ENOUGH is a Rumpus series devoted to creating a dedicated space for essays, poetry, fiction, comics, and artwork by women, trans, and nonbinary people that engage with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
The series runs weekly, most often on Tuesday afternoons. Each week, we will highlight different voices and stories.
Original Fiction: Harry Styles Saves Me from Transphobia (A Wattpad Dialectic)
Before we begin, it is important for me to emphasize that this is, mostly, a work of fiction. And I’m not going to pretend that this hasn’t been born out my parasocial relationship with celebrity. That said, there are in fact many parts of this story that did happen, in real life, to me. I trust that the ways in which I’ve blurred my reality and my imagination are clear.
Night has fallen onto the corner of Broadway and Gates. Even so, it is still hot. I’m not a particularly sweaty person, but I can feel a drop roll down my neck and into my sports bra.
I’m aware of everything, my sweat and my sports bra included, as I walk up the long flight of stairs toward the subway station. From the roots of my hair, which sits in a pile of lavender curls atop my head, to the single dangling Magen David earring pulling on my right ear lobe, down to the scuffed Adidas that I got for free at the beginning of the summer. I am in all black, and I have heavy makeup on my face. The threads hanging from the hems of my shorts, a pair of cutoff dress pants that were also free, tickle my thighs.
I stop to load exactly $2.75 onto my metro card. Once I finish, I walk up to the turnstile and swipe my card. It fails to read correctly the first time, and I swipe again. Another failure. I can feel eyes on me, more than I could when I first walked in.
I can hear my mother’s voice in my head saying, “Of course people are staring at you; you’re dressed like that.” And I am dressed like that. I picked my ensemble carefully because I was going to a darty (daytime party), and I was given specific instructions to wear An Outfit. The darty was fun, and I’m enough of a lightweight that I can still feel the strain of drunkenness pressing against the backs of my eyelids. My third attempt at swiping succeeds and I make my way on to the J train as it pulls to a stop.
The subway car isn’t too full. There are maybe fifteen other people spread throughout, most of them loosely bunched towards one end, off to my right. To my left, I can hear a man loudly and drunkenly chatting to no one in particular. I turn the volume up on my headphones and try to ignore the people surrounding me.
It’s a long trip from Brooklyn all the way to the Bronx, and further from there to my sublet in Westchester. I am currently on the first of two subways and three busses to make it back. I check the time on my phone, and estimate that I should be home and in bed by around 10 or 11 p.m., as long as the bus doesn’t take too long.
The subway lurches away from the station and I settle into the hard plastic bench. We stop at two stations and no one gets on, while a few people get off at each. The drunk man stands up and begins to wobble towards the rest of us. I clench my jaw, hoping he doesn’t notice me. I start bouncing my left leg up and down, partly out of fear and partly because I have ADHD and I can’t not shake my leg. This is a mistake.
The drunk man comes and squeezes himself into the empty space to my left. I clench my jaw harder and I can feel my slight buzz quickly morphing into a headache.
“That’s a nice tattoo,” he says, pointing to the large skull on my still-bouncing left thigh. I can smell beer on his breath.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I also got a tattoo. You wanna see?” Before I can say no, thank you, he’s pulling up the dingy sleeve of his t shirt to show me a wobbly smiley-face inked onto his upper arm.
“That’s very nice,” I say, and I hope he’s getting off at the approaching stop.
He isn’t. He keeps talking to me about how cool tattoos are, about how sexy they look. He’s so loud I can hear him over the podcast I’ve given up on listening to. I scan the car to see if anyone notices how stressed out I am. I’m shooting fucking lasers out of my brain, begging anyone to say something, or to move closer to me so I’m not alone with this man, or to just look me in the eyes so I know I’m not alone in general. I search for someone, anyone, but everyone is too invested in their phones and books and newspapers. My throat feels like it’s closing and my leg still won’t stop bouncing up and down up and down as the car shoots underground through Brooklyn.
The man doesn’t get off at the next stop. More people get on but I can’t even look up from the dirty floor, at my dirty shoes on top of it, and I feel like I want to run in between the cars and jump onto the tracks, anything to make this stop. It’s always like this for me. I have an anxiety disorder. I try to force my body to stop moving, to slow down just a little bit so I can breathe again. That doesn’t make it any better, but it also doesn’t make it any worse, and I guess that’s enough.
This is where I will note that my biggest flaw is being a people-pleaser, and that I have been on the receiving end of sexual misconduct multiple times over the course of my life. With that in mind, it only follows that my first instinct in this situation is to be as polite as possible to this stranger. I am aware that I’m not required to engage with him, that I can tell him to eat shit and die the minute he looks at me funny. Unfortunately, that’s not how I’m wired.
The man is still talking to me. “Where are you headed to?” he asks. I should come up with a lie, say that I’m going to my boyfriend’s house in the Bronx and then prepare to pull up a picture of a tough-looking friend if he needs proof. This has been my go-to since I was twelve. I don’t say that, though, out of self-consciousness over the mustache dusting my upper lip. This morning when I put on my makeup I used some eyebrow gel to fill in where it’s a little bit patchy and I guess that was a mistake, too.
“I’m going to Yonkers,” I half whisper, hoping the fact that I have a particularly strong Michigan accent will render what I said unintelligible to his New York ears.
“Oh, Yonkers, huh,” he says like he’s trying to remember if anything outside of New York City exists. I remain silent.
Then he leans towards me like we’re sharing a secret and says, “I might just come up there tonight.”
The denotation of that sentence is simple. He might want to visit the city, check out some of the galleries on the riverfront. The connotation, however, is that he is going to follow me to my house. I know this. He knows I know this.
From where I sit, there are three options for how this can proceed, all of which are dependent on how he perceives me. If he believes I’m a woman (the wrongest option), he’s likely to view me as a sexual object to which he is entitled. He’ll follow me home, assault me, probably kill me, and feel justified.
If he believes I’m a gay man (more accurate, but still wrong), he’s likely to view me as a different kind of sexual object deserving of a different kind of violence. He will still follow me home, assault me, and feel justified, only this time he’ll kill me so he doesn’t look gay instead of just for the fun of it.
If he believes that I exist wholly outside the gender binary (which is correct but not in the way he thinks), he’s slightly more likely to call me a faggot while he does all of that.
Basically, I am convinced that I am going to die.
The man reaches over and puts his clammy hand on my thigh, putting a hard stop to all the bouncing. “So tell me, are you a chick or what?” He’s so close his breath fogs up my glasses. I’m sitting ramrod straight, looking at the floor and my shoes and wishing he’d just kill me now so I don’t have to keep feeling so scared. Maybe it’s kind of messed up, but as he’s touching me I can’t stop thinking about how dirty my shoes are. They’re supposed to be white, but walking around all day has introduced a layer of grime and dirt and who knows what onto the surface of them. I would have wiped them off with a napkin or something before I got on the subway if I knew this was going to happen.
“Hey! Leave them alone,” a voice calls from in front of me. It is a voice that is intensely familiar and yet, alien. It certainly isn’t the voice of a New Yorker, given the slow, Northern English cadence. I don’t know or care enough about England to identify it more carefully than that, but it doesn’t matter. Sitting not five feet in front of me, on the other side of the subway car, is Harry E. Styles.
I don’t have time to ask myself why Harry Styles would take the subway when he’s so rich. He’s standing up and walking to loom over the drunk man who still has a hand on my thigh.
“Hey man, I’m not doing anything, I’m just talking. What, there’s something wrong with talking?” the drunk man says.
“You can talk all you want, but you’re clearly making them uncomfortable. Back off, now.” Harry widens his stance and places a hand on his hip. The next stop is approaching, and the man tightens his grip on my thigh. Harry notices that, and he lunges forward to push the man off of me. I look around the car to see if anyone is paying attention now that Harry Styles himself has intervened, but aside from a few older people on the far right end there isn’t anyone around to see what’s happening.
The man lets go of my thigh and pushes himself off the bench. “Whatever. I don’t need to waste time on a stupid faggot.” It feels gross to admit it but I am a little bit vindicated that I was right about how he perceived me. He exits the subway and disappears onto the platform.
Harry turns to me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I always imagined that if I ever met Harry Styles in person I would probably piss myself out of sheer anxiety. When I saw him live, I started having a panic attack when I realized that he was wearing white pants. What I mean is that I should probably be freaking out right now, but I’m strangely relaxed. This isn’t to say that I’m not still on edge—it’s that, somehow, being so close to Harry makes me feel calmer.
“I think so, thank you” I say. I can’t make eye contact with him.
He reaches a hand out to me, “I’m Harry,” he says.
“I know,” I say, but I take his hand anyway. It’s large enough to completely overtake my own slender fingers. His skin is soft, too, although I can feel the calluses on his fingertips from playing guitar.
Harry laughs at my response and I feel a shiver pass through my spine. “You know, I probably could have guessed that, but you can’t assume,” he says. I finally look up at him. He’s wearing a long, tan coat with the Gucci logo embossed onto it over a plain-looking t-shirt and expensive-looking jeans. He also has on a dirty blue newsboy cap, the one he’s always wearing in paparazzi photos. I really hate that cap, but I don’t tell him so.
“My name is Sam,” I say. He smiles softly as I say it and my tummy starts to churn.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sam,” he says, and he moves to sit next to me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, really,” I say. My heart pounds in my chest but unlike the anxiety and fear I had just been feeling, this is soft and warm.
We start to chat, not about anything particularly serious, except when Harry cuts in to ask if I’m really sure I’m okay and do I want him to try and find out how to report that guy to the MTA. I keep insisting that I’m fine, really, and I would rather jump onto the tracks than talk to a fucking cop. He laughs at that and then he’s asking me about my day, about what I study, and our conversation begins to take on the thrilling, awkward energy of a first date. Unconsciously, I’ve shifted myself closer to him so that our shoulders brush.
“Listen, I know it’s late, but would you be interested in grabbing a quick bite?” he asks.
I don’t even think about it before I say, “Yes.” The word tumbles from my mouth and I know I have to be at work at 8:30 the next morning but I also know that I would never be able to live with myself if I passed up this opportunity. He smiles at me in response and begins scrolling through his phone to look for places near where we are.
“How do you feel about Peruvian food?” he asks.
“Oh, I love Peruvian food,” I say. He smiles at me.
“Excellent,” he says, “It’s a little bit out of the way, but we can hop onto the A at Chambers Street.” By now we’ve crossed into Manhattan from Brooklyn. I would’ve had to make a transfer there anyway, and I tell him as much. He smiles again. He keeps doing that, smiling at me like he’s feeling just as awkward as I am.
We get off at Chambers Street and make our way to the A train. It arrives almost as soon as we arrive, like the subway is for once in my life operating on my schedule. We ride to 42nd Street, Port Authority, and we quickly exit the station. Once we’re outside I pause and reach into my fanny pack for the joint I had rolled for the walk from the bus station back to my house once I arrived.
Harry follows my motion with his eyes.
“Do you smoke?” I ask. His eyes light up.
“Yes, on occasion,” he says. I smile at him and light the end of the paper.
We walk the few blocks to the restaurant Harry has chosen for us in a comfortable silence. We pass the joint back and forth a few times, and I only laugh a little bit when Harry coughs heavily. It’s done by the time we reach the restaurant, Pio Pio 8. I light up upon seeing where we’re going.
“I love this place,” I say, “I’ve only been twice, though.” Harry leads me inside.
I’m aware that I’m not dressed appropriately for the venue, and even more aware that being at this place with Harry Styles is only going to draw more attention to me.
Harry seems to sense this, because as we enter the restaurant, he quickly steps forward to whisper something to the hostess. She ushers us into a room in the far back of the restaurant. I keep my eyes pointed to the floor, although it isn’t particularly busy. We’re seated at a small table decorated with a single candle.
“Sam,” Harry begins, “I know this sounds a bit odd, but I feel like it’s fate that we ran into each other, like the universe meant for us to meet.”
My heart races. How did he know that I secretly love the idea of having a soulmate because it feels like it would be a lot less work.
“I feel the same way, Harry,” I respond.
Our server comes to the table and takes our order. I get the ceviche limeño, and Harry orders the same.
“You like ceviche?” I ask once the server has retreated.
“What?” He asks. For a moment, it’s as if he had tuned out of reality.
“I was just asking if you like ceviche, I didn’t know you did,” I say, and it does seem a little strange when it’s coming out of my mouth. Why would I know if he liked ceviche before this, and why wouldn’t I assume he liked it if he just ordered it?
“It’s a fair question,” he says. Harry leans over the table and looks deep into my eyes, which is a little more unsettling than I personally prefer on a first date. “This is a date,” he continues.
“This is a date. You just decided that it was a date.”
“I guess I did,” I say. “Do you not want this to be a date?” I’m starting to panic.
Harry reaches over the table and puts his hand over mine.
“I want whatever you want me to want.” His voice is dripping with sincerity. I feel a sickly sort of thrill.
Our food arrives soon after, and I immediately begin to savor the bright, tangy fish in front of me.
“You know, Sam,” Harry says between bites, “Eating fish sometimes even though you’re a vegetarian doesn’t make you a bad person or a hypocrite.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“I can tell that you’re insecure about having to soften a moral conviction in order to take care of your physical needs. You resent having to do regular human maintenance, you should probably talk to Cari about that.”
“How do you know my therapist’s name?” I ask. I know that this should be scary; a million red flags are going off in my head while my heart pounds in my chest. At the same time, I’m almost relieved that I’m not going to have to unpack all my baggage in front of another person.
“Because it’s important to you that I know all of your issues intimately, because you want to believe that stating they exist is the same thing as working through them.”
I reach over to clutch one of his hands in both of mine. “Maybe it really is fate that we met tonight,” I say. Harry smiles at me.
“Of course it is. This is about you being happy.”
I’m beaming at him, my cheeks beginning to hurt with the strain of it. It isn’t that I really want him to be so obsessed with me, but the attention, the sense of devotion that’s radiating off him in waves, it’s almost like I’m getting drunk off of it.
I’m usually way too anxious to eat in front of strangers, especially strangers I’m attracted to, but once again I find that being with Harry is unlike anything I’m used to. We eat in comfortable silence. As our meal winds down, Harry sets his fork down gently.
“Sam, do you feel safe?”
“That’s a loaded question, don’t you think?”
“Of course it is, but it’s the question at hand, isn’t it?”
I take a moment to catch my breath, pondering my answer. Existentially speaking, the answer is no, not really. In a material sense, in the here and now, I feel comfortable with Harry. I know that ultimately I am the one in control of this situation. I don’t even have to answer him if I don’t want to. He looks at me, like he’s daring me to avoid the question.
I should say that I have never really been broken up with. Once, when I was eighteen, a guy I was hooking up with ended our arrangement in the middle of sexting. I don’t even really enjoy sexting because I’m not good at it, but I was terminally into this guy and it’s what he wanted. Really, I was into him because he made me fucking miserable. He made me so mad sometimes— he had terrible politics and personality, and I really do think I hated him. I’m not used to hatred, though; it’s too ugly, too out of my control. Instead, I decided that what I felt was the same as desire and I took out every ugly, vile impulse that I had on him. When he ended things I felt like part of me died, but it was a part of me that I’d never liked in the first place.
I know that I’m not really qualified to imagine what it would feel like to have my heart broken, but I’m going to try. I think that maybe it would feel like being ripped in half, like my bones are being hollowed out. It would feel a lot like mornings where I wake up sweating and gasping for breath because of a dream I can’t remember. Like noticing a typo in an already published story; it’s too late to change it, you’re not in control, you’ve never been in control.
Harry looks at me from across the table. I have my answer.
“I do feel safe,” I say.
I will inevitably have my heart broken, but Harry Styles will not be the one to do it.
He smiles at me and stands up, reaching a hand out. I take it and, and a moment later I am relaxing into his arms.
“Then you can have me.” I shut my eyes and lean into his embrace. I am pressed against everything I want. He is solid and strong, and I relax.
He pays for our meal, including a generous tip, and whisks me out of the restaurant.
The night has grown cold, but I don’t mind it as I stand with Harry as he calls a car to take me home.
“Would you like me to come with you?” he asks.
This is the moment where I could, if I wanted, take this in the direction of erotic self-insert fiction. It’s obvious that I want to sleep with Harry Styles, but I hesitate to commit to that task. Beyond the fact that I find it ethically dubious at best to create that kind of content, I think that I should be allowed to have a certain level of privacy. There’s also the fact that I, within the realm of this narrative, have been through a lot. Even if we weren’t near strangers to each other, these are not the circumstances under which I want to sleep with Harry Styles.
Still, I wouldn’t mind talking to him for a bit longer.
“Yes, you can come with me,” I say, and he understands everything that I mean when I say it.
“I have one more question before we go,” he says. I nod to him. “Do you love me?”
Our driver arrives and I slide into the warm interior of the car. We fasten our seatbelts and I am left to ponder Harry’s question. I’m only slightly more qualified to make statements on love than I am on heartbreak. I have been in love, a couple times I think, but I’m not sure if I did it right.
The problem is that I don’t know what I want. I know what I don’t want: to be lied to, to be coddled as if upsetting me is the scariest thing ever. I can take constructive criticism. At the same time, I don’t want to be a vessel for someone’s everything: all their desire, all their excitement, all their pain. I’ll let them turn me into one without complaint, but I don’t want it. I need to be able to walk away, but it’s not because I don’t care—it’s because I care so much it makes my head spin and I need to take some time to remember what it feels like to exist in my own space. I have a bad habit of getting love mixed up with obsession.
I look over to Harry sitting next to me. He’s gazing out the window, long eyelashes curling down against his cheeks. It’s almost too easy to imagine losing my mind over him. I can remember all the tears I’ve already cried over him. They aren’t the same tears I cried over exes. Those tears came when I was overcome with too much want, want to be with, want to care for, want to control, and I had nowhere else to put it. I would cry and cry and nothing would happen because I didn’t know how else to be or who else I could give myself to.
Crying over Harry is different. It’s a relief to know that it’s romantic of me to be overcome with emotion when consuming art, and that I’m not alone in my response. I will never really have to confront what I see in him because it’s right there. He doesn’t make me miserable and he isn’t capable of hurting me, not really.
I look at Harry in the backseat next to me and time slows. Part of me wishes I could get over myself, let go of the hope and the fear that Harry, the real one, might see this. If I could just let it go and do the damn thing, I would turn this car around until I’m on a one-way flight to getting fucked so hard I mix my metaphors.
In the version of this story where I do have sex with Harry Styles, we meet at a bar. I’m wearing big pants and a small shirt and I’m reading a book because I’m there alone. Specifically, I’m reading Bluets by Maggie Nelson. Suddenly, Harry approaches me.
He compliments my big pants, saying, “I like your big pants.” Then, he looks over at my book and asks what I’m reading. We discuss the contents, whatever they are, and he tells me he’s a fan of Murakami, which I already know. It’s why I brought Bluets, because I want to be with a version of Harry with better taste. I tell him with a tepid tone that while I do think “Super-frog Saves Tokyo” is excellent, there’s so much more out there. Harry reads over my shoulder for a moment, assessing whatever passage is visible to him. Then, he asks to buy me a drink. I order something sophisticated, not a Jägerbomb, because in this fantasy I know what adults order at bars.
I could go on. There aren’t enough words in the English language to even begin to describe the beautiful, stinking passion with which I would fuck Harry Styles.
But that isn’t the fantasy that I’m in right now. In this one, I’m in an Uber with Harry on the way back to my place where we are decidedly not going to fuck. Since all of this is mine, I could make him the kind of person who would make a move even when I’m clearly uncomfortable. I could make myself the kind of person who can brush things off, who isn’t stuck with generations of baggage, who can live in their body without encountering a deep hollowness ringing empty through each and every moment.
I don’t have to, though. My fantasy can meet me where I am. It isn’t static. I’m not static. I steal words from my therapist all the time, times like now especially.
Now. Harry is next to me and we’re almost back at my place. That’s the fantasy. I have a reality, one I am choosing not to dwell on. I could spend precious hours describing the click-clack of the near empty subway, the lingering stink of stale beer from a long-gone stranger’s breath. I could bare it all and write out the way my body continued to convulse with panic for hours, even as I walked home from the bus stop in the dark. I could painstakingly render through my words the holes beginning to pop through the stitching on my dirty fucking Adidas because they’re all I could manage to focus on as I tried and failed to bring myself back into full awareness of my surroundings. But I won’t. I’d rather stay within the realm of fiction. There, I can have what I want.
Harry looks toward me as we pull up to the house that contains my basement studio apartment. We exit the car in tense silence. Harry tips the driver $500 because that’s the kind of thing I want him to do. It seems fitting, based on what I know about him. Fitting isn’t the same thing as true, though. He looks at me with clear, unprobing eyes.
“What do you want from me?” he asks.
In general I take my word seriously, and because of that I try to refrain from making promises. It isn’t a noble thing. It isn’t for other people. I’m still a liar just like everybody else. I hate it; I still do it, but I hate it. I try to channel the impulse by writing fiction but that feeling that everything I say and everything I do is tainted by dishonesty remains. Smarter people have asked if fiction can be considered truth, and I’m sure that there are a lot of strong opinions on both sides. Personally, I consider myself a big dummy, and even if fiction isn’t the same as lying I still get that disgusting wave of nausea when I try to tell a story as when I know I’m telling a lie. It isn’t as strong, it isn’t quite the same, but it’s there.
It’s embarrassing but I often lie awake at night worrying over a statement I wrote for a prompt response, for an essay, or just for fun. I never learned how to shut up, even when it’s good for me, and my brain gets buffeted with question after question. Am I being too presumptuous? Have I tried to stretch my individual experiences into something universal? Will people read this and decide that they don’t like me anymore? Or worse, will people read this and decide that they like me because of it?
Have I been lying this whole time? There is a photograph of me at the darty, wearing the outfit that made everyone stare at me on my way home. I really do feel all of these terrible things. I really process my own history this way, but writing it down makes it feel cheaper. Attention-seeking behavior is a sign of something larger being wrong, and I know that my therapist didn’t go to clown school; I just can’t help it. This whole thing is me trying, I swear. But still, I feel ashamed for having had the idea to write this in the first place.
We’re at the threshold of my apartment, standing under the buzzing outdoor light. Harry is looking at me, staring me down with the weight of my own fear. Part of me knows that he can’t follow me inside. It isn’t a hard and fast rule, but tonight I need to get some rest.
That’s the fantasy version. I know I’m standing alone fumbling in my fanny pack for my keys and my hands are still shaking.
“Sam?” Harry asks. My heart pounds. I am on the brink of tears, the edges of my throat heavy and swollen. He looks at me like it’s equally difficult for him to let this go. “Why me?” he continues.
I hadn’t taken the time to consider that. Why Harry? During the height of One Direction, I was a fan of Zayn because I hate white supremacy. I don’t know when things shifted, but I do know that when Zayn left the band I began to realize that I’m not cis and that some of the things I had gone through as a child were decidedly not okay and I kept looking to Harry more and more until suddenly he was as present in my life as the air in my lungs. I think it would be scary if a real person had that effect on me, but when it’s Harry, it feels okay.
Maybe it would be possible for me to feel this strongly about someone else. If I tried, I could probably replace the Harry standing before me. It could be a stranger, the person I’m currently dating, anyone really, but it wouldn’t be the same. Those people are all too different, too real. There would be a non-zero chance of my fantasy coming to life and swallowing me whole.
“Harry,” I say. I twist my little ring of keys in my fingers. He looks at me intensely. “You can’t leave me, and you can’t hurt me if I don’t let you,” I say.
Harry nods once, then holds his arms out to me.
“Can I give you a hug before I go?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I say. I step in toward him and allow myself to relax in his arms. He smells amazing, like melon and clean dirt and baby powder. I start to cry. It’s not a painful cry, or a joyous one. It’s gentler than either—it’s a cry where tears fall loose from my eyes while my breathing remains steady. It’s cleansing rather than hysterical. Harry sways as he holds me. I feel small, protected, precious, like a baby, or a diamond. I feel like a doll, a highly valued object, a pretty, sweet little thing, and it’s so relaxing my body shakes.
Harry lets go of me and I turn to unlock my door. If I were to turn around, I would see an empty driveway stretching out into a sleeping neighborhood.
I don’t know how to get rid of this shame, this fear. All I know how to do is circle around it. I don’t know why I’m like this, I don’t know why I can’t change that, I don’t know why I want to.
I don’t know.
Rumpus original logo art by Luna Adler.
ENOUGH is a Rumpus original series devoted to creating a dedicated space for work by women, trans, and nonbinary people that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence. We believe that while this subject matter is especially timely now, it is also timeless. We want to make sure that this conversation doesn’t stop—not until our laws and societal norms reflect real change. You can submit to ENOUGH here.
Many names appearing in these stories have been changed.
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