.

That can feel like cheating. Or maybe it feels honest.

I noticed that when I carried a scalpel style knife, I became more willing to use it. Not recklessly. Just without hesitation. Breaking down thick cardboard. Cleaning up rough cuts in a small project. Trimming material that would normally make me pause and think about edge retention. The blade was not precious. If it got dull, it got replaced. End of story.

That shift changes your relationship with the tool. It becomes less about stewardship and more about function.

There is also the size. Most folding scalpels are slim in a way that traditional knives rarely are. They ride flat. They do not create that pocket bulge that announces you are carrying something. In an office or low key environment, that matters. It feels closer to carrying a pen than a knife. Quiet. Unassuming.

And yet, it is undeniably sharp. Probably sharper than most people’s daily folders. That contrast creates a strange tension. It looks modest but performs with precision. You feel it every time you use it.

I have had people glance at it and raise an eyebrow. A scalpel? Really? There is an unspoken assumption that it is overkill for opening mail or trimming loose threads. But the truth is that it is often the opposite. It is so precise that it feels controlled. There is no forcing the cut. No twisting. Just a clean slice and you are done.

That precision can change how you approach small tasks. You slow down slightly. You line up the cut. You let the blade do the work. It feels less like hacking away at something and more like editing.

Of course, there are trade offs. A thin replaceable blade is not meant for prying or torque. It asks you to respect its limits. You cannot treat it like a chunk of steel built to survive abuse. If you try, it will remind you that it was never meant for that.

For some people, that limitation is a deal breaker. They want one tool that can handle anything they throw at it. The folding scalpel does not pretend to be that. It is specialized in a quiet way. It excels at cutting. That is it.

But if you are honest about your daily life, how often are you really prying open crates or carving hardwood? Most of my cutting involves tape, cardboard, plastic packaging, loose fabric, and the occasional small project that requires a steady hand. For that world, extreme durability is less relevant than consistent sharpness.

Carrying a folding scalpel also forces a small confrontation with disposability. We live in a time where too many things are designed to be thrown away. Choosing a tool that relies on replaceable blades can feel like participating in that cycle. I wrestled with that at first.

Then I realized something. I was already replacing things constantly. Dull utility blades. Worn out cheap knives. Even my time spent sharpening could be seen as a resource. The scalpel did not create waste out of nowhere. It simply made the cycle visible.

And there is something honest about visibility.

I still rotate other knives into my pocket. Heavier ones. Ones with thicker blades and more presence. Some days I want that. I want the weight and the familiarity. I want the ritual of maintenance.

Other days I reach for the folding scalpel almost without thinking. Usually on busy mornings. When I know the day will involve small tasks stacked on top of each other. Errands. Packages. Fixing something quickly before heading out again. On those days I do not want to think about edge angles or steel types. I want sharp now.

There is also a certain humility in carrying a tool that looks almost like it belongs in a craft drawer. It does not project anything. It does not signal toughness or preparedness. It signals intent. I have something precise because I expect to do precise things.

EDC, at its core, is about aligning your tools with your actual life. Not the life you imagine in extreme scenarios. The life where you break down boxes after ordering too much online. The life where you cut tags off a new shirt in the parking lot. The life where you trim a loose thread before a meeting because it will bother you all day if you do not.

In that life, a folding scalpel makes uncomfortable sense.

It strips away the mythology of the pocket knife and leaves you with a simple question. Do you want a blade that carries history, or do you want a blade that is always ready without negotiation?

There is no correct answer. I still admire a well worn folder with a carefully maintained edge. But I also appreciate the quiet efficiency of a tool that accepts its own impermanence.

The folding scalpel is not romantic. It will not age into an heirloom. It will not gather stories in the steel itself. Its stories live in the tasks it completes and the blades it sheds along the way.

Maybe that is why it fits into modern EDC so well. We are all balancing permanence and practicality. We want things that last, but we also want things that work without fuss. The folding scalpel sits right at that intersection.

It asks very little. It delivers exactly what it promises. And when the edge is gone, it does not argue. It simply steps aside for a new one.

Some days that feels like the most honest tool I can carry.

The Case for Carrying a Titanium Jar

The first time I slipped a titanium jar into my pocket, I felt slightly ridiculous.

It was small. Smaller than a film canister, which is already a dated reference. A little threaded cylinder with a lid that sealed down tight and gave off that faint, dry metallic whisper when it opened. It did not flash. It did not click. It did not solve any obvious problem. It just sat there, heavier than aluminum, lighter than it had any right to feel.

I carried it anyway.

The funny thing about a titanium jar is that it forces you to answer a quiet question: what do you actually need close to you?

Not what looks good in a flat lay. Not what rounds out a pocket dump photo. Just what you feel uneasy leaving behind.

For me, it started with loose things. The tiny stuff that migrates. A couple of pain relievers folded in tissue. A water purification tablet from a hiking trip that I kept meaning to put back in its box. A few matches that never seemed to survive the bottom of a bag. I was tired of fishing around for them and finding lint, crumbs, and mystery grit instead.

A jar solves that, but it also creates a decision. Space is limited. You cannot just dump your life into it. You choose three or four items, maybe five if you are optimistic. That constraint is the whole point.

Titanium is overkill for most of what ends up inside. That is part of the appeal. It feels permanent. You could drop it on concrete, forget it in a damp jacket, leave it in a bag through a summer heat wave, and it would not care. The contents might change, but the container stays the same. There is something calming about that.

I rotate what I keep in mine more often than I admit. For a while it held a tightly rolled emergency bill. Then it became a place for earplugs because I realized how often I end up somewhere louder than I expected. Once it carried a few spare screws for a pair of glasses that liked to loosen at the worst time. None of these are dramatic. That is the point. They are small frictions in an ordinary day.

Carrying a titanium jar is not about preparedness in the cinematic sense. It is about admitting that life leaks. Pills crumble. Paper tears. Tiny things vanish at the bottom of pockets. The jar is a way of saying I am tired of that.

There is also the tactile element, which no one likes to talk about because it sounds sentimental. Titanium has a particular feel. It is cool even when it has been in your pocket all day. The threads are precise. You screw the lid down and there is a clear end point. No wobble. No guesswork. That mechanical certainty is satisfying in a world that mostly runs on vague software prompts and soft edges.

Still, I question it.

Every time I streamline my carry, the jar becomes suspect. It is not essential like keys. It is not obviously functional like a flashlight. It does not solve a problem every day. It sits there waiting for the day when you are glad you have it.

And that is a strange category of object. It demands patience.

There is a quiet personality test hidden in this choice. Some people are fine with loose pills in a jacket pocket. Some trust that if they need something, they will find it nearby. Others prefer a sealed container with a known inventory. The jar is for the second group, though we might pretend otherwise.

I have noticed that when I carry it, I am more intentional about the rest of my setup. If I am dedicating pocket space to a small cylinder of titanium, I am not going to tolerate three random receipts and a bent paperclip rattling around next to it. The jar raises the standard. It turns chaos into something I notice instead of ignore.

It also resists the upgrade cycle. There is nothing to optimize. It is a container with threads. That is it. You cannot add an app to it. You cannot meaningfully improve it without turning it into something else. In a culture that constantly pushes for the next version, that simplicity feels almost stubborn.

I once emptied mine out and carried it empty for a week, just to see if I would miss it. I did not, at first. My pockets felt lighter, less committed. But then I found myself folding a couple of small tablets into a scrap of paper before a long drive. I hesitated. I knew how that story ended. Powder in the crease, paper tearing open at the wrong time.

The jar went back into rotation the next morning.

There is a subtle shift that happens when you carry something like this. You start thinking in terms of containment. Not control in a grand sense, just small boundaries. This goes here. That stays dry. These two things should not mix. It is domestic in a way. Order at a pocket sized scale.

People sometimes ask what I keep in it, as if there must be a clever answer. There is not. The contents are usually boring. The value is not in what is inside. It is in the fact that I decided those few items were worth protecting from the rest of my life.

That decision changes over time. What felt essential last year might seem unnecessary now. The jar remains. It waits for new priorities.

I do not think everyone needs one. In fact, most people would probably carry it for a week and then toss it in a drawer. It requires a certain tolerance for carrying something that does nothing until it does something very small.

But that is most of EDC, if we are honest. It is a collection of quiet bets. You are betting that light will matter at some point. That a pen will be useful. That a tiny sealed space will justify its presence.

The titanium jar is just a more obvious bet. It is a commitment to the idea that even the smallest items deserve intention. That not everything has to float loose and hope for the best.

Some days I feel slightly ridiculous when I feel its outline against my leg. Other days I am grateful for the faint metallic click when I open it and find exactly what I packed, intact and dry.

That tension never fully resolves. I suspect that is why I keep carrying it.

The Case for a Small Titanium Shackle in Your Pocket

It looks like a mistake the first time you carry one.

A small titanium shackle clipped to your keys does not announce its purpose. It is not a knife. It is not a flashlight. It does not even pretend to solve a problem on its own. It is a curved piece of metal with a threaded pin, something you would expect to see on a sailboat or hanging off industrial rigging. In a pocket, it feels slightly out of place.

That is exactly why I kept mine.

Most people who care about everyday carry go through a phase where everything has to justify its existence in obvious ways. If it does not cut, illuminate, tighten, or open, it gets removed. The pocket becomes a test of efficiency. Weight is questioned. Bulk is negotiated. Anything redundant is gone.

The small titanium shackle survives that purge for a different reason. It is not about what it does on its own. It is about what it allows.

I started carrying one after getting annoyed with split rings. Anyone who has wrestled a split ring knows the quiet irritation. They chew up fingernails. They bend slightly out of shape. They make it just annoying enough to swap a tool that you postpone doing it. So you end up carrying things longer than you intended simply because the friction of change is too high.

The shackle solved that in a way that felt almost disproportionate. Unscrew the pin. Slide something in. Screw it back. Done. No prying metal apart. No tiny scratches across your thumbnail. No small ritual of frustration.

That small removal of friction changed how I treated my carry. Tools rotated more often. If I wanted to clip a small light on for a week, I did. If I decided to go lighter and strip things down, it took seconds. The shackle became a kind of hinge in my system. It gave the rest of my gear permission to move.

Titanium matters here, but not in the way people usually mean. It is not about strength stats or corrosion resistance charts. It is about feel. Titanium has a certain quietness. It does not shine loudly. It does not feel cheap. It does not weigh enough to remind you it is there. Over time it takes on small marks that look honest rather than worn out.

Brass would be warmer. Steel would be heavier. Aluminum would be lighter but less reassuring. Titanium sits in the middle, which is probably why so many of us gravitate toward it even when we pretend we are being purely practical.

There is also something satisfying about a threaded pin. It introduces intention. You cannot accidentally detach it. You have to decide. You turn the pin slowly, feel the threads disengage, and commit to a change. That small pause is strange in a world of quick release everything.

I realized at some point that the shackle was not just holding keys. It was holding structure. My car key, house key, a small tool, sometimes a compact flashlight. The shackle was the central link, and everything else orbited around it. When I wanted to hand someone a key without giving them my entire life, it made sense. When I wanted to remove the car key for a run, it made sense. When I wanted to clip the whole assembly to a bag for a few hours, it made sense.

None of this is dramatic. It is quiet utility. The kind that only reveals itself after months of use.

There is a cultural side to it as well. Carrying a small shackle signals something subtle. It hints that you think in systems. That you like hardware meant to bear load, even if the load in your case is just a few ounces of daily essentials. It nods toward maritime and industrial design without pretending you spend weekends sailing.

It also resists the polished look of trendy key organizers that try to hide everything. The shackle does not hide. It shows the mechanics. It looks like what it is. A connector.

That word matters. Connector. Most gear in the everyday carry world tries to be a hero. The blade. The light. The pen that writes in the rain. The shackle is not a hero. It is the part that lets the rest work together.

There is something honest about carrying a piece of hardware that was not designed for pockets in the first place. It was designed to secure loads. To connect chains. To hold tension. When you shrink that concept down and put it in your pocket, you are borrowing a little of that seriousness for ordinary life.

I will admit there are days when I consider removing it. When I strip my keys down to the absolute minimum, the shackle feels like an extra step. A regular ring would technically work. The voice of minimalism says simplify further.

But every time I remove it, I miss the flexibility. I miss being able to reconfigure things without tools or effort. I miss the quiet confidence of that threaded pin seated snugly in place.

That is the strange logic of everyday carry. We do not carry objects only for their direct function. We carry them for the options they preserve. For the small freedoms they offer. For the sense that we have thought one step ahead, even if that step is just about how our keys attach to each other.

A small titanium shackle is not exciting. It will not start conversations unless the other person is already paying attention. It will not transform your routine. But it will sit there, day after day, doing a job so basic that you forget it is even a job.

And maybe that is the point.

In a culture that constantly pushes more features, more tools, more capability, there is something grounding about carrying a simple connector. A reminder that sometimes the most important piece of your setup is not the one that does the most. It is the one that quietly holds everything together.

The Case for Carrying a Tiny Screwdriver Set You Hope You Never Need

I did not start carrying a compact screwdriver set because I thought it made me prepared. I started carrying one because I got tired of feeling mildly helpless in small, stupid moments.

It was never anything dramatic. A loose hinge on my glasses while I was already late. A laptop bottom panel rattling on a flight. A battery compartment that would not stay shut on a wireless mouse during a long afternoon at a coffee shop. Nothing urgent. Nothing life altering. Just enough to remind me that modern life is held together by screws the size of rice grains.

For a long time I told myself I did not need a dedicated set. I had a multitool. It had a bit driver. It technically worked. That word, technically, did a lot of heavy lifting. The bits were chunky. The handle was awkward at the wrong angle. I always felt like I was persuading the screw rather than turning it. And with electronics, persuasion is not the right approach.

The shift happened quietly. I realized I was already the person people handed things to. Not because I advertised it. Not because I wanted to be the fixer. But because I carry a knife, and that is apparently enough for coworkers to assume you can solve minor mechanical problems. One afternoon someone slid a small game controller across the table and said, “You have something for this, right?” I did not.

That bothered me more than it should have.

A compact screwdriver set for electronics is not impressive. It does not signal capability in the way a heavy multitool does. It looks almost delicate. The case is usually slim and unassuming. The bits are tiny and precise. It feels more like a watchmaker’s kit than something you would associate with the usual EDC crowd.

Which is exactly why I resisted it.

There is a certain culture around carrying tools every day. It leans toward overbuilding. Toward rugged. Toward the idea that you might need to pry open a crate at any moment. A compact electronics kit does not fit that story. It suggests you spend more time around circuit boards than construction sites. It implies patience.

And patience is not the glamorous part of EDC.

The first time I slipped a small screwdriver kit into my bag, I told myself it was temporary. I had a project at home involving an old keyboard with a few unresponsive keys. I figured I would leave the kit in my backpack for a week or two. It stayed.

What surprised me was how often I reached for it, not for big repairs but for maintenance. Tightening a loose screw on sunglasses before it disappeared completely. Opening a remote to replace a battery instead of shaking it aggressively and hoping for the best. Removing the back of a small device to clean out dust instead of complaining that it “just does not work like it used to.”

Carrying that kit changed how I relate to my stuff. I became less tolerant of minor flaws. Not in a perfectionist way. More in a quiet, practical way. If something is loose, I can fix it. If something rattles, I can address it. The threshold between annoyance and action got lower.

There is something slightly rebellious about that. We are used to sealed devices, glued edges, warnings about voiding warranties. We are encouraged to replace rather than open. A compact screwdriver set is a small refusal of that mindset. It says I am at least going to look inside.

I am not pretending to be a technician. I am not diagnosing complex circuit failures on a park bench. Most of the time, I am just tightening, cleaning, adjusting. Small acts that extend the life of things I already own. It feels less like heroics and more like basic responsibility.

There is also the matter of restraint.

A compact electronics set takes up space. Not much, but enough to matter if you care about what you carry. Every item in a bag or pocket competes with something else. When I added the screwdriver kit, something had to go. For a while I carried both it and a larger tool. Eventually I realized that was redundant. The larger tool stayed home more often.

That decision felt like a quiet admission. I am more likely to fix a pair of headphones than dismantle furniture. My real life is made of chargers, laptops, cameras, and small daily objects. My tools should reflect that reality, not a fantasy of who I might be.

There is an intimacy to working with tiny screws. You slow down. You pay attention. You do not rush because you know how easy it is to strip a head or lose a screw forever to the carpet. It forces you into a different tempo. In a strange way, that is part of why I carry it. It reminds me that not everything needs force. Some problems respond better to precision.

I also like that it is not universally useful. If someone asks to borrow a bottle opener, I can help. If someone needs to cut a tag off a shirt, I can help. But when I pull out a compact screwdriver set, it is usually for a very specific reason. It feels intentional. It feels like I anticipated something small and specific about my day.

And sometimes I question it.

There are weeks when I never touch it. It sits quietly in my bag like a promise that goes unfulfilled. I consider taking it out to lighten the load. I tell myself I can survive without it. Then a hinge loosens, a battery door pops open, a tiny screw backs itself halfway out of something that matters to me, and I remember why it is there.

EDC is not about preparing for disasters. It is about smoothing the friction of ordinary life. Most of that friction is tiny. A screw that will not stay put. A device that needs a quick adjustment to feel solid again. A sense that you are at the mercy of small mechanical failures.

A compact screwdriver set does not eliminate uncertainty. It just narrows the gap between noticing a problem and doing something about it.

I do not carry it to impress anyone. In fact, most people never see it. It lives in a side pocket, zipped away, forgotten until needed. That feels right. It is not a statement piece. It is not part of a pocket dump photo. It is a quiet tool for quiet fixes.

Maybe that is the real reason I keep it around. It aligns with the version of preparedness I actually believe in. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just attentive.

I am not trying to be the guy who can fix everything. I am trying to be the guy who does not ignore the small things.

And in a world full of disposable objects and sealed edges, carrying a tiny screwdriver set feels like choosing to stay involved.

The Case for a Waterproof Battery Enclosure in a Pocket That Is Already Full

I did not start carrying a waterproof battery enclosure because I thought it was cool. I started carrying one because I got tired of pretending rain was a rare event.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. Not a camping trip. Not a hike. Just a walk from the train to the office with a backpack that was supposed to handle weather. Inside that bag was a small power bank and a couple of spare batteries for a flashlight I rarely use but refuse to leave behind. By the time I sat down at my desk, everything felt faintly damp. Not soaked. Just compromised. That vague, annoying kind of moisture that makes you question every electronic thing you own.

Nothing failed that day. That might be the real reason I changed something. Failure would have at least justified the frustration. Instead, I was left with doubt. I spent the morning wondering if corrosion starts immediately or if it waits. I wondered how many times a battery can get slightly wet before it decides to ruin your week.

EDC, if you take it seriously, is mostly about removing quiet doubts.

A waterproof battery enclosure is not dramatic. It is not the kind of thing you lay out on a desk and photograph. It does not signal capability. It signals caution. And maybe a little distrust of your own routines.

For years I carried loose batteries in a small fabric pouch. It felt minimal. It felt intentional. I liked that they were wrapped in something soft, like they were being taken care of without too much ceremony. But fabric absorbs. Fabric remembers water. One spill inside a bag and that pouch becomes a damp sponge hugging metal cylinders.

The enclosure changed that. It is rigid. It seals. It clicks shut with a sound that feels more serious than it probably deserves. The first time I moved my batteries into it, I felt slightly ridiculous. It seemed excessive for someone whose daily environment is sidewalks, offices, coffee shops, and the inside of a car.

That is the strange thing about carry culture. We tell ourselves we prepare for chaos, but most of the time we are just preparing for inconvenience.

The waterproof part is less about submersion and more about unpredictability. A leaky water bottle. A forgotten umbrella. A backpack set down on a wet bench without thinking. I am not planning for a flood. I am planning for my own absent mindedness.

There is also something quietly reassuring about containment. Batteries rolling loose in a bag always felt like potential energy in the wrong way. Not dangerous, just untidy. They would drift into corners, wedge under notebooks, hide at the bottom like loose change. When you needed one, you had to excavate.

With an enclosure, they live in one defined space. They are either inside or they are not. There is no half measure. That kind of clarity matters more than it should.

Of course, adding any item to your carry means something else has to justify its presence. A waterproof battery enclosure takes up space. Not much, but enough that you notice it when you reorganize your bag for the third time in a month. It asks a question every time you see it. Do you really need this?

Some days I am not sure.

On dry summer weeks when I am moving between air conditioned buildings and my car, it feels like overkill. The enclosure sits there like a raincoat in a desert. I catch myself considering removing it, slimming down, trusting the forecast.

But then I remember that forecasts are guesses. So are habits. The whole point of carrying anything at all is to acknowledge that the day might not follow the script in your head.

There is also a subtle shift in how I treat my gear now. When something has a dedicated, protective space, I handle it differently. I close the latch carefully. I check the seal without thinking about it. I wipe it down if it gets splashed. The enclosure becomes a boundary between the elements and the small, dependable power sources that keep a flashlight alive or a small device functioning.

It is easy to dismiss that as paranoia. We live in a time when you can buy another battery almost anywhere. Replacement is rarely more than a short drive away. But convenience has a way of dulling responsibility. I would rather carry a little container and not need it than rely on the assumption that I can always replace what I neglect.

There is a mindset shift that comes with that decision. A waterproof battery enclosure says that you believe in maintenance over rescue. It says you would rather prevent a problem than solve one in a rush.

And yes, there is a slightly rebellious angle to it. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that resists the disposable rhythm of modern life. Instead of accepting that electronics get wet and fail and get replaced, you add a layer of intention. You treat small things like they matter.

It is funny how something so unglamorous can change the feel of your setup. My bag feels less chaotic now. There is a designated space for power, and that space is sealed off from the world. It is not about preparing for a storm. It is about acknowledging that life leaks.

I still question it sometimes. EDC should never become sacred. If an item cannot survive scrutiny, it probably does not deserve the pocket. But every time I consider removing the enclosure, I picture that damp Tuesday morning and the low grade anxiety that followed. I remember touching my gear and wondering what invisible damage might already be done.

Since carrying it, I have stopped thinking about that. And that might be the real value.

A waterproof battery enclosure is not exciting. It does not add capability in the way a new tool does. It simply preserves what you already chose to carry. It protects the small reserve of energy you keep on hand for when a device dies at an inconvenient moment.

In a culture that often celebrates adding more, this is an example of guarding what is already there. It is a container for restraint. A boundary against carelessness. A quiet acknowledgment that even in ordinary life, water finds its way into places you did not expect.

I still hope I never need it for anything dramatic. I hope it never proves itself in some cinematic downpour. If it spends its entire existence just keeping a few batteries dry from minor spills and humid afternoons, that is enough.

Not every piece of everyday carry needs a story worth telling. Some just need to sit in the bottom of your bag, sealed and patient, waiting for a day that will probably look exactly like yesterday, only slightly wetter.