Dog Days: A Novel

Overview

Love, sex, death, money, and dogs — they're all here in Dan Lyons's debut novel, Dog Days. Lyons gives us a hip and hilarious tale of love (both canine and carnal) and a story of revenge gone wrong. Packing the same contemporary verve as Douglas Coupland's Microserfs and the criminally black humor of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, Dog Days is a coming-of-age story that deftly deals with the confusion, hopes, and fears that go hand-in-hand with being smart, ambitious, and ...

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Overview

Love, sex, death, money, and dogs — they're all here in Dan Lyons's debut novel, Dog Days. Lyons gives us a hip and hilarious tale of love (both canine and carnal) and a story of revenge gone wrong. Packing the same contemporary verve as Douglas Coupland's Microserfs and the criminally black humor of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, Dog Days is a coming-of-age story that deftly deals with the confusion, hopes, and fears that go hand-in-hand with being smart, ambitious, and twenty-four years old.

Reilly is a software developer living in Boston's North End. He's a young guy in a young business where the speed of change guarantees that only the fast survive. But Reilly doesn't know how fast things can change until he starts playing vendetta with a local mafioso.

Before this fracas got started, Reilly thought he had it made. He had a beautiful girlfriend named Jeanie who had rowed at Harvard, and he and his roommate, Evan, were working on a project that was going to make them both rich. But for Reilly, the good times don't last long. First Jeanie leaves him for one of the suits in marketing, and then his big project falls to pieces. Then one summer night, Reilly decides to leave his vintage BMW in Davio Giaccalone's parking space. Naturally enough, the car ends up tireless. Reilly vows to get revenge, and he's angry enough to do just about anything to even the score.

With Evan's help, Reilly devises a plan to take an eye for an eye by abducting Giaccalone's most prized possession: a gorgeous jet-black champion racing grey-hound named Coco. When their little prank turns into serious blackmail with thirty thousand dollars on the line, Reilly and Evan are in way over their heads.

But with the help of their friend and neighbor, the beautiful Maria, they manage to return the dog and collect the money, only to have Coco lead Giaccalone and his goons right back to their doorstep. Taking Coco with them, the three flee as far and as fast as they can. Soon Reilly must face a showdown not only with the mobsters but also with himself, as he has to figure out what matters most, love or money.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
The New York Times Book Review Mr. Lyons handles plots impressively. His prose is forceful and his stories are firmly rooted in their physical world....Mr. Lyons delivers.

Detroit Free Press He has given us an absorbing, sometimes astounding, often funny, always honest look at a world where people get what they want, then struggle mightily to live with the heartbreaking consequences.

The Boston Book Review Exhibiting an economy of phrase and a precision of description, Lyons makes an auspicious debut with this powerful first book. Despite the darkness he visits upon his characters, Lyons's stories leave the reader with an abiding sense of redemption, and a belief in the power of the human spirit to survive and to aspire to be good.

Gary Krist in The Hudson Review The author's depiction of the loopy marginality of these hacker-types is an achievement in itself (these are characters I've rarely seen written about).

The Washington Times The characters are crude, corrupt, certainly not politically correct. But it's exactly this absence of sanctimoniousness that makes this story (and others in this notable first collection) so enjoyable. The author's great strength is his willingness to let his characters enjoy being bad.

New York Times Book Review
When events force [the characters] to examine their own situations, Dog Days shows a depth of feeling that penetrates the veneer of its wisecracking dialogue and breezy tone.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Problems plague this debut from Playboy Fiction Award winner Lyons about a self-absorbed yuppie software developer who runs afoul of the Boston mob. The unlikable Reilly narrates his unlikely adventures while recovering from a breakup with beautiful, successful Harvard alumna Jeannie. While Reilly moons, his pet software scheme gets scuttled, leaving him and his roommate and collaborator, Evan, nothing better to do than war with their neighbors in Boston's blue-collar Italian North End, where the two men (inexplicably) rent a shabby apartment. Only beautiful, college-educated Mariaa checkout girl at the local grocery who dreams of a job in the Peace Corps and falls in love with Reillymediates between the two factions. When local Mafia don Davio Giaccolone slashes Reilly's tires, Reilly retaliates by kidnapping Davio's beloved greyhound; Davio vows revenge and chases Evan, Reilly and Maria down to Miami, where they hide out with Maria's uncle Santo, a retiree whose secret connections guarantee a saccharine happy ending for everyone involved. By that time, however, any slim enjoyment of the characters' adolescent antics has been ruined by slow pacing and made-for-TV sentimentality.
Kirkus Reviews
Comic coming-of-ager pits a pair of Boston computer geeks against an aging mafioso and the insular neighborhood he controls. Jewelry-encrusted, cannelloni-chomping crime lord Davio Giaccalone, a denizen of the linked stories in Lyons's nicely turned collection, "The Last Good Man" (1993), now symbolizes all that's bad, violent, old, and stupid for Reilly and Evan, a pair of workaholic, arrested-adolescent programmers who share a not-so-cheap apartment in Boston's rapidly gentrifying working-class Italian North End neighborhood. Reilly, the Irish- nebbish narrator, is especially sensitive to the abusive taunts he receives from Giaccalone's weight-lifting, hood-in-training nephew Tony. The latter can't understand what Maria Bava, the neighborhood's prized sexpot, sees in Reilly, and he uses a dispute over a bill in his uncle's cappuccino joint to beat up Reilly and vandalize his car. Reilly, however, likes Maria only as a friend, having fallen for, and then been jilted by, the be-freckled Jeanie. Heþs also having problems on the job, where a bug-filled Internet application he's developing with Evan for a Microsoft competitor may never function properly. Lyons creates several hilarious scenes showing how craven, nasty, and hypocritical the software business can get, and then he has Reilly, feeling a need to patch up his pride, kidnap Coco, Giaccalone's racing greyhound, for ransom that he doesn't really need. Reilly soon discovers, though, that he's no match for old world menace and ends up escaping to Florida with the dog, Evan, and Maria, whose relatives are higher up the criminal ladder than Giaccalone and are eager to enforce a truce after she announces that Reilly is her fianc‚.Alas, Reilly gets cold feet about committing to Mariaþbut after she goes to Russia with the Peace Corps, he lights out after her. Lyons's antihero whines and pines a bit overmuch, but his debut novel charms with its dead-on satires of fey software drones and snide Gen-Xers whoþve swapped slacker ennui for angst-filled ambition.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781451672435
  • Publisher: Simon & Schuster
  • Publication date: 10/3/2011
  • Pages: 304
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.30 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Daniel Lyons is a journalist who has worked for various newspapers and magazines, including the Boston Herald. Dog Days grew out of a short story, "The Greyhound," that earned him the Playboy College Fiction Award. He is also the author of a prizewinning collection of short stories, The Last Good Man. He lives in Charlestown, Massachusetts.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

At some point things started going way too well for me. I was twenty-four years old, living in Boston, doing advanced research at the world's fifth-largest software company, and dating a woman who had rowed at Harvard and done postgraduate work at Oxford.

How had this happened? I didn't dare ask. I do not believe in God, but I do believe there is an order to things, an energy that holds the world together; and maybe somehow I had tapped into that. On warm autumn afternoons I would ride my bike along the Charles, past the rowers and joggers, past the cars caught in traffic, past the brownstones and boathouses and rusty bridges, past the stinking Haymarket fish stands and the shouting Italian fruit vendors and the shy Asian women who sold flowers in the street — and suddenly, for no reason, I would burst out laughing. This was my life. I had to keep telling myself that.

I was raised an Irish Catholic, and the most central of our many self-defeating superstitions is the belief that when good things happen, bad things are just around the corner. So with each new stroke of good luck I grew a little more afraid. At night I woke shivering from a dream in which I was winched off the ground, higher and higher — five hundred feet, a thousand — and then dropped.

I kept thinking about those stories in Greek mythology where the gods play tricks on people. One day, I figured, I would step outside and see a meteor racing toward me, or a bolt of lightning, or a speeding car. Either that or Alan Funt and the crew from Candid Camera would step out of the bushes and explain the joke, and I would blush and try not to look too foolish. But somehow, sooner or later, the spell would break, and my good luck would explode and scatter like a clay pigeon, blown right out of the sky.

The key was faith. You had to have no faith at all. You had to keep telling yourself that this was all going to end tomorrow. You could not allow yourself to enjoy your good fortune, not even for a moment. This exercise required tremendous concentration of the juggling-while-riding-a-unicycle-on-a-tightrope variety. For a long time I managed to do it. But then I slipped.

This happened at Wonderland Park, a dog track north of the city. It was a Tuesday night in late October: a sharp wind with a taste of winter, thin clouds scudding across the sky. The track was Jeanie's idea. Her father used to take her there when she was a kid. She led me up to the back row of the grandstand. I can imagine the way others might have seen us: a young couple huddled together, their breath rising in little plumes, the woman red-haired and gorgeous, the man scrawny and bespectacled and out of his league, peering out from beneath a Detroit Tigers cap, blowing into his hands.

We were eating Wonderdogs, drinking hot chocolate. On the track, under the glare of the klieg lights, the greyhounds were restless, high-strung, tugging at their leads. I had placed a ten-dollar bet on a jet-black one-year-old named Coco. She was running in the first race of her life, at nine-to-one odds. When the gates burst open, Coco leaped into the lead and ran with such force that the other dogs looked as if they had been drugged. She ran the way you might run in a dream, with no effort at all. She flew. She won by thirteen lengths.

Everyone rose. A strange electricity hummed in the air. Then came the announcement: a track record. The monitors ran a replay. We all stood there, dumbfounded. The man beside us said that in forty years of going to the track he had never seen anything like this. "It's like the freaking Twilight Zone," he said. His breath stank. "A thing like this makes you want to go have kids, just so you can tell them about it." We laughed and said, sure, whatever you say, and ran off to collect. But I knew what he meant. Greatness is a rare thing, and you're lucky if once or twice in your life you get to bear witness to it. Those of us who saw Coco run could count ourselves among the lucky.

"How did you know?" Jeanie asked me. "You didn't place a bet all night, and then you put ten dollars on that clog. Why did you do that?"

We were out in the parking lot, trying to find her Saab. I could feel the ninety dollars in my front pocket — nine crisp ten-dollar bills, folded in half, rubbing against my leg. The air was cold; it felt almost like snow, except that the sky was clear, and it was too early in the year.

"I liked the sound of her name," I said. "Coco. It sounded lucky."

She stopped. She put her fingers to my forehead, the way my mother did when I was a kid and she was checking my temperature. "You've got it," she said.

"What? The flu? The mark of the beast?"

"The chi." She brushed my hair away from my face. "Buddhist monks get it. They get in this zone where they're on a different plane. They can use their minds to control their body temperature. Some of them can fly."

I stood on my toes and flapped my arms. Nothing happened.

"Stop," she said. She pushed me against the fender of a Jeep, and pressed herself against me. "Reilly," she said, her voice going husky, "I don't know if I can wait till we get home."

On the way back into the city we put on the Cure, a band we both admitted with some embarrassment to having liked during our painful, angst-filled, adolescent loser phases. We spoke of those phases as if they had taken place years before, but in fact my depressed loser phase had extended all the way through college and had ended only recently, when I moved to Boston and met Jeanie; I didn't tell her that, though. We were driving over the Tobin Bridge and the song was "Lovesong," and when Jeanie sang, "I will always love you," I managed to believe that she meant it for me. Which proves, I suppose, that in fact my pathetic loser phase hadn't ended at all, because what kind of person finds meaning in the lyrics of a Cure song?

But there I was, drumming my hand on the armrest, grinning like an idiot. For the first time ever, I believed: My good luck was not luck, it was skill; I was not getting more than I deserved, I was getting my fair share. From the bridge I gazed down at the Navy Yard, where the lights spilled like dye into the inky harbor. Beyond that the Bunker Hill monument loomed over the rooftops of Charlestown. Suddenly my future was unfolding before me like some glorious movie landscape: I would become a millionaire, and marry Jeanie, and nothing bad would ever happen to me.

Of course this was ridiculous. About six months later things fell apart, the center could not hold, and Jeanie and I broke up. Strictly speaking, I broke up with her. But I only did it because she confessed that she had slept with Mort Stone, a vice president at our company, a man with degrees from Yale and Harvard and a summer house on Nantucket. I marched out of Jeanie's apartment on Beacon Hill, ignoring her apologies, telling myself that at least I had kept my dignity. But as I crossed the threshold a thread of fear tightened inside me: It occurred to me that Jeanie had tricked me, that in fact she had wanted to break up with me and had only pretended to be contrite. Yes, she had asked me not to leave; but there was something perfunctory about her pleas, as if she were reading them from three-by-five cards, or reciting them from memory.

For a moment I stood on the sidewalk gazing at the door I had just slammed, a shiny black Beacon Hill door with a brass knocker and a semicircular window above it that looked like a setting sun, and I felt like a kid who has run away from home and then panics when no one comes looking for him. I waited for the door to open, for Jeanie to come running out after me. She didn't. I started to knock, but then thought better of it. Instead, I peered in the window. She was on the phone, holding her hand to her face and gazing dully at the ceiling; she looked like someone who has just returned from having a pet put to sleep. I figured she was talking to Mort. "Love takes such a toll on us," I imagined her saying in a weary voice. This was one of her favorite expressions; she used it all the time.

It was May, a cool evening, the late sun going pink in the pale sky. Everyone on Beacon Hill was doing their spring cleaning. I walked down Hancock Street past boxes of junk: old records, worn-out shoes, sweaters so ugly even the Salvation Army wouldn't take them. And I couldn't help feeling that this was how Jeanie saw me, like some bit of clutter that had been taking up space in her life and now, at long last, she was rid of. My run of good luck was over. I had been shot down out of the sky, and now there was only the slow twisting descent, the engines coughing and sputtering smoke, the final fiery crash. On Cambridge Street a bus approached, and I had all I could do not to throw myself under the wheels.

Copyright © 1998 by Daniel Lyons

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First Chapter




CHAPTER ONE

    AT SOME POINT things started going way too well for me. I was twenty-four years old, living in Boston, doing advanced research at the world's fifth-largest software company, and dating a woman who had rowed at Harvard and done postgraduate work at Oxford

    How had this happened? I didn't dare ask. I do not believe in God, but I do believe there is an order to things, an energy that holds the world together; and maybe somehow I had tapped into that. On warm autumn afternoons I would ride my bike along the Charles, past the rowers and joggers, past the cars caught in traffic, past the brownstones and boathouses and rusty bridges, past the stinking Haymarket fish stands and the shouting Italian fruit vendors and the shy Asian women who sold flowers in the street--and suddenly, for no reason, I would burst out laughing. This was my life. I had to keep telling myself that.

    I was raised an Irish Catholic, and the most central of our many self-defeating superstitions is the belief that when good thing happen, bad things are just around the corner. So with each new stroke of good luck I grew a little more afraid. At night I woke shivering from a dream in which I was winched off the ground, higher and higher--five hundred feet, a thousand--and then dropped.

    I kept thinking about those stories in Greek mythology where the gods play tricks on people. One day, I figured, I would step outside and see a meteor racing toward me, or a bolt of lightning, or a speeding car. Either that or Alan Funt and the crew from Candid Camera would step out of the bushes and explain the joke, and I would blush and try not to look too foolish. But somehow, sooner or later, the spell would break, and my good luck would explode and scatter like a clay pigeon, blown right out of the sky.

    The key was faith. You had to have no faith at all. You had to keep telling yourself that this was all going to end tomorrow. You could not allow yourself to enjoy your good fortune, not even for a moment. This exercise required tremendous concentration of the juggling-while-riding-a-unicycle-on-a-tightrope variety. For a long time I managed to do it. But then I slipped.

    This happened at Wonderland Park, a dog track north of the city. It was a Tuesday night in late October: a sharp wind with a taste of winter, thin clouds scudding across the sky. The track was Jeanie's idea. Her father used to take her there when she was a kid. She led me up to the back row of the grandstand. I can imagine the way others might have seen us: a young couple huddled together, their breath rising in little plumes, the woman red-haired and gorgeous, the man scrawny and bespectacled and out of his league, peering out from beneath a Detroit Tigers cap, blown into his hands.

    We were eating Wonderdogs, drinking hot chocolate. On the track, under the glare of the klieg lights, the greyhounds were restless, high-strung, tagging at their leads. I hod placed a ten-dollar bet on a jet-black one-year-old named Coco. She was running in the first race of her life, at nine-to-one odds. When the gates burst open, Coco leaped into the lead and ran with such force that the other dogs looked as if they had been drugged. She ran the way you might run in a dream, with no effort at all. She flew. She won by thirteen lengths.

    Everyone rose. A strange electricity hummed in the air. Then came the announcement: a track record. The monitors ran a replay. We all stood there, dumbfounded. The man beside us said that in forty years of going to the track he had never seen anything like this. "It's like the freaking Twilight Zone," he said. His breath stank. "A thing like this makes you want to go have kids, just so you can tell them about it." We laughed and said, sure, whatever you say, and ran off to collect. But I knew what he meant. Greatness is a rare thing, and you're lucky if once or twice in your life you get to bear witness to it. Those of us who saw Coco run could count ourselves among the lucky.

    "How did you know?" Jeanie asked me. "You didn't place a bet at all night, and then you put ten dollars on that dog. Why did you do that?"

    We were out in the parking lot, trying to find her Saab. I could feel the ninety dollars in my front pocket--nine crisp ten-dollar bills, folded in half, rubbing against my leg. The air was cold; it felt almost like snow, except that the sky was clear, and it was too early in the year.

    "I liked the sound of her name," I said. "Coco. It sounded lucky."

    She stopped She put her fingers to my forehead, the way my mother did when I was a kid and she was checking my temperature. "You've got it," she said.

    "What? The flu? The mark of the beast?"

    "The chi" She brushed my hair away from my face. "Buddhist monks get it. They get in this zone where they're on a different plane. They can use their minds to control their body temperature. Some of them can fly."

    I stood on my toes and flapped my arms. Nothing happened.

    "Stop," she said. She pushed me against the fender of a Jeep, and pressed herself against me. "Reilly," she said, her voice going husky, "I don't know if I can wait till we get home."

    On the way back into the city we put on the Cure, a band we both admitted with some embarrassment to having liked during our painful, angst-filled, adolescent loser phases. We spoke of those phases as if they had taken place years before, but in fact my depressed loser phase had extended all the way through college and had ended only recently, when I moved to Boston and met Jeanie; I didn't tell her that, though. We were driving over the Tobin Bridge and the song was "Lovesong," and when Jeanie sang, "I will always love you," I managed to believe that she meant it for me. Which proves, I suppose, that in fact my pathetic loser phase hadn't ended at all, because what kind of person finds meaning in the lyrics of a Cure song?

    But there I was, drumming my hand on the armrest, grinning like an idiot. For the first time ever, I believed: My good luck was not luck, it was skill; I was not getting more than I deserved, I was getting my fair share. From the bridge I gazed down at the Navy Yard, where the lights spilled like dye into the inky harbor. Beyond that the Bunker Hill monument loomed over the rooftops of Charlestown. Suddenly my future was unfolding before me like some glorious movie landscape: I would become a millionaire, and marry Jeanie, and nothing bad would ever happen to me.

    Of course this was ridiculous. About six months later things fell apart, the center could not hold, and Jeanie and I broke up. Strictly speaking, I broke up with her. But I only did it because she confessed that she had slept with Mort Stone, a vice president at our company, a man with degrees from Yale and Harvard and a summer house on Nantucket. I marched out of Jeanie's apartment on Beacon Hill, ignoring her apologies, telling myself that at least I had kept my dignity. But as I crossed the threshold a thread of fear tightened inside me: It occurred to me that Jeanie had tricked me, that in fact she had wanted to break up with me and had only pretended to be contrite. Yes, she had asked me not to leave; but there was something perfunctory about her pleas, as if she were reading them from three-by-five cards, or reciting them from memory.

    For a moment I stood on the sidewalk gazing at the door I had just slammed, a shiny black Beacon Hill door with a brass knocker and a semicircular window above it that looked like a setting sun, and I felt like a kid who has run away from home and then panics when no one comes looking for him. I waited for the door to open, for Jeanie to come running out after me. She didn't. I started to knock, but then thought better of it. Instead, I peered in the window. She was on the phone, holding her hand to her face and gazing dully at the ceiling; she looked like someone who has just returned from having a pet put to sleep. I figured she was talking to Mort. "Love takes such a toll on us," I imagined her saying in a weary voice. This was one of her favorite expressions; she used it all he time.

    It was May, a cool evening, the late sun going pink in the pale sky. Everyone on Beacon Hill was doing their spring cleaning. I walked down Hancock Street past boxes of junk: old records, worn-out shoes, sweaters so ugly even the Salvation Army wouldn't take them. And I couldn't help feeling that this was how Jeanie saw me, like some bit of clutter that had been taking up space in her life and now, at long last, she was rid of. My run of good luck was over. I had been shot down out of the sky, and now there was only the slow twisting descent, the engines coughing and sputtering smoke, the final fiery crash. On Cambridge Street a bus approached, and I had all I could do not to throw myself under the wheels.


CHAPTER TWO

    NO WHITE MAN has a right to complain, Evan said. Evan Weiss was my 'Nation'-reading roommate and my partner at work. He did not share my sense of tragedy. "Woe is you," he said. "You're a twenty-four-year-old white male, gainfully employed, reasonably decent-looking, living in a city overcrowded with desperately lonely college girls. Please."

    Of course he was right. There were lots of people who would have killed to be me. That, at least, was what I kept telling myself. And who knew? Maybe a few hundred episodes with desperately lonely college girls would erase Jeanie Sullivan from my memory. But I didn't think so.

    Jeanie was stunning: tall, pale, freckled like a leopard. Her eyes were green, her lips were full. Her breasts were the kind that other women paid plastic surgeons to build for them. People stared at her. She spoke French and German, ran a 10-K in forty-five minutes, drove a red turbo Saab, and was planning to make vice president before she turned thirty. At work she peppered her presentations with references to Proust and Nietzsche, and nobody knew the way she grew up: a tenement in Dorchester, brothers who molested her, a father who drank and did the same. She had lost her Boston accent and replaced it with something vaguely mid-Atlantic, and if someone asked where she grew up, she would say, "Oh, we kind of grew up all over the place." Most people believed she was some kind of diplomat's brat. She did nothing to dispel the notion.

    And me? Put it this way--if I were a comic book character, my name would be Average Man. Five ten, one sixty, brown hair, brown eyes, glasses. I grew up in Detroit and I was never the best it anything, not even as a kid. In school I was happy to do nothing and get B's. To me it seemed like a better return on investment. In woodshop, when other kids were making jewelry boxes and dining-room tables, I contented myself with crooked candleholders and lopsided picture frames. When the science fair rolled around, I dragged out my trusty papier-mache volcano, the same one I'd used every year since third grade, and filled it once again with baking soda and vinegar. Still, my test scores were good, and with a bit of luck and a certain amount of charm I managed to wheedle my way into the University of Michigan, where I did a computer science degree and actually held my own.

    After graduation I talked my way into a job at Ionic Development Corporation, a legendary place in Cambridge on the Charles River, a huge brick building with a lobby the size of a cathedral; every time I walked in, I felt as if I should genuflect. On the company e-mail list my name appeared next to Stoney Reinach, whose books on artificial intelligence I had studied in college. Reinach was a god: He taught in the Media Lab at MIT and consulted at Ionic, and there was his name, right next to mine. And there, in meetings, right across from me, was Bill Whitman, our founder and president, a man who once had been bigger than Bill Gates, a man whose picture I had seen a thousand times, everywhere from 'Forbes' and 'Fortune' to 'Rolling Stone' and 'Spy.'

    There also in meetings was Jeanie Sullivan, making eyes at me. Every time I looked at Jeanie I was struck again by how beautiful she was, as if I was seeing her for the first time. And I would feel two things: first, a little charge of desire; then a tinge of fear. The combination, I have to admit, was not entirely unpleasant. It was, I suppose, the way a dog might feel toward a cruel owner: he's scared, yet he can't help being loyal. After all, life at home may not be great, but the alternative is a lot worse.

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