A Breath After Drowning – Alice Blanchard

KATE WOLFE’S 3 PM appointment stood in the doorway wearing a jaw-dropping miniskirt, a light blue tee, plaid knee socks, and chunky platform heels. Fifteen-year-old Nikki McCormack suffered from bipolar disorder. She believed that she was the center of the universe. She lived in a world of her own creation. “Hello, Nikki,” Kate said warmly. “Come on in.” The teenager took three small steps into the spacious office and looked around as if she didn’t recognize the place. It was all part of the ritual. Nikki scrutinized the charcoal carpet, the blue-gray walls with their framed degrees, Kate’s swivel chair, and her large oak desk, as if something might’ve changed in her absence. She’d been coming to therapy for seven months now, and the only thing that ever changed was the mood outside the windows—cloudy, sunny, whatever—but Nikki wanted the place to always be the same. Another quirk of her illness. “Hmm,” the girl said, index finger poised between glossy lips. “Hmm good? Or hmm bad?” “Just hmm.” Okay, it was going to be one of those days. The weather forecasters had been predicting snow.

They argued over inches. It was deep into winter, February in Boston, but Nikki wasn’t dressed for the cold. She was dressed to impress. She wore a flimsy vinyl jacket over her skimpy outfit and a red silk scarf—no gloves, no layers, no leggings. Her pale, slender body was covered in gooseflesh, and her nipples showed through the flimsy tee, but Kate knew better than to suggest more seasonal attire. Nikki might storm out of the office as she had before, and that would be counterproductive to her therapy, so Kate ignored her maternal instinct and kept a steady focus on Nikki’s eyes—the azure depth of her sly intelligence. “Have a seat.” Nikki hesitated on the threshold, and Kate could read her emotions morphing across her face like the Times Square news ticker—the girl doubted she was welcome anywhere. She didn’t feel loved. She believed people were laughing at her.

It saddened Kate to discover that such a smart, healthy, promising young person could have such low self-esteem. It was more than troubling. “I’ve been expecting you,” Kate said, coaxing her in like a kitten. “Have a seat, Nikki.” The girl entered the office with gawky teenage dignity, sat in the camel-colored leather chair and crossed her waifish legs. Her chunky shoes with their thick wedge heels looked ridiculous on her and were probably dangerous in the snow. Nikki wore enamel rings on every finger and a slender gold chain around her neck. She was heavily made up, with careful strokes of peach lipstick on her skeptical mouth and too much gummy mascara on her eyes. She came across as beguilingly bumbling, and yet there was something disturbingly passive-aggressive about her. “So,” Kate began.

“How are you?” The girl’s attention wandered everywhere. She studied the framed art prints on the walls, the overstuffed inbox on Kate’s desk, and finally Kate herself. “Yeah, okay. So I’ve been wondering… how do you deal with your patients and stuff?” “My patients?” Kate repeated. “I mean, because we’re so messed up? How do you cope? Day after day? How do you sit there and listen to us whine and complain and kvetch—how do you cope?” Kate smiled. She’d only recently begun her fledgling practice. Her framed degrees barely covered two feet of wall space behind her desk. She had a bachelor’s degree in psychiatry and neuroscience from Boston University, and a medical doctorate from Harvard. The birch bookcase held dozens of scientific journals containing articles co-authored by her. On her desktop was the psychiatrist’s bible, the DSM-V, the one resource she was constantly reaching for.

“How do I cope with what exactly?” “With the stress? From having to deal with us crazies?” “Well, first of all, I don’t consider my patients ‘crazies.’ We all deal with stress in different ways. For instance, I like to go running and hiking and rock climbing and work it off that way.” “Seriously?” The girl rolled her eyes. “Because I can’t picture you running the Boston Marathon or anything, Doc.” “Did I say marathon? Oh no. Not me.” Kate laughed. “But exercise helps with the stress.” She was understating it just a bit.

She loved to go running and hiking and climbing. These activities were her biggest release, next to sleeping with her boyfriend. “So how did you become a shrink?” Nikki asked, switching subjects. “It was a long process. I got my BA and did my doctorate, and then there was the internship, the residency and the fellowship. Finally, just this past year, I’ve started seeing private patients, like you.” “Oh.” Nikki smirked. “So I’m a guinea pig?” “I wouldn’t say that.” “No? What would you say?” Kate smiled, enjoying the way Nikki confronted the world—part adult skepticism, part naïve bravado.

“Well, I consider you to be a bright, intuitive, sensitive human being, who just so happens to have bipolar disorder, which you need help managing.” Nikki jiggled her foot impatiently. “How old are you?” Okay, that was out of left field. “I’ll be thirty-two soon.” “How soon?” Kate’s relaxed smile contained a thorn of frustration in it, but she did her best to draw on the fathomless well of patience she’d accrued during her residency at McLean Hospital in Belmont, where she’d dealt with the craziest of crazies. Real hard cases. Human tragedy on an epic scale. Nikki would’ve been impressed. “Any day now,” she answered vaguely. “Wow.

Thirty-two. And you aren’t married yet?” “No.” “Why not?” “My boyfriend asks me that all the time.” “He does?” Nikki laughed. “James is right. You should marry him.” James. Kate had mentioned him a few times, but she didn’t like hearing his name echoed back to her like this, as if Kate and James were characters from some TV sitcom. “You have a great laugh,” she said, redirecting the conversation. “And a terrific smile.

” Nikki smirked. “You’re one of the privileged few, Doc. I don’t smile very often.” “I know. Why not?” She shrugged. “Maybe because life sucks?” “Sometimes it does suck. Sometimes it doesn’t.” “Wow. You’re honest. Most adults won’t say ‘suck.

’” “Well, I want you to trust me, so I’m honest.” “I do. Pretty much.” “Good.” “So you’re going on vacation and leaving me all by my lonesome?” Nikki made a frowny-face. “Please don’t go, Doc. Not now. I know. Selfish me.” “Well,” Kate said hesitantly, and then smiled.

“Everybody deserves a vacation now and then, don’t you think?” “Just kidding. LOL. Sarc.” But they both knew she wasn’t. “Is James going with you? On your vacation?” This session was veering dangerously off-course, and the girl’s questions were becoming a distraction from her therapy. Kate tried to right the ship, but she wasn’t on her game today. They still had a lot of packing to do. “Why all the questions?” she asked. “What is it about me going on vacation that concerns you?” Nikki scratched her chin with a painted nail and stared at something beyond Kate’s shoulder. “What are those? Nuts?” She pointed at the bookcase.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Doc? Like maybe I’m nuts?” Kate was startled to see a jar of Planters Roasted Peanuts on top of her bookcase. Ira must have left them there. Dr. Ira Lippencott was Kate’s mentor, a brilliant Harvard-educated psychiatrist with an offbeat sense of humor and a maverick approach to psychotherapy. “No,” she said calmly. “That’s a coincidence.” “Are you sure? Because, you know, theoretically, I am nuts.” Kate couldn’t help smiling. “I assure you it’s completely unintentional.” “Ah ha! Nothing’s unintentional.

” Nikki pointed an accusing finger at her and grinned. “You told me that once, remember?” “Ah ha.” Kate tried to appear wise but couldn’t help wondering if Ira had left those peanuts in her office on purpose, as a sort of test. And Kate had failed to even notice them. How long had they been sitting there, gathering dust? He was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with his favorite former resident that she didn’t even notice the “nuts” on her bookshelf. “What’s that?” Nikki asked, pointing at Kate’s desk. “Is that new?” “Oh. It’s a paperweight. A trilobite.” “Wow.

And a big one.” Nikki McCormack had an interest in paleontology. She knew perfectly well what a trilobite was. “Coltraenia oufatensis. Of the order Phacopida.” She shifted around in her seat and yanked her creeping miniskirt back down. “Hey, I just thought of something. What if I end up like that?” “Like what?” “Like a trilobite? Maybe a thousand years from now? Or maybe just my skull, holding down paperwork so it doesn’t blow away? I could end up like that, right?” “I doubt that very much.” “Why do you doubt it? Why couldn’t I end up a fossil on somebody’s desk?” “Is that what you’re worried about? Being studied like a fossil?” Nikki’s lips drew together in a long flat line. Kate picked up the trilobite.

“Is that what you think, Nikki? That I’m studying you? That you mean nothing more to me than this trilobite?” Nikki’s troubled eyes glazed over, and she looked away. “Because nothing could be further from the truth. You’re very real to me, and very much alive, and it’s my biggest hope that someday soon, you’ll learn to love yourself as much as others love you.” Tears squeezed out of Nikki’s beautiful eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Eight months ago, Kate had diagnosed her during her crucial four-week stay at Tillmann-Stafford Hospital’s Child Psychiatric Unit, and she’d come to the conclusion that the girl suffered from bipolar disease and depression, which made it impossible to predict if she would be alive a few decades from now. Would she live to see thirty-two? Kate certainly hoped so, but the statistics were sobering. Her role was to improve those odds. “Nikki,” she said softly. “We’ve discussed this before, but I’d like to brush on it again. Since I’ll be on vacation next week, Dr.

Lippencott would be happy to see you for therapy while I’m gone. Can we set up an appointment?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Trust,” the girl said in a shaky voice. “Trust?” “I don’t trust people. I’m supposed to trust them, right? Well, I don’t.” She grabbed a tissue from the floral-patterned box placed strategically on the blond-wood table next to her chair and blew her nose. “That’s okay. It takes time to trust people. But you can trust Dr. Lippencott.

Should I set up an appointment for next Tuesday? Same time?” Doubt misted her face. “Just because you say I should trust him doesn’t mean I can or I will.” “No. But what I mean is… I trust him. And you trust me.” “One plus one doesn’t always equal two.” “That’s true, but—” “Wait. I almost forgot.” The girl lifted her scruffy backpack off the floor, settled it on her lap and rummaged through it. “I got you a few things,” she said excitedly.

A red flag went up. “I can’t accept gifts from my patients, Nikki. We already discussed this…” “They aren’t gifts per se.” She took out a handful of weathered items and lined them up on the edge of Kate’s desk: a barnacled pair of 1950s eyeglasses; a translucent tortoiseshell comb; and a corroded compass. “You can find the most amazing things at the beach. People throw all this stuff away, and it ends up on some garbage barge in the middle of the ocean, and they dump it overboard, and then it washes ashore. Some of it’s very old,” she said breathlessly. “And look, I saved the best for last.” She reached into a hidden compartment of her backpack and took out a circular piece of metal, which she placed in Kate’s hand. “It’s made out of lead.

Guess what it is, Dr. Wolfe. Go on. Guess.” Kate studied the object in her palm. “A button without the button holes?” “It’s a skirt weight from the twenties. Insane, right? Women used to sew them into the hems of their dresses to keep the wind from blowing them up. Pretty cool, huh?” Kate smiled. “Very interesting.” “They were so modest back then,” Nikki said wistfully.

Kate’s fingers curled around the skirt weight. “It was a different time.” “They were all veddy prop-ah ladies and gentlemen,” Nikki said in a mock-British accent, tugging on the hem of her miniskirt. Kate tried to hand the gifts back to her, but Nikki shook her head. “You keep them. I’ll take them back at our next session. That way you’ll have to come back.” Her smile was forced. “Where are you guys going for your vacation?” Kate decided not to press the issue. “Don’t worry about it.

I’ll be back in two weeks.” “Two weeks,” Nikki whispered, touching her flushed cheeks. “What if I… need something? I mean, what if something comes up?” “You can always call Dr. Lippencott, or else you can call me,” Kate said. “You have all my numbers, right? Call me any time, Nikki. I mean it. Day or night.” She plucked a business card out of the wooden cardholder on her desk and wrote down her personal contact information again. “Everything’s going to be okay. That’s what I want you to understand.

” “Thanks.” Nikki took the business card and held it in her lap. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything. I’m serious. Okay?” “Okay,” she said softly. Kate gave her an encouraging smile. “You know, my sister and I used to play this game when we were little, where I’d measure her height on the kitchen wall. Always in the same spot, once a week, to see if she’d grown any taller. Savannah was on the short side, and she was an impatient little girl… she couldn’t wait to get bigger. And so, just to please her, I’d cheat a little by adding a sliver of height to the chart.

She’d get so excited, thinking she’d grown taller during the week. That was our little game.” Kate leaned forward. “But I can’t do that here, Nikki. I can’t add a sliver of height to your chart. I can’t fudge the truth. I’m going to be absolutely honest. No cheating. Okay? We’ve got a long way to go, but I promise, we’ll get there together. You aren’t alone.

” Nikki nodded rigidly. “And you’ll be back in two weeks?” Kate smiled. “Two short weeks.” 2 KATE’S BOYFRIEND COULDN’T WAIT for his steaming hot pizza to cool down before he took a bite. “Ow. Ow.” Dr. James Hill waved his hand in front of his mouth and gulped down some beer. James was a psychiatrist in the Adult Locked Unit at the same hospital where Kate worked. His patients were often the toughest to deal with: psychotics and schizophrenics who’d fallen through the cracks; often homeless, often hopeless.

James dealt with the pressure by cracking a cynical smile at the broken mental health system that didn’t help these people. He shared his stories with Kate and laughed at some of his patients’ misadventures. Dark humor was a coping mechanism, and even psychiatrists needed to cope. “Okay, you can mock me now,” he said, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. “Me? I never mock you.” “Ha. You mock me every day. As a matter of fact, I’d really miss it if you didn’t mock me.” “Okay. Give me a second.

” He laughed. “You’ll think of something.” “Anyway.” She smiled happily. “Thanks for bringing me to my favorite place in the whole world and not insisting we go somewhere fancy.” She said the word fancy as if it had air quotes around it. “Fancy schmancy. Who needs fancy? Happy birthday, babe. How’s your pizza?” “I love this fucking pizza.” “It is the best pizza on the planet.

” He gleefully sucked a string of mozzarella into his mouth and wiped the grease off his chin. They were huddled together in their favorite Back Bay dive. It was Tuesday night, and they practically had Duke’s all to themselves. “Anyway, guess what my 3 PM wore today?” She kept her voice low, even though no one else was sitting close enough to overhear their conversation. They’d snagged a secluded booth, their favorite spot, and always broke doctor–patient confidentiality sotto voce. Kate and James shared everything with each other, but never outside their private bubble. “She was dressed in the skimpiest outfit. Platform shoes, a miniskirt, and a vinyl jacket. In this weather. No coat, no boots, no gloves.

And I had to ask—where’s the mother in all this? I’m surprised she didn’t get hypothermia.” “Meh. The parents are coping with their own bullshit.” “It breaks my heart all over the place. I should’ve gone to law school.” He looked her in the eye. “We both know why you got into this field, Kate.” “Yeah, and that’s another thing. I mentioned her again today. Savannah.

” “So?” “Nikki’s very inquisitive. What if she starts to ask questions?” He shrugged. “Then you’ll deal with it.” Kate shook her head. “It was dumb of me. She’s finally beginning to trust me. I told her I’d always be honest with her. But I’m not sure I could handle it if she started asking questions about my sister.” “You’ll handle it just fine. Your training will kick in.

” “Maybe. Anyway. She wanted to give me some things, and I had to remind her—no gifts.” “What kind of gifts?” he asked. “Some things she found at the beach. A skirt weight from the twenties. Ever heard of them?” “Skirt weights? No, but this is intriguing. Why did she give my girlfriend a skirt weight? Does she know something I don’t know?” “Ha. My boyfriend is hilarious. No, apparently flappers used to sew them into their skirts to keep the wind from blowing them up and revealing their legs.

” She shook her head. “It’s so sad. Here’s this whip-smart, funny, brave, naïve teenager talking about the olden days, when the women were much more modest. She kept tugging on her miniskirt. It’s supposed to be empowering.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” “That’s what peer pressure and a lack of parental control will do.” “I’m telling you. It breaks my heart.

” He paused with the pizza poised an inch from his mouth and said, “You can’t get emotional about your clients, Kate. It doesn’t help them. Not one bit.” “But what if I fail them? What exactly does it prove, after all my years of training, if I can’t help them?” “Some of them you’ll fix. Some you won’t.” James shrugged. “Nobody ever promised you a rose garden.” She cocked an eyebrow. “More snark on my birthday?” “You’re welcome.” Kate leaned back.

“You never have a moment of self-doubt, do you?” “No, but isn’t that what you like about me? My blind self-confidence?” “Yeah, sort of,” she admitted with a laugh. “See?” “I’m just saying…” “Hey, guess what? I got you something.” “Sorry, but I can’t accept gifts from my patients,” she quipped. “Close your eyes.” He dropped his pizza and wiped his hands on a rumpled napkin and waited until she’d obeyed him. Then he took something out of his coat pocket. “Okay. Open.” He was holding a ring-sized jewelry box in his hand. “James, no.

” She cringed. “Seriously?” “Relax. It’s not what you think.” She covered her face with embarrassment. Today was her thirty-second birthday, and she’d told him repeatedly— no parties, no people, no presents. Just you, me, and Duke’s bacon-and-cheese pizza. “Happy birthday,” he said, handing her the little box. It had a perfect weight to it. Her face softened with delight and dread as she opened it and gazed at the slender silver ring with the dazzling amethyst centerpiece. “Wow,” she whispered.

“It’s just a ring,” James said. “Nothing special.” “It’s gorgeous.” “Matches your eyes.” “Ooh. Not exactly.” Kate’s eyes were lavender. She blushed easily. She was blushing now. She took the ring out of its velvet box and slipped it on her finger.

“Oh, James. I don’t know what to say.” “It’s just a ring, for God’s sake,” he said tenderly. “Because I kept passing it in the jewelry store on my way to work, and it reminded me of you every damn day. Same color eyes. Although, yeah, now that you mention it, spoilsport, you’re right, it’s not the exact color, but close enough. Cut me some slack, slugger.” “It’s beautiful.” “Happy birthday.” He leaned in for a kiss.

She kissed him gratefully, tenderly, and then paraded her hand. “So, how do you like my nonengagement ring?” “Yeah,” he said with a sarcastic smile. “Your I’m-not-ever-getting-married ring.” “My he’s-just-my-boyfriend ring.” “Christ. You’re such a commitment-phobe.” “You can thank my miserable childhood for that.” “Relax. It’s an ordinary gift-type ring. Okay? Because I love you.

” “I love you, too.” She rarely wore rings or necklaces, a fact that she must’ve mentioned to him a thousand times before. Her sensitive skin couldn’t tolerate jewelry. Not even exquisite, expensive jewelry. But James, being a psychiatrist, had assumed it was the thought of marriage, rather than the ring itself, that was causing her to break out in hives. And this was probably a test, or else a “blind trial” if you will, to find out how long she could tolerate the ring before she took it off and put it away in its box. Or maybe he wasn’t so much testing her (that would be manipulative) as he was seeking answers. Kate didn’t want to get married, and yet she was crazy in love with the guy. Which brought her to the same sore spot in her brain, the gray area she was constantly prodding and poking. What the hell is wrong with you? Why not marry him? He’s fantastic.

James is everything you ever wanted. What is your freaking problem? She figured they were headed in that direction, just waiting for her to make up her mind—put another way, she was waiting to fall in love with the idea of marriage. She’d already fallen in love with James. In truth, Kate had trust issues. She had abandonment issues. She and her sister, Savannah, had lost their mother early on, and their father had been emotionally remote. Dr. Bram Wolfe, an old-school family physician, possessed the uncanny ability to disappear on you, even when he was sitting right in front of you—emotionally, psychologically, mentally. His eyes would glaze over and his mouth would stitch shut, and he’d zoom a million miles away in seconds. He would stay gone for a very long time—detached, unreachable.

It never ceased to amaze Kate, this remarkable disappearing act of his. She called him “the bullet train of fathers,” because he could take off like a shot. And the hits just kept on coming. Six years after her mother passed away, Kate’s little sister went missing. It ended badly, and her father vanished for good after that, psychologically speaking. By the time she turned seventeen, Kate’s entire family had disappeared on her. Mother—dead. Sister—dead. Father—emotionally unavailable. This trifecta of traumas was at the root of all her deep-seated anxieties and self-doubts, as well as a source of her strength.

It was the main reason she’d gone into psychiatry, as opposed to law or medicine. “Glad you like the ring,” James said with grave seriousness now. “I love it.” Ten minutes later, she was still wearing the ring. They paid the bill at the register and pushed the heavy front door open, laughing at the handwritten sign that said PUSH HARD. Kate made the same joke every time—“Harder, James, harder.” And he responded the same way every time—“I’m pushing, I’m pushing.” “God, we are so easily amused,” she sighed as they linked arms and tumbled out into the crisp cold night air. Winter in Boston. Dark streets and frosty breath. Soon it would be spring, but not soon enough. They walked the two and a half blocks to James’s silver Lexus and got in. She sat shivering inside the new-smelling interior and eyed him suspiciously. “What?” He activated the seat warmers and started the engine. “I love my ring. I love Duke’s pizza. And I love you.” “In that order?” “Ha. My boyfriend is…” “Hilarious, I know.” He reached for her hand, turned it over, and kissed the old scars on her wrist. Tenderly. Softly. “I love you, Kate. I’m glad you like the ring.” She could feel the weight of their three-year relationship and luxuriated in the warmth and familiarity of it as they headed towards Harvard Square. It began to snow, fat white flakes flurrying past their windshield. The sparkling city contained all the magic of a fairytale, and Kate decided to tuck her worries away. Nikki McCormack would be okay. She shouldn’t feel guilty about taking a vacation—her first in years. You’re entitled to a life. She glanced at the ring on her finger. Perhaps she should marry James. What was her problem? He was handsome and smart and one of the funniest people she’d ever known—he made her laugh from the gut, those genuine belly laughs— and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She just couldn’t bring herself to take the next step because… her sister, her mother. The lump of tragedies that sat like a disfiguring scar on her soul. The Lexus straddled the off-ramp lane, and they took the exit to Harvard Square, which was snowy and all lit up. They drove down Massachusetts Avenue, past the crowded university campus with its centuries-old dormitories, and headed toward Arlington, Cambridge’s drab sister city. Before reaching the town line, they took a left onto a quiet residential street—still Cambridge, which mattered to James, that ever-important zip code—and found a parking spot in their brand-new neighborhood. James propped their freshly minted parking permit on the dashboard, and they got out and inhaled the rejuvenating winter air. Kate’s worries receded. Soon they’d be rock-climbing in the Southwest, hiking through the red-clay canyons of Sedona, toasting spectacular sunsets, and tumbling into hotel beds. But tonight it was snowing, and they were in chilly, intellectual Cambridge, and the moon was just a smudge behind the clouds. Snowflakes dusted their eyelashes. James took her hand and they navigated the icy cobblestones together, half-strolling, half-stumbling past the subdivided Victorians and Gothics, where Harvard grads and post-docs studied in lonely obscurity. The streets were eerily silent except for the whisper of falling snow and the occasional whoosh of tires spinning through slush. At the end of the block, they turned the corner onto a centuries-old thoroughfare. Around each oldfashioned streetlamp was a halo of falling snow. Their renovated brick condominium was built in 1915, with granite steps and hovering gargoyles on the roof. Several months ago, they’d closed escrow on an incredible two-bedroom in this desirable location and had spent the past five or six weekends painting the walls designer shades of white and installing new light fixtures. A few days ago, they’d rearranged everything just the way they liked it, and now they were ready to enjoy the rest of their lives together. It was a bit overwhelming. The ring. The condo. The two-week vacation. Might as well be married. James opened the front door for her, and they stepped into the lobby, where the wood was darkstained, the lights were elegantly dimmed, and the strange scent of cured animal skins and cracked leather pervaded the warm, stuffy air. “Is it my imagination,” James said, “or are we the only tenants in the building?” “I know, right?” she agreed. “Where is everybody?” “How come we never see anyone? Where’s the welcome party?” She glanced at the vaulted ceiling. “I guess we’ll meet them eventually.” “I guesssssss,” he hissed in her ear, before launching into The Addams Family theme song. He grabbed her around the middle, and she caught a whiff of something smoky and elusive about him. He was an athletic man in his mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and warm brown eyes. In the summer, his hair was more golden than brown. He was a typical American male—virile, passionately intense about sports and video games, sometimes loud and opinionated, sometimes vague and introspective, always respectful and well-mannered. When she was with him, she felt indestructible. She supposed it was dangerous to feel that way. She pressed the call button for the elevator. “Are you ready?” She showed him her ring. “Ready for couple-dom?” “Readier than you, apparently.” He crossed his heart like a Boy Scout. “I will never use firstperson-singular again.” Kate laughed. Her phone rang, and she rummaged through her bag, but by the time she picked up, the caller had hung up. She checked the ID. Unavailable. “Hey,” he said with mock suspicion. “Was that your other boyfriend?


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