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February 15, 2013
Crayons, paper, grape juice. I was six, feverishly setting down my first story.

Me and my brothers, George and Stephen, had superpowers, but only at the lake where we summered. George could chop trees down with his hands and make cabins, canoes, and stockades. Stephen was invulnerable and forever being shot at by fugitive, frightened bank robbers until he snared them in a net. I had the ability to summon Shiggoleth-Ra, Devourer of Souls.

My second story was about Dr. Hirsch.

My third story was about visiting the city.

My fourth story was about robbing banks.

— And poor Stephen.