Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesday sat, undisturbed, within the cold confines of her new room, typewriter keys clicking away. Her mother, Morticia, a glamourous yet enigmatic socialite, had seemingly conjured a mansion out of thin air, smack in the middle of Beverly Hills. We need to move somewhere more glittery, she had reasoned. Morticia had always been a dreamer—chasing ambitions left and right, until they finally came true. She had wanted to be a socialite ever since she first laid eyes on Kathy Hilton, waltzing around their living room television screen, like a true, shining star. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills became Morticia’s obsession that summer—Wednesday still remembered the heaps of cocktail dresses that were piled in her mother’s closet. Prada, Chanel, Valentino.

Wednesday had no aspirations whatsoever to follow in Morticia’s footsteps, however. Where Morticia liked crowds and parties, Wednesday was content to be alone, and to be none other than in the company of herself and her thoughts. While Morticia had wanted nothing more than to be a socialite, Wednesday desired to be a writer. Her mother was a dreamer. She was a thinker.

The sound of typing quickly ceased, as the click-clack of Morticia’s Hermès Kiara 40’s grew closer. She peeked in from behind the semi-closed door, then pushed it open fully.

“Wednesday, mi querida, you really should switch to a laptop,” she said, with a hint of well-concealed disappointment. “Typewriters are outdated technology,” Morticia sighed. “And, you should also start wearing those Jackie 50’s I bought for you as well, cariño.”

“And why should I do that, mother?” Wednesday asked, while subtly pulling her paper out of the typewriter and hiding it in a drawer. “Heels are like some torture device thought up by medieval jailors with malicious intent.”

“Because, Wednesday, I’m throwing a party tonight,” Morticia smiled, pulling stray strands of Wednesday’s dark hair behind her ear, “and seeing as you’re the daughter of the richest woman for a mile around, I’d suggest you look the part too.”

“I’m sixteen,” Wednesday murmured under her breath. “I can do what I want.”

Morticia laughed, the sound rich like red wine, as if Wednesday had said something funny.

“See you later tonight, dear,” she called over her shoulder as she strutted back down the stairs. Wednesday scowled at her mother’s retreating figure. They hadn’t even been at their new residence, La Casa Oscura (as Morticia called it), for one full day, and yet her mother was throwing a party. And she expected Wednesday’s attendance. Of course her father Gomez and brother Pugsley would be going—Gomez loved to be anywhere Morticia was, and Pugsley was just a pathetic people-pleaser.

Wednesday sighed. It was going to be a long evening. She went back to her typing.

–✶–

Somewhere around four in the afternoon, Wednesday’s phone buzzed, and her friend Agnes’ name appeared on the screen.

whoa wednesdayyy
your mom’s finally opening her party’s doors to us common folk lmao

Wednesday typed back, eyes narrowing.

What do you mean?

Agnes’ response was quick.

didn’t u know??
tonight’s party is open to everyone
at least that’s what i heard from bianca
anyways have fun tonight

It wasn’t just going to be her mother’s chatty, upper-class friends.

It was going to be a party that the whole neighbourhood was invited to.

Wednesday stormed down the stairs, phone in hand. “Mother. We need to talk. Now.”

Morticia turned, surprised. “What’s wrong, cariño?”

“You never said that tonight’s party is going to be open for everyone.”

“And?”

“People my age are going to be there.”

“When did you get so worried about people your age?” Morticia questioned. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “My, has my dear Wednesday finally decided to join in on the Beverly Hills teen social scene?”

“No.” Wednesday said, tone sharp and final. She sighed. “Forget it.” She turned on her heel, texting Agnes.

Do you know anyone who’s going?

Agnes responded swiftly again.

maybe that sinclair girl cause she lives in the area?
forgot her name tho
think it was enid?
idk but i think she’s prob ur age

Great. Thanks for the info.

np
sorry gtg cause my dad’s telling me to finish my homework
cya

Bye.

Wednesday locked her phone. “Time to get ready, everyone! The show starts in an hour,” Morticia singsonged. The evening was just going to get worse.

Chapter Text

Enid groaned as the lead in her pencil snapped for the third time in under five minutes. This is hopeless, she thought, staring with resentment at her marketing homework. Her mother, Esther, had insisted on Enid choosing an elective that would “get her somewhere in life,” which so far, had gotten her nowhere. She had whizzed through her visual art and filmmaking assignments within half an hour, and yet it was spiked lines on a chart that had her confused.

“I give up! ” Enid proclaimed to nobody in particular, rolling her chair backwards to her bed, which she flopped onto dramatically. As the only female child in her excessively large family, it made sense that she had her own room to herself. It was obvious that she made the most of her decorating freedom, with a pink shag rug and rainbow furniture all around. Enid was about to pull on her bubblegum-pink headphones when the sound of her mother’s loud footsteps caught her ear. Within moments, Esther slammed open Enid’s door.

“Enid! Where are—oh, there you are, dear!” Her mother fussed, making her way over to Enid. “You’ll never believe what’s happening tonight,” she whispered gleefully.

“What is it, mum?” Enid said, lips curving up into a smile. “Come on, spit it out!”

“You know that huge black house? The neighbours just moved in,” Esther said. “And it’s the Addams family!” Enid gasped. There was simply no way. The Addams family, especially Morticia Addams, were practically socialite royalty, and they had decided to move into the most normal area in the Hills?

“I heard it was a compromise,” Esther said knowingly, as if reading Enid’s thoughts. “Morticia, of course, wanted to move somewhere that she could party all she wanted,” she whispered, leaning in. “But her daughter, Wednesday, wanted a quiet residence so she could write!” Esther looked scandalized.

“No!” Enid said, still smiling.

“Hah! But that’s not all,” her mother said, her voice taking on a hushed, gossipy tone. “I heard they’re throwing a party tonight,” she smiled, mischief brewing in her eyes.

“Oh, mother,” Enid said, disappointment creeping into her voice. “I wish we could go, but I wouldn’t want to crash Morticia’s party, you know?”

“Crash?!” Esther cried, holding a hand to her heart. “No, no, no! Enid dear, we’re invited!”

Enid squealed with barely-contained excitement. “But how? Mother, you must tell me your secrets!”

“It’s open for the neighbourhood only,” her mother said, her tone suddenly turning more serious. “You mustn’t invite anyone, even your school friends. We need to stay in the Addams family’s good books.” But then Esther smiled again. “And I know just how to do that.”

“Uh oh,” Enid tilted her head slightly, her smile still strong. Although her mother was kind, she was very crafty.

“You need to befriend that Addams girl—Wednesday,” Esther smiled. “Do that, and we can go to every party Morticia throws—even the private ones!”

“I’ll get it done, mother,” Enid said with excitement. “In the meantime, can we go shopping for dresses?” She said hopefully. Esther grinned. “You know me too well, Enid.”

–✶–

Two hours and two hundred dresses later, Enid and Esther had walked away from Westfield Century City, arms laden with shopping bags. Enid had chosen a delicate pink babydoll cocktail dress, complete with thin spaghetti straps, a fitted bodice, and a flowy, chiffon skirt. It had a short, above-the-knee length, which made it perfect for a flirty-yet-modest evening. Esther and Enid had both fawned over the dress in a shop’s display window, and Enid had known it was the one. She had even splurged on a pair of light pink Tory Burch flats to match.

“We should get ready for the party,” Esther said finally, once they were back at home. “It starts in roughly an hour, Enid! I’m so excited to get a taste of an Addams party at last.”

“Me too, mum,” smiled Enid. She excused herself into her room to get dressed, slipping on her gorgeous pink dress and flats, and checking her reflection. Enid dusted her cheeks with a rosy blush, traced her eyes with a touch of eyeliner, and swatched some expensive, strawberry-flavoured Summer Fridays gloss onto her lips. She tousled her hair just a bit, and stepped out of her bedroom.

“You look simply stunning in that dress, dear!” Esther proclaimed so loudly it drew Enid’s brothers out of their rooms.

“Stop looking like such a sleaze, Enid,” said her second-eldest brother, who then pretended to throw up. “Stop being a man-whore first,” Enid snapped back, looking with disgust at her brother’s gelled hair. For someone who was hopelessly in love with a beautiful brunette in his grade, he sure did anything he could to impress her. I’m not interested, the girl had told him one too many times.

“Well,” Esther said, clapping her hands to snap her children out of their petty fight. “Enid, let’s head out!”

Enid shot one last glare at her brother before following her mother out the door. After getting over her frustrations at her brother trying to ruin her evening, her mood lifted drastically. It was as if her excitement had taken flight like an eager hummingbird—Enid Sinclair was going to an Addams party.

Oh, was Enid going to be Wednesday’s best friend ever, because the party would be much too fun to be a one-time thing.

Chapter Text

“Wednesday! You’d better be ready by the time I reach your room,” Morticia called, her heels clicking up the stairs. Wednesday didn’t respond—mostly because she didn’t want to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing that she had in fact gotten ready, albeit begrudgingly.

Wednesday took a look at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t one to ogle her looks, for she found there were much better ways to be spending her time. But just for tonight, Wednesday had put a little more care behind her appearance. After all, Wednesday didn’t know which people her age would be at the party, and she wouldn’t want to be spotted looking like a poor person, would she?

After checking on her bangs and hair (which, for once, she had put down into gentle waves), Wednesday selected a bloody, crimson shade of lipstick. She had just finished swiping it across her lips when her mother knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Wednesday said, emotionless.

Morticia entered, took one look at her daughter, and gasped. “Oh, mi querida, you look magnificent!” Excitement and a hint of mischief sparked behind her eyes. “Who’s the lucky guy? I’d like to meet him,” Morticia smiled.

“There is no guy, mother,” said Wednesday sharply. “I’m simply putting effort into my appearance tonight because I don’t know who might show up.” She said, gritting her teeth and emphasizing the last part of her sentence.

“Alright, cariño, I’m just teasing,” Morticia said with her slim, pale hands up in the air as if in surrender. “I’ll go check on your father and Pugsley.”

Morticia paused at the door, and Wednesday had to suppress an eye-roll. “In case I don’t see you for the rest of the evening, Wednesday, have lots of fun, alright?” She smiled fondly at Wednesday’s glare.

“Our definitions of the word ‘fun’ don’t align, mother,” she said flatly.

“Have fun,” Morticia repeated as if she hadn’t heard her daughter, then disappeared out the door.

Wednesday huffed out a breath of air to blow her dark curtain bangs out of her eyes, then picked up a tube of mascara, continuing right where she left off. After her lashes were taken care of, Wednesday gave herself dramatic eyeliner wings, giving her raven eyes a piercing look to ward off anyone at the party with any hopes of engaging in conversation with her.

Finally Wednesday stood, the wrinkles of her black dress disappearing as she smoothed them down. Her dress was short, strapless and made of an expensive satin. It was also skin-tight. Why couldn’t my mother have chosen a more modest dress? Wednesday groaned internally, taking in her appearance. She could almost hear her mother’s response in her mind: Because this one flatters you, and it was the only nice Chanel dress I could find that somewhat matched your style. Clearly, Morticia knew nothing about Wednesday’s style, since curve-hugging clothes were at the very bottom of her would-wear list.

Just then, Wednesday heard the doorbell ring, signalling the first arrivals of eager guests. “Shit,” she muttered, pulling on a thin black cardigan. She grabbed a storm-grey blanket from her closet in case she got cold, and slipped out onto her personal balcony, which was one of the few in their home that faced out toward the Beverly Hills skyline. After taking one look outside, Wednesday decided that this was her new favourite place to be, especially in the evening, where, undisturbed, she could watch the last few streaks of orange in the sky fade into black.

Roughly half an hour later, once the sun had set, Wednesday quietly opened the balcony’s sliding door, and slipped inside to retrieve her phone. She went back out and sat back on the balcony floor, just about to watch something—perhaps a nice slasher horror to keep her on her toes—when a bright voice cut into her thoughts.

“Hey!” The voice said, cheerful and bubbly. “You’re Wednesday, right?”

Wednesday turned, both expression and tone cold. “And who might you be?”

The girl smiled and tossed her short blonde hair over her shoulder. “My name’s Enid. I live in a house with only boys, so it’s nice to talk to a girl once in a while,” she said with an annoying giggle.

“And why are you in my room?”

“Because everyone our age in Beverly Hills has been talking about you, and so I thought to myself when I was coming over here, why don’t I meet the Wednesday Addams tonight? So I went and looked for you!” She smiled brightly, as if it was completely normal to snoop around all three floors of a rich family’s mansion, looking for the host’s daughter who also happened to be a complete stranger.

Wednesday resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. This Enid girl was a talker for sure. Wednesday made it her immediate priority to get rid of her as fast as possible.

“Oh.” Wednesday managed to get out through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you head back down to the party? I’m sure I’ll be down soon as well anyways,” she said, hoping Enid would get the hint. But she didn’t. Instead, she sat right down next to Wednesday, making herself comfortable.

“I’m good. There’s nobody my age down there anyways,” said Enid, blatantly dismissing Wednesday’s implication. “Anyways, whatcha watching?”

Wednesday took a second to stabilize the irritation in her voice. “A horror,” she said flatly. In her opinion, Enid looked like someone who would cry and have weeks of nightmares after a good scare. But Enid didn’t shy away. Instead, a glimmer of excitement shone in her ocean-blue eyes, in the way a coin caught afternoon sunlight at the bottom of a fountain. Though sometimes morbid, Wednesday’s mind had a gorgeously poetic quality to it—something her English teachers had praised her for since primary school.

“I love horror movies!” Enid’s smile grew. “Can I watch with you?” Even if Wednesday had said no, Enid wouldn’t have paid much mind, because she was already scooting close to her, leaning ever-so-slightly on Wednesday’s shoulder. So Wednesday just nodded her head stiffly, tensing at the physical contact of Enid’s slim, California-tanned leg against her own. Wednesday had never enjoyed the sensation of another person’s skin touching hers, even if it was just a handshake or a hug.

“Suit yourself,” Wednesday muttered under her breath. Wednesday scrolled a little longer on Apple TV before switching to Netflix in search of a horror that she had not watched before, which proved to be a challenging task. Wednesday was just about to give up, when Enid’s voice cut in.

“If you can’t find a good horror movie, just choose something else,” she sighed, stretching a little.

“As if I would let you choose what we’re going to watch,” Wednesday scoffed. She had meant for it to sound like an icy insult, but it came out more like a playful tease.

“Well, have you watched Gilmore Girls before?” Enid looked over at Wednesday, eyes glimmering with delight.

–✶–

Ten minutes later, Wednesday sat, fluffy grey blanket curled around her, staring at her own phone. Enid had snuggled closer, a smug look on her face from forcing Wednesday to watch something against her will.

“Share the screen, would you?” Enid groaned, exasperated. Wednesday was used to doing everything in solitude, whether it was going shopping, watching movies, or doing homework. Sure, Wednesday and Agnes had hung out once or twice, but those were just mere hours of company in a lifetime of isolation.

Wednesday pressed play on the screen, and watched, already getting bored, as the camera followed a young Alexis Bledel. Wednesday wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all—at one of her mother’s well-renowned evening parties, she was sitting on her balcony, sitting much too close for comfort with a strange, extroverted blonde that she had met less than half an hour ago, watching Gilmore Girls, of all things.

Nearly fourty minutes and fourty side-comments from Enid later, the episode had finally finished. Wednesday exhaled, relieved, when the ending credits came on, hoping that she could finally shoo Enid back downstairs. Just as she was about to open her mouth to say something that would send her on her way, Enid spoke, her voice excited.

“So, what did you think of the pilot episode?” A smile was barely suppressed by her lips. “Pretty good, huh?”

“No.” Wednesday’s response was final.

“What?!” Enid looked scandalized. “How could somebody not enjoy Gilmore Girls? It’s sooo cozy and perfect for this chilly autumn weather,” she said, gesturing at the air around her.

Wednesday almost smiled. She wasn’t going to back down from a good debate, especially if her competitor was as shallow and simple-minded as she seemed. “First of all, this Rory Gilmore girl is so naïve, self-centred, and snobby that it’s almost laughable.” She said this as if the lead character’s name left a bitter taste in her mouth. “She’s clearly naïve because from the way she speaks, she acts like everything she dreams up will come true because she’s just that much more intelligent and better than everyone else.”

Before Enid could even open her mouth to respond, Wednesday spoke again. “She’s also self-centred because she always prioritizes her needs above others—from only watching the first episode, I can already tell that’s how she’s going to lose everyone who’s close to her.”

“And,” Wednesday said, cutting off Enid’s indignant attempts to speak, “it’s very apparent that Rory looks down on people who don’t share her beliefs and level of education. It’s obvious that her intellect is going to turn into pretentiousness.”

“So before you say anything else, Enid, I can already deduce what’s going to happen—some boys come traipsing into Rory’s life and they completely fuck up her education and university plans, and then she turns into a worse, sluttier version of her mother?”

“How did you know?” Enid said, aghast.

A slight smile—the first of the evening—curled Wednesday’s crimson lips. “It was just a bit predictable, that’s all.” She smirked, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.

Enid looked pleasantly surprised that she had coaxed a smile out of Wednesday, but quickly regained her composure, though a faint rosy tinge was still visible on her cheeks. Wednesday noticed that Enid blushed when she was delighted. Was I really paying that much attention to her? She thought suddenly, then clenched her jaw and banished all thoughts of Enid from her mind, as she berated herself for getting too emotionally attatched. This Enid girl was not going to last long in her company. Wednesday would make sure of it.

Chapter Text

Enid and Wednesday had been talking for what had surely been hours—it must’ve been past midnight by now—but neither of them seemed to mind, as their conversation sped through topics of hobbies, to siblings, to the best places to go celebrity-spotting in Beverly Hills. 

Enid could tell that at first when they had met, Wednesday had wanted to be anywhere but in Enid’s company, and she could absolutely understand why. Enid and Wednesday were two completely different people—extrovert and introvert, summer and winter, sunlight and shadow. 

But Enid could also sense that her bright warmth was slowly thawing Wednesday’s ice-cold demeanour. She had forced Wednesday into conversation until she had finally engaged in it willingly, and Enid saw that as a start. 

They were just discussing American Psycho and other great thrillers, when Enid yawned and got up, and Wednesday’s eyes shot to her. “Where are you going?” she said, eyes sharp. 

“I was just going to get a drink,” Enid said timidly, and then flushed a rosy shade. “My parents never allow me to have any alcohol, even if it’s New Year’s or something,” she sighed wistfully. She noticed Wednesday relaxed, almost imperceptibly so. Enid had to hide a smile—maybe Wednesday was, in fact, starting to enjoy her company.

“Do yourself a favour and grab the whole bottle, so you won’t have to dizzy yourself running up and down the stairs for multiple glasses. My mother only has Dom Pérignon, though,” she said, looking back at the sleeping Los Angeles skyline. 

“Oh! Like from that one Taylor Swift song?”

“Who’s that?” Wednesday asked, looking at Enid as if she had gone mad.

“Ugh. Forget it,” Enid sighed, returning Wednesday’s look. “I’ll get the bubbles. Don’t miss me too much,” she smirked. Wednesday scoffed, a faint smile gracing her ruby lips as she watched Enid turn and skip away. 

Enid hummed a little tune to herself as she descended their marble spiral staircase, slipping past tall, graceful figures wearing designer labels until she reached the refreshment table. Her eyes sifted over the extravagant spread of French cheeses and exotic grapes until her gaze landed on a pile of champagne bottles sitting in a silver ice pail. Enid quickly glanced both ways before snatching up an unopened bottle and sprinting back upstairs, deftly dodging guests left and right.

By the time Enid got upstairs again, Wednesday had gone back inside and was sitting on her black carpet. Enid was confused as to what Wednesday was doing—she could’ve been summoning a demon, for all Enid knew—but as she got closer, the sound of typing grew louder. Of course Wednesday was writing. Maybe Esther’s gossip was true after all. Enid had also noticed that Wednesday had shed her black cardigan, her creamy shoulders on display.

Enid was just about to ask why Wednesday was typing on the floor, but she spoke first. “Because I prefer to explore all my creative pursuits anywhere but at my desk,” she said, eerily reading Enid’s thoughts. Enid had to fight a smile, because she knew Wednesday was lying. Wednesday was gritting her teeth as her back was curved uncomfortably, a mixture of frustration and irritation burning in her voice. Enid could tell she had just wanted for them to sit together so they could continue their conversation—if she had sat at her desk, she would essentially be shutting Enid out, and she could tell that Wednesday didn’t want her to go just yet.

“Doing homework and similar tasks should stay separate from my interests, lest they get too mixed up and what I once enjoyed becomes tedious. I don’t like my writing to feel like an obligation, you see,” Wednesday murmured, too deeply enamoured in her own writing to care if Enid was following.

And besides, Enid wouldn’t really be listening even if Wednesday had spoke with a normal teenager’s vocabulary. The way she blinked slowly at her typewriter as if she was halfway to sleep was so entrancing—Enid wanted to wake up and see those dark eyes looking at her like that right when she woke up—

Enid’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly. What was I just thinking?! She could feel her face heating up, she could feel Wednesday’s stormy gaze on her, she– 

“It’s not rocket science, Enid. Don’t act so shocked,” Wednesday said, a quiet melody of amusement buried within her voice. Hearing Enid’s own name startled her out of her thoughts. Scared that Wednesday could once again tell what she was thinking, Enid hastily changed the subject.

“Anyways, what were we talking about?” Enid said, taking a seat on the carpet and placing the bottle down next to her. “You know, before I went downstairs.”

“Music. Taylor something.”

“If you don’t know who Taylor Swift is, I’m scared for your music taste,” Enid winced. “But I’m still curious.”

Wednesday paused before responding. “I’m not one for music,” she said flatly, lifting a page out of her typewriter, rising to her knees, and stretching to place it on her desk. Enid’s eyes trailed Wednesday’s graceful, catlike movements before they shot back to her eyes.

“That can’t be,” Enid sighed, disappointed that she would never know. 

“Oh, but it is true,” Wednesday mocked, breezily waving her hand in the air and imitating Enid’s formal tone. She swept the bottle of champagne up with a languid sort of dexterity, one-handedly popping the cork off in a single, fluid motion. Enid was amazed. Of course this unimaginably rich girl in front of her was familiar with alcohol, even with her still being in her teenage years. Enid felt suddenly self-conscious of how little she knew about the opulent side of the Hills’ social scene, a light-pink blush slowly creeping over her face like a rosy shadow. 

“I’ve seen my mother do it one too many times,” Wednesday sighed, trying to downplay her nonchalance, which, of course, only added to her allure. “But I will admit that I’ve had champagne one too many times as well,” she murmured, “a horrible choice on my mother’s end.”

“You’re an addict?” Enid said, eyes widening in surprise. 

Wednesday almost smiled. Almost. “No,” she said, eyes carrying a sliver of mirth—a crack in her stoic demeanour. “I’m just much too used to alcohol than a normal person my age should be,” said Wednesday simply. Then she pushed her typewriter to the side and looked up at Enid. “Are you not going to have a taste?” 

Enid’s bubblegum-pink lips quirked up into a smile, and she took the bottle from Wednesday’s pale hand. After a series of deep breaths and one eye-roll from Wednesday, Enid took a little sip. 

A symphony of fresh summer fruits, springtime flowers, wintry richness, and delightful bubbles rolled smoothly onto Enid’s tongue all at once. It was paradoxically too much, and yet not enough—she could see how someone could get hooked onto this so easily. 

“Take it easy,” Wednesday cautioned, but Enid seemed not to hear her. How could she focus on anything else, even a young woman who was as stunning as a knife catching waning rays of moonlight—wait, no, what am I thinking?—when liquid gold in the form of a drink was within her reach? Enid took a deeper sip this time, her thoughts racing a mile a minute. 

Of course Wednesday would like champagne—it was like ambrosia, the fabled nectar of the gods, and Wednesday was an ethereal being, who Enid would gladly worship as long as the moon’s glow graced the night—wait, what?—and Enid drank again, and was Wednesday talking? Enid couldn’t tell, and she took another sip as stars sparkled and winked behind her eyes, and Wednesday leaned in to snatch the bottle from her hands but Enid didn’t let her and she took another sip and she barely registered Wednesday’s detatched tones now laced with worry as she called Enid’s name, and my god did Enid want to hear her name slip from Wednesday’s perfect red lips like a prayer again and again—wait, huh?—and Enid felt the bottle leave her hands and watched in a daze as Wednesday took it away, her face swimming in and out of view, and Enid felt Wednesday’s cold hands that made Enid’s body shiver in a way that was not unwelcome, grabbing her own fevered wrists and oh, she wanted them roaming all over her—wait, oh, yes yes yes—and Enid couldn’t think straight, she couldn’t think straight, shecouldn’tthinkstraightshecouldn’tthinkstraightshe—slumped in Wednesday’s waiting arms.