Tic Tac Toe

"T ic Tac Toe,

Gimme a high, gimme a low,

Gimme a three in a row,

JONNY GOT HIT BY THE UFO!"

The little girl smiled triumphantly at her brother as she circled three ‘X’s in a row. He groaned. They were in their shared bedroom, playing ‘Tic Tac Toe’, sometimes called ‘noughts and crosses’, but always with the same rules. One player was the ‘X’, the other was the ‘O’, and circling three in a row before the other, made you win. Easy peasy.

I win! exclaimed the little girl. "Now we have to play what I want to play. We’re playing ‘Butlers and Mistresses’."

But I hate that game, her brother moaned. You always make me be the butler and I have to wait on you.

That’s why it’s fun! she giggled. "Anyway, when you win the next round, we’ll play what you want to play. Now I say we play ‘Butlers and Mistresses’."

It’s not fair, he groaned as they started getting out their things for the game. Why can’t you wait on me?

Because the boy waits on the girl, that’s how it’s done, she said. The man has to do what the woman wants.

That’s not fair.

She shrugged. That’s the name of the game! She chorused another chant: Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider; girls go to college to get more knowledge!

She burst out laughing as her brother grew increasingly cross. He leapt up and punched her on the arm.

OW! I’m telling! You can’t hit me!

You made fun of me! he cried. I shouldn’t have to do what some stupid girl says, I’m not your butler!

Oh really? Well then — MUM! she roared. MUM, he hit me again! Mum’s gonna tell you off now. You know you’re not supposed to hit girls.

0: F21

The giant factory with glass walls and ceilings stood tall and beckoning, trapping all inside. The doors were sealed tightly to prevent the slightest whiff of particles from escaping. Marked bottles were stored on the basement floor, full of thousands of sperm and eggs from across Britannia.

On the ground floor, thousands of thirteen-year-old off-kin were being led around by scientists in long white jackets holding digipads. Equality guardians accompanied each group of around twenty to thirty off-kin, each wearing soft Black dungarees and shoes.

In one group, an off-kin with white skin, short Black hair, and an anxious expression was shuffling behind the rest. They (for their pronouns and wumbo identity — formerly known as ‘gender’ identity — had not yet been assigned) had their hands in their dungarees pockets, mostly staring at the floor as they followed their group.

An off-kin (the term given to people aged thirteen and under who had no wumbo identity) with longer dark hair and light brown skin turned around. Come on, Mumbles, they hissed. Keep up.

Mumbles glanced up. Above was a high, white ceiling, and all around were light green glass tanks piled on top of each other. Inside each identical tank was a foam-like foetus, calmly sleeping inside: a fusion of the sperm and eggs taken from the basement floor. Roughly one in every hundred tanks contained two foetuses that shared identical DNA, known as ‘kins.’

At least a hundred and thirty Reproduction Centres had been established across Britannia, most of them on the outskirts of the cities or in deserted country grounds where people no longer resided. They had been built twenty years ago, shortly after the Social Justice Party had risen to power in Britannia. Stuck up on the walls were rainbow-coloured images of a smiling mouth and two hands clutching a globe, with the words ‘All Hail Social Justice’ at the top. Below were the words ‘All Praise Is Due to Big Mama’.

Her smiling presence was felt everywhere.

The group of off-kin stopped walking suddenly and Mumbles bumped into someone in front of them. The off-kin looked a little bewildered, and Mumbles quickly uttered an apology.

"Shush," snapped another off-kin, who shot Mumbles an angry glare. Mumbles looked away, trying instead to focus on the scientist at the front of the group.

As you can see here, this is where all of the new people are created now, they spoke. The scientist wore a long, Black lab coat and had short, straight brown hair. A ‘they/them’ badge was pinned to their jacket, the same pronoun badge worn by all over the age of thirteen. "Right now, the next generation of peoplekind are being formed in each one of these tanks. As you can observe, comrades, they are sleeping peacefully.’

Mumbles gazed at the glass green tanks, each cradling a life inside it.

You are among the first generation to have been created as part of The New Way, declared the scientist. They spoke flatly, without emotion. As you know, for thirteen years, you have all been raised wumbo-nay, in your Safe Houses, with your equality guardians. But as per your weekly orientation sessions, your behaviours have all been carefully monitored to discover which wumbo category suits you all the most.

Mumbles’ blood went cold.

The scientist cleared their throat and held up the shiny Black digipad in their hand. Each classification has a unique marking inked onto the wrist to physically distinguish them. The five markings and classifications are: Othrin, who are given a blue circle; Laz-o, who are given a green line with a white stripe; Laz, who are given a green line; En-o, who are given a red line with a white stripe, and En, who are given a red line.

At the sound of the word ‘En’, the entire group of off-kin started to react loudly. Some laughed, some looked horrified, some repulsed. Mumbles stared at the floor and shivered inside.

Othrins are particularly special, spoke the scientist loudly over the voices. There are currently over two-hundred different Othrin-variants, which are listed in the Wumbictionaries that you shall be given. Each Othrin has their own unique wumbo identity as they are outside of the En-Laz wumbo binary — what used to be known as the male-female gender binary. The scientist shuddered slightly as the old terminology fell from their lips. "We use ‘Othrin’ as an umbrella term for all those outside the wumbo binary.

As you all know, for thousands of years, the planet earth was ruled by Ens, who used to call themselves ‘men’, the scientist rolled their eyes at this last word. "Specifically, earth was ruled by white Ens. But Black Ens, Latinx Ens, and Asian Ens have also ruled their own dominance over people of other wumbo identities, albeit not as badly as the white En. White Ens ruled this planet, creating a society that only benefited them, which caused mass destruction to most of the people and animals, most of whom are now extinct.

Eradicating wumbo or creating a society that only included Lazzes and Othrins would not allow Ens the opportunity to atone for their past mistakes.

Suddenly, someone burst into tears. The scientist looked rather irritated. An equality guardian rushed over to the crying person, who began screaming and weeping. They escorted the person away from the group, looking rather apologetic.

The scientist cleared their throat and continued. Twenty-one years ago, when the Social Justice Party came to power in Britannia, they envisioned an egalitarian utopia with no more oppressive families that were part of the former En-centric system. Now that everybody belongs to the state, everyone is committed to serving and upholding Social Justice. The scientist gestured to the bodies quietly dozing in their tanks and lowered their voice, as if they might wake them up. "Each generation shall be more egalitarian than the next, each more conscious of the importance of equity and fairness, and treatment towards those of all races and wumbo identities.

The technology is so advanced that each person has been created as healthy, neurotypical, and able-bodied. You will be free from all the afflictions and diseases that previous generations suffered. You have also been raised without the En-centric constraints created by white Ens who only wanted a society that benefited them.

The scientist paused and scanned their eyes over all the off-kin that stood in front of them.

Consider yourselves extremely lucky.

Suddenly, Mumbles’ brain flashed back to being eight, during one of those ‘Orientation’ sessions at their Safe House.

This person identifies as an En, said a smiley-looking orientor in the room with the soft blue walls. They were holding up a cartoon image of a person with long hair, wearing a pink dress. But he is Laz-presenting, because he has long hair and is wearing a dress. In the days before Big Mama, only Lazzes were allowed to wear dresses, but now Ens can too.

Mumbles just nodded.

Would you like to wear a dress?

Mumbles had shaken their head.

Why not?

Because I don’t want to look like a Laz.

The orientor had jotted something down on their digipad.

Today is a very special day, continued the scientist. "Today is the day in which you will all be assigned your wumbo identity and sexual preference, based on your behaviour over the last thirteen years.

Obviously, if you feel unhappy with your classification, you can ask for it to be changed. The scientist surveyed the off-kin, narrowing their eyes at a few of them. Once you are given their classification, you will be sent to different parts of the country to live alone in Safe Spaces, where you will attend school for four years. All students must learn certain mandatory subjects, like social studies, herstory, and wumbo studies, but Othrins and Lazzes will study maths, art, natural science, and music, while Ens will study woodwork, plumbing, and electronic repairs. This is to prepare Ens for joining the Service later on.

The Service. Mumbles’ heart sank. They had heard all about the Service. For every En, this was mandatory. En-os could join if they wanted, but at least they got to opt out.

Do we have to join the Service if we are assigned as Ens? a tall, Black off-kin piped up, their hand raised. The scientist gave them a cold, blank stare.

No En has to join the Service if they do not wish to. However, if they refuse to join, they receive dumbellular castration.

Once again, cries and exclamations of fear and fury erupted from the group of off-kin. Many laughed and chuckled while others whimpered. The scientist stood there, bored, and glanced over the group of off-kin as another group was slowly approaching.

Right, there isn’t much time left now, said the scientist. Please pipe down. You will be taken upstairs where you will be told to wait in the quiet area. You will be called individually to be assigned your wumbo identity and given your appropriate wrist marking, as well as choosing your name. You will then be sent away to whichever city you have been assigned to live in. Take care now.

As the scientist walked off, the off-kin began talking to one another. Their equality guardians ushered them up the stairs. Mumbles continued to ignore everyone, but the off-kin with the tanned skin and dark hair nudged them. Hey, you alright?

I’m going to be assigned En, said Mumbles. I just know it, Fixie.

You might get En-o, said Fixie. White En-os don’t have it as bad as white Ens.

I don’t know. They measured wumbo preference up until the age of twelve, and then wumbo and sexual preference from twelve-to-thirteen. That last year was the most intense when attraction levels were measured and sexual preferences noted: null-sexual, same-sexual, all-sexual, duo-sexual, En-sexual, Laz-sexual, and so on.

If an En showed attraction to anyone other than a Laz, then he was assigned En-o (what they used to call ‘queer man’). But if he only showed attraction to Lazzes, then he was an En. No suffix.

Fixie and Mumbles plodded up the stairs and sat on one of the long tables. The entire factory was built without any doors, just a lot of corridors and then private hidden rooms. Posters of Big Mama were everywhere, just like in their Safe Houses. All around the back of the top floor were dark rooms. In each room, they were called and their fate sealed forever.

We can’t change it either, said Mumbles. Only Lazzes and Othrins are allowed to change their wumbo. Ens can’t. We’re told that if we want to change, it’s to try and enforce our En-privilege.

There’s no ‘we’, said Fixie, reaching out and patting Mumbles’ hand. You might not be assigned En.

What do you think you’ll get?

Probably Laz or Laz-o. I mean, I have a syara, what they used to call ‘vagina.’ People with syaras are usually Lazzes. Fixie suddenly lowered their voice, eyes fearfully darting around the room. I mean…I didn’t, erm, mean that in an offensive way.

I know what you mean. Mumbles glanced down in their lap. I wish I didn’t have a troublemaker.

Having a troublemaker doesn’t make you an En.

Yeah, but… Mumbles didn’t want to say what had happened over the past year. It was too embarrassing. They hadn’t told Fixie about all the Orientation sessions involving being shown images of naked Lazzes with large brazzles — formerly known as ‘breasts’. Time and time again, Mumbles had tried to remain coy, to not show any interest, but their body had betrayed them. There was no way to hide it, no way to ignore it.

You know there were protests, apparently, said Fixie. About the way sexual identity is assigned. Some people accused the orientors of sexualising off-kin, and that the process is unethical.

Didn’t they get sent to the Fairness Isles? said Mumbles.

The Fairness Isles? another off-kin overheard them. Fixie and Mumbles turned around. Are they really real?

I’ve heard they are, said Mumbles. I heard our guardians talking about them.

That doesn’t make them real, said Fixie, brushing their hand aside. It’s probably just a rumour designed to freak people out.

Suddenly, an orientor called out: SJP-19114563, please identify yourself.

Mumbles stood up. Fixie gave their arm a squeeze. Good luck, they reassured. The orientor beckoned Mumbles, who followed them, their hands still stuffed into their Black dungaree pockets. Mumbles passed the rows of off-kin sitting on either side of a long, brown wooden table. Some looked afraid. Some looked neutral. Some threw Mumbles odd looks, while others simply glared. Mumbles had been getting a lot more glares ever since turning twelve, particularly from people who appeared Laz-presenting.

Mumbles was taken into a small, dark room. The orientor shut the door behind them and told them to sit on a chair.

So, number 19114563, currently living in Safe House number 84. The orientors all looked alike, barely distinguishable from the scientists, wearing the same Black lab coat and holding a digipad. This orientor had a ‘she/her’ badge.

Mumbles put their hands in their lap, swallowing and staring at the floor.

So, I have all your notes right here. The orientor sat down on the chair in front of Mumbles and held up the digipad in front of their face. These are all your characteristics based on your behaviours, reactions, and preferences over the years. And at the bottom, you can see the classification that you have been given.

Mumbles scrolled their finger down the digipad screen, past all the inked notes detailing their sessions from the last ten years (the sessions began when they were three). Right at the bottom, in clear, red letters, was the word:

EN.

Mumbles gasped. He pressed his hands against his face. He had been assigned En. Which meant four years from now, he would be living a life of servitude.

No, he whispered. No, please…

Hold out your arm. The orientor had a sharp tool in her hand, used to ink their line onto their wrist. Now, this might feel slightly uncomfortable…

"No! Mumbles snatched his hand back. Please, I don’t want to be an En. Please, please let me be an En-o. I can’t be an En, especially not a white En. Please."

The orientor was expressionless. Ens must atone for their past mistakes, she said. It’s for your own good. You must repent.

But I can’t…

You have shown no sexual interest in anyone other than Lazzes. In fact, your sexual interest in Lazzes is extremely high. There was a touch of irritation in her voice. Thankfully, you show little-to-no violent tendencies, although you will be taught to keep your sexual desires in check. As you know, En-on-Laz relationships are illegal.

But why make us have these desires then? begged Mumbles. Why not have them taken away?

Because you must feel the desire to know that it is wrong, said the orientor calmly. You must know how it feels to desire a Laz, and thus know that it is wrong. All sexual acts between Ens and Lazzes are rape in the eyes of the Party.

Please… But the orientor wasn’t listening. She pinned Mumbles’ hand to the table, yanking up his wrist. A steel tool was inked across his arm. Thankfully, it felt like no more than a scratch. Mumbles was too busy thinking about what kind of life he was going to have to live. His legs were shaking and he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

Can’t I change it?

You know Ens aren’t allowed to change their lines. The orientor took the steel tool away. Mumbles blinked and stared at the single red line, given to all Ens.

But everyone else is.

Yes, because ‘everyone else’ was not complicit in the oppression of marginalised wumbo identities. Lazzes and Othrins have no need to atone. The irritation in her voice was growing stronger. Now, hold out your other wrist.

What?

All Ens have a curfew of 8PM, and for En-os, the curfew is 10PM. If you are not inside your Safe Space before then, this red wrist collar will remind you with an electric shock. En-os are given a white wrist collar. It’s very convenient.

"What’s convenient about being electrocuted?’

"I didn’t say it was convenient for you!’ she snapped. It’s to save you from yourself.

I’m not allowed outside after 8PM? said Mumbles, shaking.

No. This is to protect Lazzes and Othrins from your violent and dangerous impulses.

Mumbles thought of the shiny moon and the stars that he liked to gaze out at in the garden at night in his Safe House.

"So I can’t go anywhere after dark?"

The only place Ens are allowed to be after 8PM are their Safe Spaces or a hospital, she continued. Once this collar is on, it cannot come off, and will remain there until you join the Service at seventeen.

No… Mumbles was shaking his head, looking wildly horrified. They hadn’t been informed about this, only the markings. Please…no…don’t…I can’t…

It’s for your own good. The orientor calmly strapped the red collar around his wrist, locking it firmly into place. Think of all the Lazzes who struggled in a life of servitude under a white En-centric system. Now you must pay the price. If you’re not with us, you’re against us.

Mumbles hung his head and cried. The orientor patted his back. There, now, she said. Vulnerability is a positive emotion. It shows you’re not displaying toxic En-centric behaviour. She picked up her digipad again. Now, come on. Everyone enjoys this part. You get to choose your name.

I already have a name, he mumbled.

You can’t go by a number forever. You need a name so that everyone can clearly identify you.

No, my name is Mumbles.

The orientor laughed. Mumbles is a name for Othrins. You are an En. You must choose an En-appropriate name so that everyone can clearly identify you. You can scroll through the list here, and when you choose one that you like, let me know. She left the digipad in front of him. I’ll go and get you your pronoun badge.

Mumbles lifted up his head, sniffing. Four years of school, and then a life of being in the Service. All because he was sexually attracted to Lazzes. All because he was born with a troublemaker between his legs and exhibited En-typical behaviour.

He scrolled through the digipad, staring at all of the names marked ‘En-typical.’ They passed by his eyes in a blur. He didn’t want one. He didn’t care. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want to be an En.

But it didn’t look like he had any choice in the matter, even though they had been told their whole lives that wumbo was a choice. It seemed that wumbo was only a choice if you were a Laz or an Othrin.

When the orientor returned, she had a shiny gold badge marked ‘he/him’. She came and sat down. You must wear this at all times whenever you leave your Safe Space. Here you are.

I have a question, he asked. The orientor looked hesitant. Yes?

Why do they still use the old pronouns?

The SJP did consider changing them, she said. But they decided to keep the old pronouns and only create new ones for Othrins. The ‘he/him’ and ‘she/her’ pronouns are a symbolic reminder every day of the old dangers of the past, and why we must not return there. She scratched her own wrist, which had a green line.

You get lines too?

Everyone was given lines, she said. After the SJP came to power.

What happened before that? Before F0?

There was no ‘before’, she said. Nothing existed before.

But—

You’re asking too many questions. Her tone suddenly became harsh and firm. Ens shouldn’t be asking questions, you’re not supposed to be academic. It’s oppressive to other wumbo identities. You will learn the relevant things when you study herstory. Now, have you chosen a name?

Mumbles scrolled his finger down the digipad, and then randomly selected a six-letter word.

Dennis, he said. I’ll be called Dennis.

Very well. She gave him a cold smile and then stood up. I’ll print out your identity certificate; it lists your number, pronouns, wumbo category and so on. She walked over to a giant machine in the corner of the room, tapped something on the screen, and then pressed a button. Out came a sheet of light, golden paper.

Why are state-issued documents still printed on paper? asked Dennis, swallowing.

The orientor looked irritated again at his inquisitiveness, but she took the paper and handed it to him. They use paper to distinguish important documents from other documents, including Social Justice posters. Now, here you go.

Dennis took the paper, blinking at it through his tears. Unlike many other off-kin, he had taught himself to read at a young age, often spending hours browsing through digibooks. He managed to make out the symbols in front of his eyes:

19114563 Dennis, white, En, he/him, Laz-sexual, Laz-romantic, En-presenting, no kin.

He stared at the words until they blurred through a veil of tears.

Come, said the orientor, it is time for you to be taken to your selected city. I’ll lead you out of the room and then one of the scientists will escort you down the stairs and outside. There’s a van waiting for you.

Dennis stood up and followed her out of the small, dark room. When he looked around, he saw some of his old fellow-kin sitting at tables. He couldn’t see Fixie, though.

Wait, he said. I need to say goodbye to Fixie, my fellow-kin.

There isn’t time, said the orientor. You must run along now. You have to go and serve your country, Big Mama, and the Social Justice Party.

But I— Dennis was yanked. He had never been handled so forcefully in his life. The orientor was barely his height, yet she was dragging him by the scruff of his collar. Come on.

Fixie! Dennis turned around. "Fixie!"

Please, said the orientor to another person Dennis didn’t recognise, escort this troublesome one outside. As she shoved him to this other person, he heard her mutter: they’re all the same.

Help! shouted Dennis as he was dragged down the stairs. "Fixie! Let me say goodbye! Fixie!"

Quiet, you. The person pushed Dennis against the wall, and Dennis gasped. Dennis had never seen anyone like them before. They wore a Black bomber jacket with gold stripes, Black trousers, Black gloves, Black boots, and dark glasses shielding their eyes. They wore a triangular Black hat on their head with the letters ‘SJP’ embroidered in gold. Stuffed in their pocket was a Black baton.

Listen, said the person in a tone laced with menace. You’re an En now. Your wumbo-nay days are over. From now on, you do as you’re told. Got it?

No. Dennis was shaking his head, looking around. A ‘he/him’ badge was slapped onto Dennis’ chest, and immediately everyone he passed gave him the cold shoulder and harsh glares.

"Please…stop…help me…"

His feeble protests were ignored as he was dragged out the door towards one of the waiting vans, away from everyone and everything he had ever known.

You’re being sent to Clarendon, continued the unsettling person. "The city needs all the white Ens it can muster. Get a move on!"

Dennis began to scream, and before he knew it, a few more people wearing identical unforms and Black hats rushed over and began hitting him with their batons.

"Inside now! they barked at Dennis. That’s an order. Get in the van now!"

Dennis was shoved into the van, tears rolling down his face. He peered outside the windows, trying to look for Fixie, but Fixie was long gone.

Dennis wondered if they would ever cross paths again.

FOUR YEARS LATER

1: Enspreading

O h, for the love of Big Mama, hissed Dennis at his digipad screen as the tram swerved slightly, causing his finger to accidentally delete the entire sentence.

He slapped his forehead and sighed heavily. But then he sat up and stretched his legs out, taking care to keep them within the red floor markings. At least being able to work on his story gave him something to do in the mornings on the way to school. He was currently on the chapter where the main character, an En who travelled to a parallel universe ruled by sentient trees, was trying to communicate with the trees, but they couldn’t understand each other.

Do you mind, said someone on the tram, glaring at Dennis. "I am trying to read and you are being very loud." They held up their digipad. Dennis couldn’t get a proper look at their pronoun badge, and so he couldn’t tell their wumbo identity. He didn’t want to be reported to the equality inforcers on the grounds of wumbo assumption.

He cleared his throat and mumbled an apology, but the glarer barely acknowledged him.

Opposite Dennis were several posters stuck against the tram walls, as they were on all forms of public transport: the standard SJP posters of Big Mama holding the world; posters specific to trams of a white sign that showed an En sitting on a tram with his legs within two red markings inked on the floor. Above him was a Black silhouette of an equality inforcer wearing a gold cap and badge with the words in a bubble above their head:

PLEASE KEEP YOUR LEGS WITHIN THE LINES. ENSPREADING IS NOT PERMITTED ON ANY FORM OF PUBLIC TRANSPORT.

Dennis checked his legs just to be sure. Young Ens were often beaten by equality inforcers when caught with their legs stuck outside of the markings. Dennis had only been arrested for Enspreading once, almost four years ago. It was mostly the young Ens who forgot to keep their legs within the lines. He still had scars on his right knee from that one. Remi, Dennis’ closest fellow-kin, had helped Dennis work out a technique to keep his legs between the lines, by tensing them and picturing them being made of stone, so that they didn’t move. It took a few years to master properly, but once you got the hang of it, it made life much easier. And a lot less painful.

Or you could just stand up.

You could always tell if an En still had his dumbells by the tense look of severe concentration as he struggled to keep his legs within the lines.

Beside the Enspreading image was another poster of an upside-down pyramid, titled: Big Mama’s Hierarchy of Oppression. The top of the pyramid was dark brown, and the colours got lighter until they reached the palest white at the bottom. From most-to-least oppressed, the hierarchy went:

Othrin-variant, of colour

Laz-o, of colour

Laz, of colour

Othrin-variant, white

Laz-o, white

Laz, white

En-o, of colour

En-o, white

En, of colour

En, white

This image was plastered everywhere: on public transport, in workplaces, even in people’s Safe Space buildings. It was important to remind everybody of their level of privilege every single day so that they could check it whenever necessary. And wherever necessary. Above it were the words ‘If You’re Not With Us, You’re Against Us’ with a big smiley face next to them.

Dennis sighed and looked away from the posters, turning off his digipad screen. He felt too distracted to continue writing and had more pressing worries to contend with. Big Beth was striking quarter to nine, and if the traffic continued at this pace, there was no way he would get to assembly within fifteen minutes. If he missed the Elimination Ceremony he’d be in serious trouble. He didn’t want Ratched, his equality instructor, to accuse him of having not attended to get out of acknowledging his herstorical privilege as a white En. Not for the eleventh time that year.

Everyone was too busy dozing because the tram wasn’t moving. This happened pretty much every morning. Such was the way of central Clarendon, where traffic was so busy that you could be stuck for hours. Usually the NatraFuel tanks were re-filling, hence why it took so long. Public transport had been running itself for nearly two decades now, but they still couldn’t avoid crawling into each other until they reached a standstill.

One of the first tasks that the Ens of Service had was building more efficient, greener methods of transportation. The first eight years of SJP ruling had involved a lot of restoration, creating a brand-new city. He had learned all of this during his first year of herstory, all about how Britannia had been in a terrible state after the destruction caused by white Ens, and how the SJP had worked hard to get the country back up and running.

Dennis felt a vibration in his pocket. Thankfully it was his digiphone, although it did make him nervously glance around the tram. He checked the eight-digit number on the screen. He knew Remi’s number so well he practically had