Sorry for the wait, guys… I hope you like the chapter, and that you'll let me know either way! Big thank you to Reamhar and Ichigo from Project Team Beta for helping me get this together.

I don't own anything that Stephanie made up.

"The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster, …

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster."

-- Elizabeth Bishop, One Art

~Leah~

The split-level house is all bland, open angles. Big, ostentatious, and really fucking generic, set smack in the middle of my favorite ocean overlook. On the door, there's a peephole and a grotesquely sparkly dreamcatcher. The more details I notice, the more generic the damn thing looks, so I settle for staring at my old, scuffed shoes.

I was already shuffling before I saw the doormat. It's fucking telling me to "wipe" my "paws." My eyebrows should be shooting into outer space right now, but honestly… that just sounds like way too much effort. My hands feel like they weigh about a million pounds apiece, and it's all I can do to lift one of them to the doorbell. A doorbell that's shaped like a tiny fucking paw print.

The electronic chime sends shivers up my neck. Two tones are pouring through the lit-up cavern inside, turning around to mock me from out of the third story windows. You'd think it was a bugle announcing somebody actually important. That, or a siren warning them to get ready for trouble.

There's some shuffling and squeaking, and then the front door swings open. The hinge sighs dramatically and my shoulders sink in sympathy, but somehow I force myself to open my eyes a bit. I might even have managed a little shadow of a smile. Not that I feel like smiling; I just have to get my cheek muscles warmed up somehow. They're just as inert as every other part of my body, which is kind of a problem in the talking department.

At some point, staring back at someone gets to be more effort than talking to them. That's when I manage to force out a "Hey, Sam."

I thought this house would bag any pageant in the Things That are Big and Bland category, but nope-- Sam's "Hey Leah!" just gave it a run for its money. His voice is still deep, but somehow wimpier than I remember it, with an up-and-down cadence that sounds just like his fucking doorbell.

Sam lets his mouth hang open for a minute, then shifts the kid in his arms to get a better look at me. As if either of us could have changed at all in the past six years. His shoulders still have the too-round look of melons or Mickey Mouse ears, and one chubby toddler's hand is lying in that valley above his sternum. Those muscles always look like they're about to shred his T-shirt, but not in a way that screams man-slut at you. That used to be one of my favorite things about him; the way his tense manpower just sat there under his skin, not giving a fuck whether you noticed it or not.

He looked like a fucking god whenever he stood on the cliffs in the moonlight, but honestly-- the fluorescent kitchen lights just aren't doing it for him right now. All that bulky, sinewy tension looks plain awkward next to the kiddo, like he's got all this suburban housewife angst bottled up underneath his skin.

People who didn't know Sam used to think he looked way too old. It wasn't his muscles or jawline so much as who he always hung out with. A buffed out man looks looks weird running around with barely-teenage boys, almost as weird as he looks right now, playing Mr. Mom. Somehow, the muscles make him look too young, like a varsity athlete who banged someone's stepmom and woke up saddled with kids and a kitschy doormat.

Sam starts to look less awkward when Emily appears. She rubs his back as if to soothe the strain of seeing me, and of course they go on to share a long, googly-eyed look. She's what-- twenty-seven?-- but looks at least thirty-five. Not the movie star kind of thirty-five, either.

Their eye contact ends after a second or five, and their faces assume an expression they seem to have decided upon together: solemn, naturally, with pinched mouths and wide-set eyes. I can mentally see Sam's ears and tail flatten against his fur. The buzz cut makes him look even more like Emily's whipped little stud-boy. I thought she was going to start speaking for him, but they've apparently decided that Sam should man up and do it himself.

"Leah… it's so good to see you," he stammers. He shifts the drowsy child to his other arm and back again. "It's been so long." He clears his throat loudly. "I just wish it were… you know… under better circumstances."

Good grief. You'd think he'd never had to offer me condolences before.

"Yeah, good to see you too." We'll just have to live with monotone on my end.

"I can't imagine what you and your mom are going through. First your dad, and now this…"

I clear my throat stutteringly. "About that… I'd like you not to do the howling this time, if that's okay. Mom didn't like it."

"God Leah, I'm… sorry, I guess. No, we don't have to do it, if your Mom doesn't want us to." He looks even younger now, blubbering like a boy with a bad case of stage fright. He knows I'm probably lying, but luckily he's not allowed to call me on it. He might or might not gripe to Emily, but I couldn't really care less what they do in their stupid new house.

"Great, thanks." I manage a bigger smile this time, relieved as shit that I can go now. Not that I want to go home, but anything's better than here for God's sake. "Well… I'll see ya."

They suddenly make a big show of inviting me in for a drink, now that I've given the 'I'll see ya' all-clear and am in no danger of staying. No one breathes easily until my paws leave their doorstep for good.

Sam's known for years what I thought of the noise he decided to arrange for dad's wake. The pack was like a choir trying to plink out a dirge on handbells; deep echoey handbells, sure, but they still sounded fucking childish, like the soundtrack for some indie film that's treating a death ironically. The kind of film that works hard to get you attached to a person, then kills them and trashes them until you feel like a gullible shit.

Orchestration is not one of Sam's many talents, and he left the melody so full of holes that it soaked up my sobs like a sponge, debasing my grief by accident as completely as films can debase it on purpose. Way to make me feel stupid for crying at my own father's wake.

Seth blubbered and bubbled with snot that night, filling more of the melody than my sobs did. But Mom kept quiet for an hour, then two, then the whole god-awful night. Charlie told half of the town that she was in shock the whole time, and the other half of the town that she was as tough as a wolverine. The reality is that she just collapsed, collapsed like she'd finished running a couple hundred miles. Yes, as if Sue Clearwater, Le Couch Potato Extraordinaire, had run a hundred miles. She made scattered, nonsensical movements with her lips, and they all seemed to circle around the words, It's over. A couple of times I thought I might have heard a loaded croak, but her eyes were barely blinking, and they stayed much drier than the front of my sweater did.

I was the one who finally forced her to start crying. I hope to God she'll have the heart to return the favor tonight.

You cry a lot when something solid gets yanked out from under your ass, leaving you lurching and pawing away at your father's uprooted shadow. You also cry a lot while your brother is slipping away from you piece by piece, and you're scared to death that the next piece to go will hurt more than the last one did. But what do you do when the last piece crumbles and part of you is happy that the crumbling's all over?

After he met her, it was like some alien was sucking out Seth's brains through his dick. An alien that Mom thought was the best thing that ever happened to him. She wasn't thrilled with the adultery, sure, but hadn't she learned the hard way how imprinting conquers all? Wolf karma owed her a daughter-in-law to replace the son-in-law it took away.

Now that Seth's gone gone, not just imprinted gone, Mom must be catching up on years of backlogged crying. Crying that she called vindictive and petty when I had the sense to do it long ago. Her eyes were almost swollen shut when she picked me up from the airport. In a way, I did go to Sam's for her sake; she might not have minded hearing them howl all night for dad, but that was because she wouldn't fucking cry then. It hurt me to hear the wolves stealing my tune; I was his daughter, and I still couldn't come up with the racket they could. That, or make it so my tears were all for Dad, and not for their stupid, cheesy, self-serving melody. Mom might not be a werewolf, but at this point, the pack's still taken a hell of a lot away from her, and I really don't think she'd appreciate their taking away her chance to weep for her son in peace.

I still don't understand why Mom pulled the silent bitch act for Dad's wake. At the memory of her stoicism might help her not hate me if I can't cry properly for Seth tonight. No; hopefully that won't happen. I really need her to hate me enough to make me cry tonight. I don't know what I'll do to myself, otherwise.

I don't believe my baby brother is better off dead than a love zombie. I thought about telling her that anyway, just so she'd have a good reason to smack me, but who am I kidding… I could never hurt Mom like that.

I feel a little better when I pass a rough-shingled bungalow. I was afraid more Quileutes might have built Sam-and-Emily-style monstrosities, but apparently fifties kitsch isn't in style with the non-zombies yet. Quil's house still has comfortingly warped windows, and I stop to check whether the left pane has that funny corner bubble that used to look like a sunburst or a daisy.

I squint at the relevant glass sheet, and oh lord… there's my face. The muscles look like they're shot to hell with Novocain or worse, so smooth that my squint distorts them hugely. There are no ripples of anything resembling sniffing or crying, and I really, really hope that Charlie won't call me a wolverine or worse. My eyes are so dry that they aren't even very reflective; they look like corpse sockets sunk into my hopelessly dead expression.

The sight of my bitch-face almost makes me forget the daisy, but then the blistery petals catch a stray sliver of moonlight.

I used to think my daisy was the most beautiful thing in the world. I know it's just a stupid defect in someone else's window, but I loved it because it was all mine. I used to zero in on its shape every time I walked past this house, and I've never once seen anyone else give it so much as a passing glance.

The petals shimmer magically in the light of the full moon. Somehow, they're casting moonlight on the smooth flat of the glass, a depthless patch that was dark a second ago. It's not until my lashes drip that I realize where the light patch is coming from: my newly reflective eyes are gleaming juicily back at me. Soon I'm crying impossibly hard, shaking with hiccups and 'ah's.

I couldn't cry for Seth before because I thought I was finally done losing him; I would stop having to endure losing a piece of him every week. What I'd forgotten was that Seth is not the last thing I had to lose. I may be brotherless, fatherless, and boyfriendless at this point, but I still have a mother and that pain-in-the-ass Jacob and dozens of beautiful nothings like the daisy in Quil's window. The wolf pack hasn't taken any of these things away from me yet, but it's only a matter of time before I lose them too. I've got nothing at all to be grateful for right now, and I'd better cry for Seth before I've got something else to cry about.

Sam was the first thing the wolf pack took from me. Then it took my privacy, my hair, my period, and stretched my arms and legs out like silly putty. I looked like a glandular freak of a boy, but I still never heard the end of how, God, I was such a girl!

The next thing I lost was subtler, but it still hurt like a bitch. I started to notice people looking at me without ever seeing me for real. Okay, so it's not like they used to look at me harder; most people only stare long enough to decide what 'hello' to send your way. Before I changed, it was a sunny hello, the kind that meant 'I'm glad you were born, Beautiful Leah!' I was just as happy to get the cheeky hello, the 'Sam's sure glad you were born, eh Leah?' I guess I always assumed that I deserved those hellos, and I never really cared that people thought so little before bestowing them. Later, though? You bet I cared when I was minding my own business, not moping or scowling or anything, and then someone whispers the kind of walking-on-eggshells 'hello' that really means 'Crap… if I breathe too hard, Leah might remember how Sam just dumped her unlovable ass.'

After a few encounters with that hello, I kinda started expecting it and treating people accordingly. At least that made them change their tune to something a little more palatable, a 'hello' that meant something like 'God, I can't wait to get away from that bitch-face.'

There were other kinds of greetings that I couldn't get away from, no matter how hard I tried. There was ' 'sup, Freak of Nature?', which was pretty okay and fair, but then there was 'Will that stupid cunt quit suing for equal opportunity employment in the vampire-slaying biz?'

That was how they greeted me when I was trapped inside their heads, and it was so fucking unfair that I screamed and screamed until I had no fucking energy for their hypocritical code of 'thought politeness' that obviously didn't apply to how they thought about me. The tune never changed, and it wouldn't fucking shut up until Jake gave me an out, thank God.

After I said goodbye, I hoped I'd never have to say hello again. It's a small reservation though, and I got my fair share of 'Well look who bit off more than she could chew and ran away with her tail between her legs (literally!). Have a nice life, Miss Leah the Quitter!' It was probably the worst thing they'd silently said to me yet, but I barely cared because I was free. I could run all the way to Canada, run as far as the Northwest Territory and find people who didn't know enough to load their hello's with anything. Sure, they sensed I was a freak of some kind, but they didn't know what kind exactly, and sometimes I could almost forget what kind myself.

I got a job with the Forest Service, looking for a way to be just plain Leah again. Leah who you ignored if you weren't going to look at her properly. No one knew to look for the things that made me different and broken, and sometimes I could almost forget how to look for those things myself. I rediscovered parts of myself that I'd thought had been lost forever, and as long as I didn't get too close to anyone, it was easy to pretend that those parts of me joined up seamlessly. From far away I was a good, beautiful, entirely human girl again… I just wished there was some way I could stay far away myself.

For a while, I was happy enough to go several weeks without phasing. I used the phone to call Mom and Seth, and I think I even managed to be just plain Leah for them. It's hard to keep anything from someone who's been in your head before, but practice makes perfect, and Seth has always been a bit too gullible.

I can't really call him gullible for believing my act without calling myself an imbecile for believing his. In my defense, Seth had never felt like hiding much from me, not ever. It was kind of pathetic when his easy-going innocence outlasted his thirteenth birthday, but then it lasted through his change and showed every sign of going strong into his twenties. Thinking back on it now, I'm positive there's only one thing that he ever would've been afraid to tell me.

I hadn't phased for about five weeks when I saw some girls looking weirdly up at me. I was too far away for them to think I could hear them, but their chatter carried over to me loud and clear, so clear that I was apparently nowhere close to growing out of the wolf thing anytime soon.

One of the girls thought there was something different about me. I was too tall and broad shouldered and muscular and angular, and maybe I was a tranny or something. The other girls thought she was full of it, but I really couldn't care less at that point. I just dropped the machete I'd been using to clean up the trail, and ran and ran and ran. I didn't have time to take my clothes or my shoes off, but I barely noticed when they exploded around me because Seth's mind was bursting with her. He'd fucking imprinted fucking THREE WEEKS AGO, and I'd had NO IDEA!

That's when I knew the pack had taken my brother away from me. Just like it took away everything else I cared about. Two years before it deigned to kill him outright.

The autopsy says it was a heart attack that killed him. At first, the doctors were completely incredulous-- a healthy 22-year-old doesn't randomly drop dead too often-- but then they looked at Dad's old file and nodded like they understood. Apparently the problems that killed him at thirty-eight had looked like they'd started when he was Seth's age.

I guess the heart attacks might've killed Dad a bit sooner if he'd seen a lover jump headfirst off a cliff, but sorry… that is not what happened to Seth. I hate to believe in psycho tribal voodoo, but there was absolutely no getting around it this time. Even if the old legends hadn't mentioned the broken imprint penalty, just being in his mind when it wasn't his mind would've been enough to clue me in. The imprint was like those parasites that wrap themselves around someone's brain. The kind you can't remove if you want the brain to survive.

I've been crying pretty hard for a solid while now, long enough that I'm not afraid to show my face at home. I scrub at my eyes until I can actually see where I'm going, then plod down the shortest path home.

My eyes should be decently puffy now, puffy enough for Charlie to be embarrassed to look at me. I can see him through the window, reading a book at the kitchen table; I guess that means that he'd finished filling out paperwork for now. He squirms and clears his throat as I enter the kitchen-- good, I hoped the puffy eyes would do the trick.

"How you holding up kid?", he mumbles under his mustache. I respond with a wordless shrug, and his face starts drowning in sympathy. Drowning, as in the can't-breathe kind of drowning.

"How's mom?", I ask, feeling sympathy of my own at his discomfort.

"Asleep," he answers with a shrug. After a beat, he nods at a stack of inked forms, then watches me wordlessly as I sign them.

"You look tired," he offers at last, with the guilty look of a man who doesn't have any idea what to say. I guess you could get that from my bloodshot eyes, but really have no desire to toss and turn right now.

"Nah," I say, with what I hope is a casual look. "I guess… I think I need some more fresh air right now."

When I make it to the garage, I realize that I'm starving. I spent most of the last day and night trying to comfort Mom, and there hasn't been any time to really think about food. Charlie probably would've made us eat, but I think he was scared by how vulnerable Mom looked. I don't really want to think about going back into that box of airless grief, but I definitely want to steer clear of places where I might be forced to talk to someone. Poor Grieving Leah may trump Poor Jilted Leah as far as names go, but I don't have the energy to deal with either right now. Especially not from people who know me as an unstable, bitchy freak who just up and left the country at the low point in her life.

I just freaking want something to eat… WHY IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?

I realize too late that I should have been trying to calm my breathing, and I barely have time to strip my clothes off before I explode mid-stride. I've fled in a pretty random direction, but luckily I manage to end up in the forest. I growl when I smell a hint of fox in the distance, forgetting how much I hate to tear live animals apart. I hate myself when I eat in this form, killing and tearing my food as cruelly as the pack has torn my own life to pieces.

Before I even knew about vampires or werewolves, I noticed a lot of orphaned fawns wandering La Push. Everyone-- correctly, as it turned out-- blamed the bearlike monsters that hikers had been noticing. Jacob and the others like to talk about now 'natural' our eating habits are, and I couldn't agree more; it's our animal nature to methodically destroy living things, be they deer families, ecosystems, or our own sorry no-longer-human lives. I haven't eaten cooked meat in seven-odd years, and I hate myself every time my wolf nose has other ideas. Deer hurts me the most… their eyes are as innocent as Seth's always were. Tearing and killing just don't make any sense to them until it's their own flesh being torn apart.

It makes me sick to see the bones we leave behind afterward. It reminds me of the way that the wolf pack has broken me from the inside out. But there's one sight that makes me sicker than bones do… when I think of it, I know where I have to go, and what I have to do.

Seth was a leech-lover, and there'll be leeches at the funeral tomorrow. They might not be able to show their faces at the ceremony, risk being seen by people who used to know them, but their barf-inducing human bait will stink up all the shadows. Their old house will be stinking like a rotting peach already, and every so often, something will flit into the woods and then flit back in without even wrinkling its designer clothes. Smug as a canary, like it expects some kind of medal for not murdering someone in cold blood.

It hurts like hell when the pack is tearing you up. Mentally, I know that better than anyone, and I even caught a physical taste when Paul ripped my thigh with his teeth. But it's still you that gets to hurt like hell, and some pieces of you are left just the way they used to be. You have something to hold onto while you're hurting, and everything that's hurt is clean, gone, severed. It's so different when you see a freshly drained deer… all the skin is there, all the limbs and the tail and the other parts that a 5-year-old would know, and it's the part that's there that disgusts you, not the absence of what's been ripped away.

At least if I poach on their mostly-abandoned land, I can eat without feeling too guilty. The death I deliver may be sick and barbaric, but it's a hell of a lot better than sticking around when a leech has drained all your blood.

I'm really glad that Jacob is human right now. It's bad enough to do this with someone watching from a distance, and it's far worse to have them watch from inside my mind. From inside, they can feel my muscles enjoy every coil and spring and strike; they feel me give in and become the wolf that's torn so much away from me.

When the bones are so clean that tearing gives way to cracking, I collapse the way Mom did when she got out of the car last night. I deflate with a crack, and my sharp hip and shoulder bones tangle with the skeleton of my prey. I'm no longer a beast, just an awkward, naked girl all smeared with gore like a disgustingly overgrown newborn. I gag at what I've done, what I am, and especially at the satisfaction that's keeping me from being sick right now.

The eastern sky is starting to light up, and I know I can't embrace the stripped carcass forever. I know I should phase and run home as fast as I can, but I can't stand the thought of being an animal again so soon.

I sigh with relief when I remember that I'll have to clean up first; I won't have to phase for a least a few more minutes.

I remember there's a river that runs through the Cullens' land, and I can hear it when I cock my head to listen for rushing water. I sprint toward it for a hundred feet or so, then crouch again and listen harder. My course is slightly off, so I adjust my heading and spring forward again, a little farther and faster this time. Soon I'm flying as freely and speedily as if I were a wolf-- no, not as if I were a wolf! The wolf is what gives my strides that gawky, too-aggressive beginning, which I can't get rid of without losing the speed that's completely and entirely Leah!

It's true that I run faster now than I could before I changed, but I still count running as something the pack took away from me. I used to be a track and field champion, but the change ended my athletic career pretty damn effectively. Even if it weren't for the sports physicals and the drug tests, I'd probably have quit because undressing in the locker room embarrassed me so fucking much. More than that, since running is such a big part of being a werewolf, I can't even run on two legs anymore without feeling like an animal.

The rest of them think of my speed as my special wolfy super power-- "the only edge she has," is how Jacob put it once-- and it's like I have to thank the fucking wolf DNA for every speed rush I've gotten since the change. Adrenaline and endorphins are great and all, but my favorite thing about running was always the way it made me feel powerful, how I could amaze people and get places and make my body sing by just wanting it bad enough.

If I went to the Olympic trials now, I'd beat everyone hands down-- the women and the men-- but as soon as they tested my blood, they'd call me a cheater and say that none of the races mattered. I didn't win them; my fucked up blood chemistry did. Even though they'd be wrong to assume that my blood was this way on purpose, I'd be just as unworthy, just as much of a cheater, as if they were right about everything.

In spite of everything, running still feels pretty damn good, the same way that eating in my wolf form feels ridiculously good while I'm doing it. As if it weren't enough to pay for those feelings in shame and embarrassment afterward, it apparently makes me paranoid to run naked through leech land with bloodstains all over me. I keep getting the feeling that someone's following me, but since the best solution to being followed is to run as fast as I can, I have no idea who or what it is.

I have no good reason to think it's anything more than a memory ghost, and soon I'm skirting the riverbank and coming to a stop. I enter the water quickly and plunge in almost to my neck.

I rub as hard as I can at my body and face, splashing water on the short, silky fuzz of my hair. My nails are attacking the gore like a maniac, probably breaking the skin and making my own blood mingle with the deer's.

Eventually, I know that I can't delay any longer. I climb out of the river and inspect my long body, finding several healing scratches, but no evidence of deer blood.

Then I hear a noise, and my heart stops.

It's not so much one sound as three sounds on top of each other: a dry crackle, and damp rustle, and a little sigh like you hear when you step into a wind tunnel. None of the sounds is remarkable, but they all come from the same tree at the same moment.

I stay absolutely still with all of my senses trained on that spot. That's when I hear more of the fluttery little sighs. They're quieter than the one I noticed, and they keep up a quick rhythm that accelerates along with another, wetter rhythm. A heartbeat.

Before the heartbeat has time to falter again, I'm crouching just to the left of the offending spot. My right hand is full of thick bronze curls, and my knee presses down into a rock-hard spine. I tug the curls to the side a little, not enough for her to get a good look at me-- ANOTHER good look at me!-- but just enough for me to see that yes, the devil-spawn imprint child has been watching me bathe, and is now whimpering in pain as if her body weren't a million times tougher than mine is.

I don't know how much leech-strength her daddy managed to give her, but it should definitely be enough for her to resist me a little. But her petrified eyes don't even seem to see me, and her whole body is shaking like she thinks I'm going to suck her blood, and she has no idea what to do about it.

We crouch motionless for a few more seconds, and her vacant brown eyes gradually start to look like someone's home. Her eyelids stretch until I can see white at the tops and bottoms of her weirdly normal-looking irises. She still isn't struggling… instead, she purses her slack lips and starts to give me this look.

Ever since Sam imprinted, I've been so damned self-conscious of the way people look at me, even in an off-hand way, and it got so much worse when I joined the pack myself and got this constant stream of data matching looks to jeering name-calling. This look she's giving me is anything but off-hand, and yet I can't figure out what in hell the devil-spawn thinks she means by it. She looks more confused than anything else… I guess she probably doesn't even know that my name is Leah. I left Forks when she was a baby, and probably no one bothered to tell her that Seth had a bitch for an older sister. Then again, she must've known something about me, something that made her decide to follow and stare at me like that. One way or another I will find out what god-awful name they've told her to call me.

We stare at each other for a beat longer, completely and utterly confused. Then her right arm twitches from where my left hand has pinned it to her back. Since she hasn't been resisting me, my hold is pretty haphazard, and her sudden movement frees the arm completely. Before I know it, her palm is inches from my face, and I suddenly remember that touching someone's face has something to do with a freaky gift she has. That and… Shit! her father can read minds!

I explode almost on top of her, and she cries out in terror. A few of my claws tear big slashes in her clothes, but her hard, sparkly skin looks undamaged underneath. I wheel around and run toward the border as fast as I possibly can, but all I can see is her panicked expression. Both little hands are pressed to her open mouth, and her whole body is shaking. I shouldn't have been that close when I phased, but what's her problem, anyway? I'm sure she's seen Jacob phase a million times before this.

Of course… she might've seen Jacob phase-- hell, she's probably seen every werewolf in this town phase-- but she's never heard of a woman who can do that. So… that look she gave me was just a cryptic new version of Leah the Freak of Nature. I'll have to remember that one. Well, if she was so repulsed by my misshapen naked body, it's a damn good thing I phased before she could get her little leech-hands on my mind. My mind is far more broken than my body, and I'm sure she'll get told that a million times over when she runs off to tell Mommy and Daddy about the dog woman.

Now that I'm super-depressed from writing this, pleeeease cheer me up with a review. Even constructive accounts of my suckiness would cheer me up right now… guess that means I've spent a bit too long in Leah's head :-p